In which a life unlived and stories untold are hid,
Who lines up perfect with the Northern Star,
And when it does, underneath the starry grid,
A magic comes to show.
Birds fall quiet,
And snow blows no more,
All is listening, to what comes that night,
Some call it angelic, others fright,
A gentle breeze carries the humming of a child,
Only the fauna did witness bore,
As she makes angels, in white powdered snow, forever more.
She reminds of dreams long lost,
Beyond where the roads no longer go,
Where she frolics on her own, never daunted by the frost,
In perfect solace a child plays free,
Till morning cawing of the crow.
Yet beyond the footing of the hills,
Lies a house that once was home,
Where an old man sits and remembers still,
A little sister once long lost,
Beyond where the roads no longer go.
When the wind chimes ring at night,
He smiles and kisses the sky,
For he knows that she is there and still sings,
She will never say goodbye.
The road ran to a commune in the nineteen-sixties. A group of talented individuals living on and from the land. Skills were shared and taught. Crafts and artwork bartered and exchanged for necessities. Wind chimes and dream catchers in every cottage garden for miles around. Of course modern life caught up with them. Mobile phones came in and the community, in finding a world outside that promised new adventures, simply drifted away.
No longer in constant use, the track forgot the swish of drindl skirts. Ankle length in their coloured and patchworked cotton. No wooden clogs trod it’s path into flat submission. The track simply disappeared under the weight of disuse, weather, burgeoning seeds and bramble thickets.
Forty years later, a bunch of young lads chanced on it. To anyone else, a tangle of mud and twigs. With trees grown tall, it suggested nothing much. Inventive minds saw an opportunity. Removing the thick mud became a must do. The overgrown bushes cut back. Talks with local businesses, newspapers. The council for outdoor funding. Local groups arranged helping schedules that wouldn’t clash. Thicknesses of mud were taken up and used to fill in dips. Bends became built up curves in smooth concrete. Rubbish was gathered from the commune site and either repurposed or taken away. Several lengths of piping retrieved, carried between them, shoulder high, to be straightened and secured in place.
Manny pads with a small grind edge, were ordered. Their elevation decided, measured out and put together by the technical college students, as a hands-on lesson. Areas of brush cleared and flattened by a digger, with a safety fence added to keep both riders and viewers from coming into sudden contact. A pop up shop and cafe was opened at the commune site. Offering the latest equipment and accessories with refreshments besides.
First down was one of the founders. Using his infamous coffin move, he lay back on the skateboard. Kicking off, he barrelled down the track. Skimming the curves and taking off at the dips. The tree branches rushed overhead. The sounds of the forest learning a new song. The whoops of a person delighting in the sheer freedom of throwing themselves downhill while lying on a bit of wood with wheels attached.
Opening day saw a host of people converge on the site. Most were carrying a board. Success was the buzzword on everyone’s lips. Cameras flashed. iPhones Facebook’d. Column inches in the papers. Organising the longest skate board track in this area, had taken some amount of thought, planning and people.
The long forgotten road? It was happy to be alive again. To the myriad sounds of small wheels, running feet and..now and then..a prolonged bout of cursing as someone took a header off the track to do a snow angel in last years leaves.
Our Memories of Friendship
A hand-made wind chime tinkled from its place in the trees, playing nature’s beautiful song. It took me back to that day which seemed not so long ago, when we had sled down the snowy mountains – racing against the wind. We laughed at the icicles that formed on our faces back then. Boys of ten, with no worries – we became good friends ever since. To be staring at his still and broken body now, weighed heavy on my heart.
There used to be a road that ran through the abandoned woods but the birth of the cemetery had ensured that its existence had soon faded away. Jimmy and I spent many-a-summer there, climbing trees or entangling ourselves in the bushes. And when winter came, it was all about fun in the icy white fluff. The woods had been a second home to us all through high-school, until I moved away. Although Jim and I had kept our friendship alight, our days in the woods became memories.
