The man who cried banana

Reeking of formaldehyde, he sat on the bench and smiled.  Randolph had been watching the crowd for just over two hours when the police arrived.  Initially, Randolph was nervous, afraid that someone had noticed him, became suspicious and called the authorities. But the two, shiny police officers didn't even look at Randolph as they hurried past, looks of determination creasing their faces.  Randolph relaxed at their passing.

Randolph had documented fourteen in his first category, thirty-seven in his second and nineteen in his third, all of them exemplary. He decided to give himself one more hour and then he would stop for the day, pretty well content with his level of success.  The last hour passed rather uneventfully, with the exception of the young man in short shorts who winked at him, Randolph was the proverbial "fly on the wall."  Gathering his notebook and pen, Randolph started his walk home.

The sound of a thousand donkeys

"Bolivian camels! Graham crackers and cheese! Constancy and deliverance!"  Carl had been bellowing for nearly an hour and he was making less and less sense as time went on.  How he managed to crawl out onto the ledge of the fourth floor and maintain his balance was anyone's guess.  But there he stood, in only his socks, and yelling.

Technically, Carl was not insane, but for all intents and purposes, the crowd who had gathered below, humored at the naked, yelling man, had officially labeled him a nut job.  One could only guess at what was taking place in the mind of Carl.  The path from his mind to his mouth was a short one and if his mouth was actually communicating what his mind told him, then it was a scary conversation.

As Carl stood upon the fourth floor, back at home, his donkey, Larry, waited.  Larry was generally patient, as he learned was in his best interest, as Carl was typically unscheduled, but four hours past lunch had exceeded Larry's limit of patience.  Now was the time for action.  Larry pushed open the aged, worn out gate and made his way across the backyard to the back door.  Gripping the door handle with his lips, he granted himself entrance and entered the kitchen, eating a small block of cheese, now room temperature, from the kitchen table.  Larry found a loaf of bread on the counter, near the toaster.  He helped himself and upon finishing, drank what remained off the dishwater, suds and all.  This would prove to be his most unfortunate move.  Moving toward the living room, Larry consumed a large bowl of apples from the entry table and lay down in the middle of the floor for a nap.

Larry dreamed of flowing water, he dreamed of mud, he dreamed of large mules and clover fields, but then he woke up, simultaneously, to a pounding on the door and a very warm puddle.  The officer, a certain Sgt. Mackelmore, had been told to go to Carl's house and speak with someone named Larry, as no one answered the phone at that address.  So Sgt. Mackelmore stood on the front porch knocking, loudly, but getting no response, tried the door handle.  What met him came as a surprise.  A large donkey peered at him over an old flowered couch, surrounded by an overpowering stench.  The officer retched, regained his composure and called out for Larry.  Larry, of course, hearing his name, brayed in response.

What happened next would be ingrained in Sgt. Mackelmore's memory for years.  After the initial shock of seeing a donkey in the living room, the police officer took a step in only to be confronted (and speedily approached) by a hostile and remarkably agile donkey named Larry.  Sgt. Mackelmore nearly lost his left hand pinky in the ensuing scuffle, but managed to draw his weapon and drop the over protective donkey.  Carl, in the meantime, was being "helped" into the back of a police car, naked and yelling about chickens in the mist.

Some say it was paint chips, others suggested excessive formaldehyde fumes at Carl's work, but regardless of the origin of weirdness, Carl would spend the next six months in observation with court order for an additional six months of counseling.  Carl considered moving to Romania but thought better of it.

Bleed

The light drained out of the ends of her fingers. Alice lay motionless.  Her breathing had been shallow for at least an hour and her family had begun to arrive, knowing that this was the end.  It was a painful reunion, the first in ten years.  The previous reunion had been for a similar reason and was just as uncomfortable.

Ed, her husband, was a hard working but equally hard drinking construction worker.  One week before his retirement date, he had fallen from a third story construction site, to only demise within the week.  Alice looked sad, but never shed a tear.  The same was true for the children, now all grown with problems of their own.

Now it was Alice's turn.  Old, shriveled, bitter and sad, her life had been one tragedy after the next.  Abused by her own father, only to marry an equally abusive husband, Alice kept her passion bottled up, occasionally releasing it on her own children, but not often.

The room was cool, as Alice liked it.  Her three children had eventually arrived, even Charlie from Philadelphia.  They sat in the room, quiet, pensive but avoiding eye contact.  The years of anger and bitterness had taken its toll and it was situations like that brought them together and this alone.  

