Monday, June 21, 2004
Apples and Pies
I failed to properly register at bomberella.com tonight. The blame falls mostly on this crappy computer which I will continue to bitch about until I can finally get mine hooked up. I don't know if it is a javascript thing or what, but the field for registering was partially outside the explorer window and it just didn't work out. I think I registered as binderer by accident, but when I tried to log in with that it didn't work.
bombarella wants us to write stuff. She's calling me out, I just know it. And although I could not register, likely due to my own screwups, I'll take the whole hook-line-sinker thing and give it a go. The topic is Apples and Pies, and I guess I have fifteen minutes to write it.
H knows me well enough that it would normally take me an hour to write on the quick like that. But I think I'll put on some mellow tunes and give this a go. I don't have an idea yet, so this should be totally random and probably won't make any sense. Hopefully she'll check this blog and give me some pointers on how to register and post at bombarella.com. I guess I could always email her - kidding H! I'll shoot you a line after this B-)
APPLES AND SURPRISE
Martha Finch hated the cool evening air, and the stink from the pig slop and barf and poop. She and Sam would take turns pretending to sleep. When Martha allowed herself to believe that Sam's nasal fake snore was real, she would get out of bed and close the windows. Sam would then wait for Martha to commence that weird purring thing she did when she slept, and then he'd get out from under the covers and open the windows again, ever vigilant for the threats to his precious apples from raccoons and bears. Not to mention what those brutes might do to his pet pigs. He always thought that if he could hear them coming, the 30-gauge he swiped from the closet of Martha's stepfather one late night long ago would do the trick.
At 4:30am, Sam Finch, of Sam's Apple Orchard and Pig Farm, had confirmation. He had outlasted his wife, the windows were open and it had payed off. He rolled over to gloat to Martha, an early riser as well - living on the farm tends to do that to a gal - but she was already up and nowhere to be seen. The ruckus outside was truly something. There was a squealing the likes that Sam had never heard, and quite a lot for a couple normally well behaved pigs.
The truth about Sam's Apple Orchard and Pig Farm was that although there were forty-four apple trees, all lined up in four rows of eleven apiece, but there were only two pigs on the entire Pig Farm. Sam named them Ralph and Mirabelle, although he never took the time to investigate what gender either creature was.
Ralph and Mirabelle's collective existence on Sam's Apple Orchard and Pig Farm was utilitarian. Ralph would let them loose in the morning to run through the four apple corridors. The pigs would gobble up any rotten apples that had fallen to the ground, or any that Fernando and Jimi (pronounced "Himi") might have dropped as they plucked the fruit from the limbs for 30 bucks a day.
In return, Sam kept them close to the house since he didn't really have a pen for them. He built a crude doghouse-style structure outside the bedroom window which he enclosed with slapped-together fencing and a chicken wire gate, for which he fashioned hinges out of bobby pins. In time, Sam regarded Ralph and Mirabelle as domestic pets. On occasion he even allowed Mirabelle to enter the house and eat from an old dog dish left over from when Rudy the Dalmation (rest his soul) was hit by a car six years ago.
Sam rushed from the house, shotgun in hand, safety released. The outroar from the makeshift doghouse/pigpen had diminished, so he made a beeline for the orchard lanes, figuring the pigs would have busted loose in the face of danger. He cursed himself for not bringing a flashlight, but the moon was at three-quarters. Enough light to rush through the trees without turning an ankle on a debranched Granny Smith.
As a breeze picked up, the limbs began to sway in a way that Sam found haunting. He had no idea where Martha had run off too, no to mention the pigs. He recalled that in the past week he had almost gotten Mirabelle to offer her hoof as a handshake, just like a dog. She was one smart pig. He had not had much success getting her to come when called, but as he rambled nearly blind through the orchard, he could think of no better time to call her name.
Sam Finch looped through the rows of apple trees, retracing and then retracing his steps again. A light rain began to fall, and he began to recognize his own footsteps as he returned upon them. Hoarse from repeatedly beckoning Mirabelle, and quickly getting soaked to the bone, he returned to the house, padding through the muck around the makeshift pigpen outside his door. The apple trees seemed alright, certainly not victim of an attack by rabid raccoons or anything, but the pigs!