Standing at the cemetery, I could almost hear our laughter echoing on the other side. Tears streamed down my face as memories poured down on me like the summer rains did, when we hadn’t a care in the world. Friends and family huddled around his body, struggling to say goodbye. How could he have left so soon?
It was just last week that we were planning our next big holiday, bidding Winter farewell.
“David, leave the details to me, just reserve the dates!” he said.
The thrill-seekers that we were, it was bound to be epic. Mountain-climbing, sky-diving, para-sailing, nothing was too extreme for daredevils like us. We loved to live on edge. And it was that edge that had taken Jimmy’s life. Skiing down the mountain slopes at a weekend retreat, he lost footing and suffered a heavy landing as his body slammed atop a sharpened rock. While I reached for him, an ear-splitting crack ran through the icy air. His face contorted as all the bones from his back to his neck shattered from hitting the boulder.
“I’m so cold,” he sputtered, blood choking his words into a whisper. I held his hand to comfort him, saying words without knowing what they were and then I saw the life slip away from him as his eyes glazed over, staring blankly up at me.
Paramedics ushered me away. I vaguely remember seeing him loaded onto the stretcher. Resuscitation had proved to be fruitless and I remember the distinct crackle of the glinting foil, as they covered his body. A moment of fun had quickly become one of disaster. My best friend was no more.
I placed the picture of the two frolicking, little boys, admiring the artistic snow angels they had created, onto the coffin as it lowered into the ground, while I said my final goodbye. The picture had captured our moment of joy forever – it paved the way for the beginning of a life-long friendship. Jimmy would remain my best friend always, because I have our memories.
E. Chris Garrison, Bobby Salomons, M. D. Pitman, Vance Rowe, Josh Flores
A lying national media cable TV anchorman (real or fictional)
A crystal ball
A small snowblower
Doing Something About the Weather
E. Chris Garrison
Sally’s elderly Prius barreled along the breakdown lane of the freeway. The thermometer and the speedometer both read 75.
Other drivers, stuck in a jam, blared their horns at Sally. Some made rude gestures. Did she hear cars backfiring or shots being fired by hotheads?
Sally didn’t care. She wouldn’t be denied the truth.
From the bracket on her windshield, her smartphone streamed news of the Weather Emergency. Bundled up in a parka, the cable news anchor mimed shivering cold while talking with a bespectacled woman in a puffy coat. White flakes swirled around them on the New York City streets.
“So, this wave of cold will continue until the end of January, Dr. Fahrenheit?”
The woman stared at the camera. Her eyes panned from right to left as she said, “Yes, that is correct. The polar vortex is sweeping across the plains, through the Midwest, and on to the East Coast.”
Sally exited the freeway, upsetting more drivers as she whizzed past them on the shoulder. The side of her car struck sparks from the concrete barricades along the right. Sally laughed as she passed a supermarket, its lot full of cars. The news told her that stores had all the French Toast ingredients depleted due to the Weather Emergency, since citizens had been warned that they’d have to stay off the streets after dark, so that plows could clear the streets for the morning commute.
Sally turned up her air conditioning as she skidded onto Broadway, the back end of her car fishtailing.
A great glass orb, very much like a giant snowglobe, blocked the roadway. Inside, Sally made out the figures of Blaine Roberts and Dr. Fahrenheit, their gestures slightly leading the broadcast. Sally resisted the urge to speed up as their faces registered terror as her car burst through flasher barricades and hired guards flung themselves out of her way.
The nose of her Prius met the enormous glass enclosure, which cracked like an egg. Sally hit the brakes even as the airbag deployed and shoved her back in her seat.
She flung open the car door and stumbled into the space between the camera and the other two. She picked up handfuls of white flakes and rubbed them all over her face. “It’s a lie! Global warming is real! They’re lying to you! This is just styrofoam!”