Alive could hear them, shifting uncomfortably in their seats, occasionally clearing their throats and Thomas, humming a nameless tune.  Alice could hear them, but she could not speak, she could not move.  So she was understandably surprised when two men, well-dressed and obviously cultured entered the room, unannounced and silent.  Maybe it was her eyes or the painkillers but the men seemed emit a gentle white glow.  Her children had no indication of recognition.  The two men, handsome, well-built and sure-footed came to her bedside, one on each side and held her hands.  She looked upon them, feeling somewhat embarrassed but also giddy.  For what seemed an eternity, neither spoke but simply looked upon her tired face, a look of love.  They then turned and walked back to the door, a look of sadness came upon them, their hands now empty.  Alice rose from the bed, no longer a tired, broken shell but young again, no more than 25.  They turned and looked at her, a glimmer of hope, but Alice turned her back to them.  She looked back upon her now silent, motionless body upon the hospital bed and noticed the last drop of light drip from her right ring finger, a golden pool on the floor beneath.  Alice stepped into the pool and at once became liquid, knowing this to be herself.

A small, golden-colored pool dropped down through the small cracks in the rough wooden floor hidden beneath the cheap linoleum.  The golden liquid was absorbed by nothing but simply slid past all, only to join an abundance of other liquids of a variety of colors.  The liquids eventually formed into a river flowing south and turning red. 
          And Alice never saw the throne.

The Knock

Below is a link to my first attempts at movie creation.  I hope you enjoy it:

The Knock, a movie by Rduane

The body

Convoluted and twisted, the body lay there, recognizable but barely.  Life was still present, as was evident by the occasional yet pained gasp for breathe.  Most who passed by gave it little consideration.  It couldn't honestly be said that they didn't see it, but time and calluses allowed for disregard to seem almost normal.

Occasionally, one or two would stop, check for a pulse and then move on.  On even lesser occasions, some would stop, speak into the ear and even lie down with it, mimicking its motion. But eventually they too would rise and move on.

But then came Gene.  He kind of appeared out of nowhere, no one knew his parents or his background, but he smiled a very large smile and shook a great handshake.  Gene lay down next to the body and began to speak.  At first, most felt awkward with Gene's words, but eventually the familiarity became trust and Gene and the body seemed as one.

Eventually, more people sat down near the body and near Gene and listened.  No one noticed, but the body had stopped making the struggled gasps, in fact it made no motion whatsoever, but Gene's great smile and warm handshake distracted the occasional question.  

The group eventually outgrew the width of the sidewalk and started to take up space on the lawn.  Chairs were brought in and a light lunch began to be served each day, around one o'clock.  Some complained about the occasional worm, maggot or pocket of mold, but most began to smile Gene's smile and warm handshake.  Sometimes, some would lie down next to the body and simply wouldn't get up.  Gene called these the faithful ones.  

Eventually, the administrators of the hospital, upon whose grass the gathering of people began to sit upon, had to call the police.  The crowd was dispersed, Gene was taken into custody and the now motionless, breathless and rotting bodies, were taken away and buried.

The hospital continued its work of helping the helpless, feeding the hungry and healing the sick.

Third gear

William turned sixteen on the following Wednesday and he highly suspected something grand.  He had been working very hard for the last two years, milking cows and scraping manure.  He had saved up as much money as a fifteen year old reasonable could and now he suspected that his father would pay for half of his car.

Wednesday came and he ran home, and there it was, a red 2000 Ford Mustang.  Rounding the corner of Chestnut and Fourth, he saw the car and let out a whoop, much to the elderly Mrs. Johnson's chagrin.  William bolted through the front door, stepping on the cat and knocking over a dining room chair as he ran to his father's study.  The keys were already in the air toward his approaching excitement and William caught them.

"I only have l one rule, besides the obvious, young man, don't go past third gear."  "Deal", William said, and hugging his father ran back out the front door. 

Dinner time came and went and the family had no word from William.  Mother was getting worried, father was getting upset and William’s sister was already planning on moving into William's room.  The phone rang around 7:30 pm and mother had it off the cradle before the first ring finished, ready to lay out her tirade on responsibility and concern for others, already internally recited one hundred times.  But unfortunately, her scowl transformed into tears, handing the phone to get husband.

The police said it appeared that the car had reached well over 120 mph when it hit the ancient oak tree on the corner of Maple and 47th.  The odd part though was that William was not in the car, in fact, no one was in the car, which was of course, an impossibility.  Cars don't drive themselves.  Search and Rescue was scouring the area but so far had found nothing.  There was no blood, no head strike on the windshield and the seat belt was still buckled.  William was gone.

The gift given by his father was the very thing that moved William into the realm of mystery and fame.  Accomplishing what no one else had.