The Sandbox: Outside The Box 2
Love The Process
Life Goes On
The shroud of odor marking a hard day’s work emanating from Tim precedes him as he walks into his house. Not bothering to surgically remove the steel toe boots from his swollen feet, he trudges straight upstairs and into the bathroom. After a long, hard day of unbridled physical labor, a splash of cold water on one’s face is a kiss from God Herself. Tim graces himself with a second splash to kiss Her back, but the water stops running and he slaps himself in the face instead.
Up in his room, Tim finds his bubbler on his desk and gets to work on grinding up some Cannabis. All the guys at work went out to the bar after the bell chimed today, but not Tim. The back of his throat prefers Mary’s scorch to the tingle of booze, always has.
Out the corner of his left eye, Tim spots a red-tailed hawk in the process of a divebomb. Earth sheds one squirrel and life goes on undisturbed.
Feet up and hanging out his open window, Tim equips the pipe and assumes the position. The waters of The Pond, named for the teal-brown streaks running down the body of the piece, are still, the calm before the storm in a metaphorical, hyperbolic way. Tim picks up a stray pen laying on his desk and holds the tip about an inch above the bowl. He clicks the pen and the Cannabis ignites as the point ejects into place; the waters of the Pond boil as the smoke bubbles through them and into Tim, the sound of the process more calming than that of a babbling brook.
As he blows smoke out the window, Tim daintily tosses the pen into the rain forest that is the surface of his desk.
After he puts the screen back into his window, Tim turns to face his desk. An expedition across the tabletop seeking out that pen goes off without a hitch. He cracks open a notebook and after all the Australian flying foxes swoop out, Tim sets ink to page, writing a story about a floating walrus who learns to cherish life without investing too much into it. After he scribes the obligatory The End, Tim pauses, overcome with doubt for the necessity of this traditional stylistic construct. He erases it.
Tim hits the carpeted floor of his bedroom at the same time as the resulting eraser shavings do. A glowing red meteor suddenly crashed through the roof of his house and then through his head, poking a hole through his floor and into the living room.
The Little Girl
Four years later, the little girl who would be Tim’s niece finds the rock and gives it to her mom. Her mom’s new boyfriend sells it on Proximatebid for eighty-seven bucks.
About The Author
The man with the initials HOW.
Those were some stories written by him,
most even written before he wrote
|The Main Event|.
This, now, is his story.