The low drone of a small snowblower’s electric motor quit. So did the camera’s red light.
Many rough hands seized Sally at once.
Blaine Roberts stood before her. “Ma’am, you’re in a lot of trouble. Vehicular assault, sure, but also the Weather Normalization Act, which makes discussing Global… Discussing that topic, a federal offense.”
“You’re not fooling anyone! They’re pretending, just like you! This is stupid! Why doesn’t anyone wake up?”
“Look, if you people win the election next time, then you can write the news.” Blaine flicked a piece of glass off his parka as Sally was dragged away. “Could someone get that poor woman a coat?”
Cold Lies, Burning Truth
Why do I keep trusting Jimenti Roso after he made up stories to improve ratings? No one caught on when he lied about a magic cure to cancer being tested or how the perfect weight loss drug was found. Then he decided to make up a kidnapping. That made the Were-Police begin sniffing around. He had to admit he lied. The scandal lasted a while.
He was fired. He was interviewed. He wrote a book. He became more famous. He did the talk shows. He was re-hired. Ratings went up. Job accomplished.
I watch his plastic-like mouth stretch out on my cable-ready crystal ball. Canines sharp and white belied the words barking past them.
“Global warming, the world’s leading sorcerers have confirmed, is a human urban myth! It is simply not happening. There is no danger of the Earth’s climate changing. The Warlock Coven has released an official statement today. They have looked at the mortals’ scientific data and consulted their charts, familiars, crystal balls, the stars, and the bones; and have determined global warming to be a hoax, created by some of the human corporations and political groups to control others and make money.”
I’m hoping he isn’t lying. Winter business has been bad for a few years now. I look at my inventory: snow plows, shovels, salt, scrapers, dragon’s fire-spit, heaters, and of course, snow blowers. I stock from small to heavy duty ones. But the last few winters have been mild and if it wasn’t for the other stuff selling at a reasonable rate, I would be bankrupt.
My attention goes back to Roso.
“In other news, sightings of dragons, chimeras, phoenixes, and other fire creatures have increased. These beasts have been captured and handled by the Defense Mystics, who have put out a national alert asking anyone who notices unusual steam, flames, or heat to report it immediately. When asked as to why these pests are populating rapidly, the spokesman said,
‘No comment. Man, it is getting warm in here.’”
I wonder if I can sell Roso a snow blower or two. I fantasize about it for a bit when my doorbell rings. A customer! Finally.
I look up to see a brown-skinned lanky man, with salt and pepper hair and beard.
He lifts his hand in a stop motion and reaches into his pocket to pull out his wand.
“Parli Ingles!” He incants. “Me understand you?”
My face said no.
“Parli Ingles ni google!” He pauses. “Do you understand me?”
“Yes. How may I help you?”
“I want to buy all this. How much?”
“This year a lot of snow in my country. I sell these and all others I find, no?”
“Sure, we can come up with a price fair to both.”
I look at my crystal ball TV. “So no such thing as global warming, Mr. Roso?”
“His name in Spanish sounds like He mentiroso — ummm — He Liar.”
“There will be little to no snow at all this year due to global warming in the upper portion of North America and Canada, so you can all sell your snowblowers and keep your shovels in the shed. You won’t even need winter clothes this year as it will never be colder than 72 degrees Fahrenheit,”said Smiling Chet Armstrong, America’s favorite newscaster.
“Hot Damn. No snow this year,” Eustis said, looking outside. Eustis lives on a hill and his driveway is long. He tires of walking it with a snowblower. “Now I can sell that blasted thing.”
“Wait a minute, you cannot trust that liar. Before you do anything, let me consult with my crystal ball. Spirit has never led us astray yet,” his wife said.
“Bah, you and that damn crystal ball. You consult your glass ball and I will put a sign up down by the road.”
After Eustis put the sign up, he walked back up the long driveway to his house, his wife greeted him at the door and said, “Spirit says we are in store for a lot of snow this year, Eustis.”
