Shards

(A short story looking for a good illustrator.)

COUNTRY LIVING

            Cows are always getting loose in the country. Dogs, too.

            It was a peaceful spring day in the country - birds trilling, frogs gabbling, brooks trilling.

            Until.

            The Mourning Doves were riding on their bikes up the lane by the Wood King's lot, when Bear, a dog short of temper and long of hair, leaped into the road with a fierce bark. The Mourning Doves twittered frantically, their bikes wobbling in sympathy. A misplaced rock and a skidding wheel sent one into the ditch. The other, dismounting and grabbing a handy stick, prepared to confront the beast.

            Not far away, Mrs. Narstie heard the commotion and, fearing for the safety of her cows, leaped to conclusions like a flame to dry grass in a high wind. The Narsties and the Wood King and his wife were sworn enemies on account of a long running boundary dispute. Harsh words and threats had been exchanged. A cow had more than once broken through the fence and wandered blissfully onto the Wood King's lawn. Whose freezer it might end up in was anybody's guess.

            Gary Hurricane was returning from the post office in his yellow sports car.

            "Hey, what's going on here?" he exclaimed, as he leaped from the seat. "I'll fix it!" His muscles rippled as he grabbed a tire iron.

            "Here, stop that!" yelled the Wood King, putting down his chainsaw.

            Clark Kent appeared on his morning walk.

            "Hmmm." He looked on bemused, as if he were suddenly reaching the solution to an important mathematical problem.

            Captain Lawnmower pulled up in his pickup, looking terribly depressed.

            Contractor Big Ken arrived in his big truck.

            "I'll take care of this!" His whiskers bristled like quills on a porcupine.

            Mrs. Wood King came out of the house to give her two cents worth. She had been baking raspberry pies.

            Igor pulled in behind Gary Hurricane. He had been digging a large hole and his boots were muddy.

            "Stand back! I'll shoot it!" He hoisted a rifle to his shoulder.

            This caused the Mourning Doves to reach a high 'C'; Clark Kent wisely dropped to the ground; Garry Hurricane yelled "Duck!"; the Wood King wanted to know whose dog it was, anyway; and his wife said she was going to check the pies in the oven. Captain Lawnmower, overwhelmed by misery at the spectacle, slumped over the steering wheel like a fallen soufflé.

            Not far away, Mrs. Narstie called Mr. Narstie on the phone.

            From their cozy bungalow on a neighboring hill the Comblestocks observed the goings on through their high-powered telescope.

            "Looks like a dust up, hon," Mr. Comblestock observed laconically to his wife.

            "Do you think we should do anything about it? Call the police?" she responded.

            "It's just a little fuss, dear," he reassured her.

            Lettuce Seedsworthy, a Boston Brahmin, looked down with distaste from her state of the art kitchen on another neighboring hill.

            "These natives," she sniffed, while preparing Pan Seared Scallops with Balsamic Glaze served with risotto and asparagus for her luncheon guests on her very expensive green-enameled, Italian gas stove.

            Builder Bully Boy Bingham, his sleeves permanently rolled up, pulled up behind Big Ken's truck.

            "Looking for a fight? I'll give you a fight!" he announced, assuming a boxer's stance and advancing into the crowd.

            "Hey! Hey!" yelled Gary Hurricane thinking the words directed at him.

            Little Small, who wasn't, arrived in his vintage hot rod.

            "Nice day for a fight. You betcha!" And he advanced into the fray.

            Frenchy in a jaunty bush hat pulled up in his utility van.

            "Well!" he exclaimed, putting on his spectacles and surveying the goings on with keen French interest.

            Alfred, a harmless eccentric out on his morning ramble, strolled up nosily.

            "Helladehoop!" he exclaimed, "Something must be done!"

            But he appeared less than willing to assume the responsibility

            Bear, rattled by the commotion, crept hurriedly away into a culvert.

            "I'll shoot the damned critter. Stand back!" Igor took aim at the disappearing rump.

            The Mourning Dove with the stick took issue with his proposal.

            "I don't think you should!" She had some legal training.

            Her mate in the ditch was examining a grazed knee.

            "Oh, I don't think we ought to!" she cooed loudly in support.