As he sloshed up to the particle board pighouse structure, the sun was weakly attempting to break through the early morning storm clouds and make an appearance. Tiny glints of orange light reflected off the raindrops.
Ralph, looking none the worse for wear, slept on his side like a dirty pink baby in a bed of moldy straw and mud. The straw directly next to Ralph was strewn about, as if Mirabelle had been awakened in a fright and scrurried about.
Sam Finch was despondent but not without faith. Mirabelle was the smartest pig he had ever known. Granted, he had only known two, but Mirabelle, she (or he), could snarf up those grounded apples like nobody's business. She (or he), could find her way back home in the dark, or in a day or two. No big deal. All that squealing and commotion over nothing. Hopefully.
Sam Finch was tired. The storm passed as soon as it had arrived. As he left the pen he entertained the idea of taking the day off. Hell, he had already patrolled the orchard many times over, and an experienced apple farmed like him, he could tell that the orchard looked fine today. Jimi could take care of the minimal harvest later in the morning.
As Sam Finch opened the tattered screen door to his home, he was exhausted. The farming life was a hard life. What the hell was he doing running around with a shotgun at dawn, chasing down nothing more than the pig...his pig that had gotten a case of the willies. Mirabelle would be back, she was probably just spooked by some creature of the night. Sam Finch considered himself lucky. Sam's Apple Orchard and Pig Farm rarely got paid a visit by predators. Mirabelle had no experience. A distant coyote howl might have set her off. She'll be back.
More tired than any man should ever be, he fell into the storm door, turning the knob and spilling onto the kitchen floor like a puppet whose strings have been cut .
Sam Finch had a peculiar three instantaneous reactions.
The first was that something smelled awfully good. His wife had been cooking something savory, to be sure.
The second was that the linoleum floor was a mess. It looked dark. And red.
The third was that he was incredibly hungry all of the sudden.
Martha offered him her hand to help him get up from the floor. Her smile was golden.
"Would you like some breakfast, Sam?" She asked. "I thought I'd try something different this morning. How about some pork pot pie?"
------
Alright, it took me almost two hours to write that. Still doesn't make no sense.
bombarella wants us to write stuff. She's calling me out, I just know it. And although I could not register, likely due to my own screwups, I'll take the whole hook-line-sinker thing and give it a go. The topic is Apples and Pies, and I guess I have fifteen minutes to write it.
H knows me well enough that it would normally take me an hour to write on the quick like that. But I think I'll put on some mellow tunes and give this a go. I don't have an idea yet, so this should be totally random and probably won't make any sense. Hopefully she'll check this blog and give me some pointers on how to register and post at bombarella.com. I guess I could always email her - kidding H! I'll shoot you a line after this B-)
APPLES AND SURPRISE
Martha Finch hated the cool evening air, and the stink from the pig slop and barf and poop. She and Sam would take turns pretending to sleep. When Martha allowed herself to believe that Sam's nasal fake snore was real, she would get out of bed and close the windows. Sam would then wait for Martha to commence that weird purring thing she did when she slept, and then he'd get out from under the covers and open the windows again, ever vigilant for the threats to his precious apples from raccoons and bears. Not to mention what those brutes might do to his pet pigs. He always thought that if he could hear them coming, the 30-gauge he swiped from the closet of Martha's stepfather one late night long ago would do the trick.
At 4:30am, Sam Finch, of Sam's Apple Orchard and Pig Farm, had confirmation. He had outlasted his wife, the windows were open and it had payed off. He rolled over to gloat to Martha, an early riser as well - living on the farm tends to do that to a gal - but she was already up and nowhere to be seen. The ruckus outside was truly something. There was a squealing the likes that Sam had never heard, and quite a lot for a couple normally well behaved pigs.
The truth about Sam's Apple Orchard and Pig Farm was that although there were forty-four apple trees, all lined up in four rows of eleven apiece, but there were only two pigs on the entire Pig Farm. Sam named them Ralph and Mirabelle, although he never took the time to investigate what gender either creature was.