“Grenadine, I want to hear no more about it. I will believe Smiling Chet over your stupid ball.”
“You’re a fool, Eustis. What happens if we get a lot of snow this year?”
“We won’t, Grenadine. Smiling Chet said so.”
Two days later, the snowblower sold and Chet was a thrilled man. Regrettably, two weeks later, Chet stopped being a thrilled man when the snow fell. It fell for two days straight.
“You blamed fool. I told you not to believe that son-of-an-unnamed-goat. Now what are you going to do?”
“I will just go buy another snowblower, Grenadine.”
Eustis found a place that sold only small snowblowers.
He purchased a small snowblowers, and it only just made a path up his driveway after hours of use.
“Face it, Eustis. It will be easier just to shovel.” Grenadine yelled to him.
Eustis grabbed his shotgun off of the rack above the fireplace, went out to his truck and drove to the news studio where Smiling Chet broadcasts at. He walked inside and grabbed the newscaster by the scruff of his neck and dragged him out to the truck.
“What happened to not being any snow, Smiling Chet? What do you call this? I sold my big snowblower because of your stinking lies.”
“I-I-I don’t know what happened,” Chet replied, stuttering.
“Shut up and shovel before your new nickname is Toothless Chet.”
A police car soon pulled up in front of Eustis’s house and the county sheriff stepped out of the vehicle.
“Oh, thank God. This man kidnapped me and is forcing me to shovel his driveway.”
“Is this true, Eustis?”
“Sure is, Sheriff. This lyin’ so and so said we wouldn’t be getting any snow this year and I sold my snowblower.”
“Sheriff, don’t just stand there. Arrest him and let me go.”
“Nope, I sold my snowblower too because of you. Bring him by my place when you are done, Eustis.”
“Sure will, Sheriff. I sure will.”
The director and live studio are blabbering through each other like drunk sonority girls on Mardi Gras. I know – I was one.
“So, why the crystal ball again?” I say to the expert next to me. “I don’t think I caught on the first time.”
“’Global Warming’ is pure ‘fortune-telling’. A hoax.”
Across from the parking lot, an elderly, black man is clearing his lawn with a small snowblower. His red ski jacket and white snow hat remind me of my grandfather. ‘Papa’ was a Norwegian immigrant, loved snow and ice. Never used a snowblower, maybe a snow shovel but not before we’d play and build a snowman. I miss him. “We’re about to go live.” Terry, my cameraman, says. “Maybe more cleavage?”
“Cleavage!? It’s freaking 23F!” I bark. “It was a joke, Melissa.”
“A cold day for Global Warming!” My colleague Nancy in the studio chuckles, I hate her. “And my colleague is outside! In a blizzard! With an expert! Melissa, how is it out there?”
“Hi, Nancy! It sure is cold! They theorize the Earth is warming but it sure doesn’t feel that way out here! Oh! Is that a polar bear!?” I say, pointing at a white Husky passing by. Fake laughter in the studio.
“I’m here with Simon DeWitt! Expert from the Independent Ecological Research Institute.”
“That’s right!” He grins, “No associations with other research groups, no government grants!”
“So, tell us about this ‘Global Warming’-theory in the middle of a blizzard!”
He begins his story of disinformation. I zone out, looking across the street. The man’s still there, blowing snow, his back to me. For a moment, I believe it really is my ‘papa’. He turns around. I gasp. It is.
“I know!” The expert says smug, crystal ball in hand, believing it’s about him.
I choke. Seconds pass. Terry’s making a face at me.
“I-I can’t do this.” I say, thinking of ‘papa’, “This is all a lie. This man isn’t a real expert, he’s an economist paid by Exxon Mobil!”
“We have no asso-”
“-Oh, please! You’re wearing one of their key chains right now!”
Terry zooms in, the expert breaks sweat.