            Mr. Comblestock, tiring of the event, went back to scouring his wife's garden for signs of pillaging chipmunks. Spying one, he took his rifle and shot it through the kitchen window.

            Crack!

            Mrs. Narstie, hearing the shot, was propelled into a manic rage. Fizzing about the yard like a drop of water splattered on a hot pan, she screamed into her cell phone.

            "They're shooting my cows!"

            She had called the police. Arming herself with a video cam to secure the evidence, she lit out for the scene of the crime.

            At the sound of the shot, the Mourning Dove with the stick also jumped to hasty conclusions.

            "Oh, no!" she shrieked, averting her eyes and turning away.

            Igor, lowering his gun, looked mystified. Gary Hurricane was puzzled, too. The Wood King's wife, who had come back out headed rapidly back in.

            "I'm gettin' outa here!"

            Bully Boy Bingham looked nervous. He'd had run-ins with the authorities before.

            Big Ken, too, was beginning to think it might be time to leave. Clark Kent was ahead of him on foot.

            Igor, catching the mood, slipped into his truck.

            "Uh-oh. Time to go," he said, with the seasoned air of a man who's instincts for trouble have been honed in many a battle.

            Frenchy jumped into his van.

            "Can't stand around here. I've got work to do!"

            "Would you mind giving me a lift?" Alfred had decided that someone else better do it whatever it might be.

            "Hop in. Make it snappy!"  

            The Wood King, having nowhere to go, withdrew to the safety of his wood pile.

            Lettuce Seedsworthy dropped a salad bowl and cursed.

            In the distance the sound of a siren heralded the approach of THE LAW!

            Cordelia, outfitted in a nice pink 'cardi,' sky blue cotton shorts and sensible walking shoes, came upon the departing mob.

            "Oh, dear. I just heard the shot and wondered. Can I help anyone?"

            There was quite a bustle in the lane as the state trooper eased his way past the departing vehicles. Pulling up at the Wood King's, he was just in time to be confronted by Mrs. Narstie, who sprang from the bushes, whirring video cam in hand.

            "They shot one of my cows!" she yelled, searching for her subject.

            The trooper, a young man of genial disposition, looked about him for the evidence.

            There was no cow in sight, dead or alive. No smoking gun either. Nor was there a dog. There were only two lady cyclists engaged in whispered discussion.

            "What do you think we ought to do?" said the slightly injured Mourning Dove.

            "I don't think we ought to do anything," replied the other, judiciously.

            "Can I help you ladies?" asked the Trooper, approaching them.

            "No, that's alright, officer. Thank you. We were just out riding and Emily," she gestured to her friend, "hit a rock in the road and fell off. But she's alright now, aren't you dear?"

            "Oh yes, I'm fine now, thank you, dear," she cooed.

            "You're the lady who called?" The Trooper addressed Mrs. Narstie.

            She nodded.

            "Where's the cow?"

            "Well, I -," Mrs. Narstie looked uncertainly about her, "I don't know!" she finished angrily.

            "Where was the shot fired?"

            "Here, of course." She wasn't giving up anything. "It's them." She gestured towards the Wood King's house.

            "Very well, we'll go and see."

            "Yes, officer. Can I help you?" The Wood King's wife stood in the doorway, her hands covered in flour. No, she hadn't seen or heard anything. Her husband? He'd gone out to work in his woodpile.

            Mrs. Narstie's lips compressed with fury.

            The Wood King, meanwhile, had wisely and craftily crept away into the woods beyond the woodpile. So that when the Trooper went in search of him he came up empty-handed. He turned to Mrs. Narstie.

            "They're lying!" she said angrily.

            "Well, I'm sorry. I think you'd better go back and check your cows. I don't see anything here."

            "Well!" She stamped her feet angrily. "What do we pay you for anyway!"

            "Here, here. That's enough!" the Trooper responded, his geniality slipping away like a virgin at her first ball.

            Mrs. Narstie turned tail for her farm. The Trooper climbed into his car.

            "Did you get him?" Mrs. Comblestock asked her husband.

            "Yes, hon. Makes three today," he replied.

            "D'ja hear that siren?"

            Hard of hearing, he shook his head.

            "Must be somethin' up then, I guess."

            "Guess so, hon."