Ralph and Mirabelle's collective existence on Sam's Apple Orchard and Pig Farm was utilitarian. Ralph would let them loose in the morning to run through the four apple corridors. The pigs would gobble up any rotten apples that had fallen to the ground, or any that Fernando and Jimi (pronounced "Himi") might have dropped as they plucked the fruit from the limbs for 30 bucks a day.
In return, Sam kept them close to the house since he didn't really have a pen for them. He built a crude doghouse-style structure outside the bedroom window which he enclosed with slapped-together fencing and a chicken wire gate, for which he fashioned hinges out of bobby pins. In time, Sam regarded Ralph and Mirabelle as domestic pets. On occasion he even allowed Mirabelle to enter the house and eat from an old dog dish left over from when Rudy the Dalmation (rest his soul) was hit by a car six years ago.
Sam rushed from the house, shotgun in hand, safety released. The outroar from the makeshift doghouse/pigpen had diminished, so he made a beeline for the orchard lanes, figuring the pigs would have busted loose in the face of danger. He cursed himself for not bringing a flashlight, but the moon was at three-quarters. Enough light to rush through the trees without turning an ankle on a debranched Granny Smith.
As a breeze picked up, the limbs began to sway in a way that Sam found haunting. He had no idea where Martha had run off too, no to mention the pigs. He recalled that in the past week he had almost gotten Mirabelle to offer her hoof as a handshake, just like a dog. She was one smart pig. He had not had much success getting her to come when called, but as he rambled nearly blind through the orchard, he could think of no better time to call her name.
Sam Finch looped through the rows of apple trees, retracing and then retracing his steps again. A light rain began to fall, and he began to recognize his own footsteps as he returned upon them. Hoarse from repeatedly beckoning Mirabelle, and quickly getting soaked to the bone, he returned to the house, padding through the muck around the makeshift pigpen outside his door. The apple trees seemed alright, certainly not victim of an attack by rabid raccoons or anything, but the pigs!
As he sloshed up to the particle board pighouse structure, the sun was weakly attempting to break through the early morning storm clouds and make an appearance. Tiny glints of orange light reflected off the raindrops.
Ralph, looking none the worse for wear, slept on his side like a dirty pink baby in a bed of moldy straw and mud. The straw directly next to Ralph was strewn about, as if Mirabelle had been awakened in a fright and scrurried about.
Sam Finch was despondent but not without faith. Mirabelle was the smartest pig he had ever known. Granted, he had only known two, but Mirabelle, she (or he), could snarf up those grounded apples like nobody's business. She (or he), could find her way back home in the dark, or in a day or two. No big deal. All that squealing and commotion over nothing. Hopefully.
Sam Finch was tired. The storm passed as soon as it had arrived. As he left the pen he entertained the idea of taking the day off. Hell, he had already patrolled the orchard many times over, and an experienced apple farmed like him, he could tell that the orchard looked fine today. Jimi could take care of the minimal harvest later in the morning.
As Sam Finch opened the tattered screen door to his home, he was exhausted. The farming life was a hard life. What the hell was he doing running around with a shotgun at dawn, chasing down nothing more than the pig...his pig that had gotten a case of the willies. Mirabelle would be back, she was probably just spooked by some creature of the night. Sam Finch considered himself lucky. Sam's Apple Orchard and Pig Farm rarely got paid a visit by predators. Mirabelle had no experience. A distant coyote howl might have set her off. She'll be back.
More tired than any man should ever be, he fell into the storm door, turning the knob and spilling onto the kitchen floor like a puppet whose strings have been cut .
Sam Finch had a peculiar three instantaneous reactions.
The first was that something smelled awfully good. His wife had been cooking something savory, to be sure.
The second was that the linoleum floor was a mess. It looked dark. And red.
The third was that he was incredibly hungry all of the sudden.
Martha offered him her hand to help him get up from the floor. Her smile was golden.
"Would you like some breakfast, Sam?" She asked. "I thought I'd try something different this morning. How about some pork pot pie?"
------
Alright, it took me almost two hours to write that. Still doesn't make no sense.
Comments:
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Here I thought the whole "binderer" thing was some clever ruse.
HA!
I can fix it for ya - but it kind of suits you.
All extra er and stuff. :P
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HA!
I can fix it for ya - but it kind of suits you.
All extra er and stuff. :P
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