“I’m sorry, global warming is real. Pass the world on to our children the way it was left to us, so they too can see a REAL polar bear, not just a dog pointed out by a lying anchorwoman! Just Google it, dammit!” I yell emotional.
“Um, thanks, Melissa. We’re back in the studio, it appears our colleague is having some… technical problems…” Nancy says.
“Why don’t you go suck a dick, Nancy! Maybe it’ll warm your cold heart!”
“That’s it! You’re fired!” The director barks over the headset.
“Good! I’ll go work for the Home Shopping Network!”
I push my microphone into the ‘expert’s’ hands, head for my car and drive off passed the house. The man’s stopped the snowblower. He’s himself again, waves and smiles. I blow a kiss his way.
One Lie Too Many
Jacob Scott’s jaw hung open for a good fifteen seconds before he realized he wasn’t saying anything and asked the ZNN’s president, “You want me to say what?”
“I don’t think I stuttered,” said Louis Copeland, who founded the news network 40 years ago as a way to report the news how he saw fit.
ZNN has developed into the go-to echo chamber for those of a certain political persuasion, which is the same persuasion of those currently in power. That made ZNN the most powerful and popular news networks, and Louis Copeland the most powerful political figure.
It also is the most despised because of the sensationalized and often inaccurate news. But Louis did not care because he’s making more money than ever before even though his rhetoric has transformed from fringe to flat out falsehoods.
Jacob’s been told to say many things over the years, who started out as a 38-year-old anchor with idealistic fervor. A half-decade later he’s developed into a jaded cynic because of the B.S. he’s been ordered to “report.”
He compares Louis Copeland to a charlatan clairvoyant gazing into an oversized crystal ball. But the only thing oversized was Louis’ ego … and Jacob’s dependency on his seven-figure salary. That’s been enough to compensate his conscious as he’s become America’s most unreliable news anchor
“I’m to say global warming is a hoax because of Stihl? The power tool company?” Jacob’s jaw has yet to shut.
“Specifically their lawnmowers and snow blowers,” Louis added.
Jacob could usually spin what Louis wanted to be said on the news, but he’s been able to spin it into something that didn’t sound like it was a mandated from a senile fool. “That doesn’t sound a bid … um, odd?”
“No. Not at all,” said the octogenarian news magnate.
Jacob ran his fingers through his perfectly sculpted hair. He closed his eyes as he inhaled a deep breath, held it for a second, and slowly released it. He opened his eyes, looked Louis into the eyes and said, “It’ll be an unforgettable report.”
Louis Copeland slyly smiled as he nodded. “That’s by boy.”
“Hey, Linda,” said Frank as he cracked open his second beer from the cooler next to his recliner. “Check this out. I think that Jacob Scott guy you like on ZNN is having a nervous breakdown.”
Dressed in an apron and wiping her hands with a kitchen towel, Linda walked into the living room staring at the television. All that appeared were the color bars with the words “Please Stand By” appearing. “What did he do?”
Frank tapped rewind on the DVR to the start of the newscast the pressed play. “Watch this craziness.”
“Good evening and welcome to ZNN,” Jacob Scott started before pausing. He took out his earpiece. “I can’t do this anymore. I’ve been told to repot” – and he made quote marks around that word – “and because I wanted to keep my job I did. But I can’t anymore.”
Before Jacob Scott could say another word, a producers rushes on set and the color bars appear.
A kid playing a banjo to a dog Bullying A limit A life in danger
Nancy Taylor Rosenberg Bracket
Maureen Larter, Michael Cottle, Bobby Salomons, Dani J. Caile
The Double Act
Dani J Caile
I’d never come out of that front door so fast in my life. I thought someone was dying with the amount of hollering I heard. But they weren’t. I looked around, and there he was, my little brother Johnny sitting on the porch, playing Grandpa’s old banjo badly and singing along to it – if that was singing, the only similarity being that it came from his mouth – while Timbo the dog tied up on his chain, normally a vicious little creature, barked and whined next to him.
“Johnny! What the hell are you doing?” I’d been left in charge for the afternoon but I must’ve dozed off in the heat.
“Playing to Timbo,” said Johnny, messing up notes and timing as he went along. His hands didn’t walk along the fingerboard, more like stumbled.
“That’s Grandpa’s banjo! You can’t play that!” I moved closer but the noise only got louder.
“That’s what you think. Timbo likes my playing.” Timbo barked and growled in agreement.
“No, you’re not allowed to play it, Johnny, it’s a family heirloom!” I went to reach for it but Timbo almost snapped my hand off. His saliva dripped from my sleeve.
“It’s not a hair loon, it’s a banjo! See!” He concentrated hard with his tongue hanging from his mouth, and he scratched at the instrument as best he could.
“Johnny! You’ll ruin it! What will Ma and Pa say when they get back?” There was no hiding place from the din.
“They will say what a great banjo player I am!” My little brother and the family’s guard dog. A great double act.
“Please, Johnny, stop!” I was sure my ears had started bleeding.
“I will never stop! I will play forever and ever! I will play this banjo everywhere!”
“Oh, come on! They…they won’t let you play it in school!”
“Oh yes, they will! They will call me ‘Johnny Banjo’!”
“It’s more likely that your life will be in danger, Johnny! You’re gonna suffer a lot of bullying when you get to school! Banjos aren’t cool, bro, trust me! It’ll make you look like some redneck, or even worse, like that mountain hillbilly kid in ‘Deliverance’,” I said, pressing my hands over my ears as he hit some bum notes in whatever song he thought he was singing.
“Who? Is that a place?” smiled Johnny. He continued to twang along as the dog accompanied him with moans and yelps.
“No, it’s a movie!”
“I don’t like movies. I like the banjo!” he replied, plucking away. The noise was excruciating!
“Oh man, there’s a limit to what I can take!” I screamed. With one quick thought, I took Timbo’s chain off. Realising he was free, he took one look at the banjo and ripped it from Johnny’s hands. The strings were the first to go, followed by the neck and finally the head. Good boy!
“You’re in for it now,” I said to Johnny. He ran into the house crying at full volume. Plus one.
Short and Sweet
“I’m ashamed of you, son.” his father said gruffly. “Standing out there in the street, jiggling about to the music.”
“But I love performing – it gives me a sense of belonging. I really enjoy the sound of the banjo – it makes me happy.”
“I don’t care,” his father growled. “There’s a limit to what we should do to please the crowd.”
“It’s only a front, you know,” Billy nodded to his Dad a wise knowing in his eyes. “I do it so I’m there when the bullying starts.”
His father frowned. “What bullying?”
Billy cleared his throat and stood tall. “The other kids treat my human as if he’s a freak, and it isn’t fair.”
“Stop whining,” His father shook his head. Spittle and hair scattered across Billy’s face.
“But Daaaad,” Billy rolled onto his back and pawed the air. “My human is a happy little chap, and if those bullies get to him his life might be in danger.”
“Oh for goodness sake, Billy,” his father howled. “You keep this ‘performing’ up and I’ll let the cat know – and then it will be YOUR life that’ll be in danger!”
A Glimmer of Hope
There was something soothing about the absurdity of a young boy playing banjo to a dog. To him a friend was a friend. There was no separation, no judgement, no prejudice to who and what he was – just the simple given of a friendship. Surely the dog knew not what was played to him but he listened intently, as to him the friendship was just as dear.
I reminisced on the meaning of friendship in a small town like this. Though I grew up here, friendship I never knew. There was a strange tradition of bullying, one founded on old principles and targets picked by careful choice. It mattered little what effort would be made, once you were picked on, you’d get picked on again. And word spread like wild fire, who was to be ignored, it knew not a limit to a school or a playground and it grew with you over time. Like a social cancer, without warning and without treatment.
The threshold of being picked on was set by simple principles. Wrong of color, wrong church, parents falling out of grace after a divorce or simple rumors of. Conditions easy to reach with no intent or control of your own. Still they were enough to haunt you.
The chords of the banjo returned me to the present as I had wallowed in self grief. The dog raised its head towards the sky and stretched its chest like a great tenor worthy. From its throat yodelled the ugliest of sounds that hurt the ears like needles. But the young boy smiled with intense delight. They were performing now, together. And that was all they needed.
I sat and watched the two till my ears could no longer give. I grabbed the lid from the hood of the vehicle and placed it onto the lukewarm Styrofoam cup. Before it closed well, I could see how my pigments matched the caffeinated innards of the cup. Bullied for that simple reason. But as the dog wailed once more, I could not press back the smile that formed from ear to ear. Those days were behind me.
The muffled noise of radio chatter slipping through a window crack. A life in danger.
As I opened the door to step into my vehicle, the light struck my badge and a golden glimmer blinkered across the street. They met the eyes of the young boy – blinding momentarily. He looked at me and smiled. A small hand raised to greet me as I drove passed to answer my duty. To protect and serve – free of the limitations of separation, without judgement and prejudice.
Chip found a spot under a large pecan tree where he settled down upon the sidewalk. He traveled light with a peanut butter sandwich in a sack and a banjo strapped around his neck. Sure enough, Buster came up and sat right down beside him. He looked at Chip and turned his head sideways as he made a small whining sound.
“Buster, you already had your breakfast” Chip said. “This is mine boy.”
Buster whined again and turned his head to the other side.
“Alright boy” Chip said. “Here, take half of this. There’s only one sandwich though, so that half is for you and this half for me. That’s all I got. Ok?”
Buster grabbed his half, and chewed on it until the peanut butter coated his mouth. Buster was still working on the peanut butter when Chip finished his sandwich and washed it down with a thermos of milk.
“It’s really sticky” Chip said. “Here you go.”
Chip raised the last little bit of milk in his thermos and poured it into Buster’s mouth.
“That’ll help a bit boy” Chip said.
Chip put away his lunchbox and turned to his banjo. He began to play a bit of “Turkey in the Straw” as Buster finally stopped licking. Buster rested his face on his paws, and there they sat awhile just like that. Chip played every song he knew a couple of times over.
There may have been many more afternoons to pass like this, except for a kid named Bobby. He rode up on his bicycle popping wheelies and generally showing out a bit. Chip stopped playing and looked away. He never cared much for Bobby. Bobby was never too nice towards Chip, or anyone else that Chip knew for that matter.
“Watcha doin’ there Chip?” Bobby asked as he stopped his bicycle. “Are you playing your geetar?”
“It’s a banjo” Chip said.
“You wouldn’t know how to play a real geetar anyway. Would ya? I’ll bet your old man couldn’t ford a real geetar. And that’s why you play that stupid banjo. It sounds like a drunk chicken with its head cutoff. You hear me Chip?”
Chip wouldn’t look at Bobby. He wanted him to go away, but he wouldn’t. Bobby threw his bicycle on the ground, and grabbed Chip by his shirt collar.
“Look at me when I’m talkin’ to ya’ boy!”
Bobby shook Chip, and Chip swallowed hard. Chip could hardly speak when Buster let go a low growl. Bobby wadded up Chips’ shirt, and that was more than enough for Buster. Buster jumped up and clamped on Bobby’s wrist. Bobby fell backwards and begin to holler in a panic. Finally, Chip recovered just in time to pull Buster off of Bobby before he done much more damage.
Bobby took a few stitches in his left wrist, but he never messed with Chip again. Chip never really got over Buster being put to sleep. Chip lost his audience, and gave up the banjo. Most folks in town said that bulldogs are just like that. They said that you couldn’t really trust them anyway.