lizbadiz

United States

See that girl kneeling next to the bookshelf in the library? She's whispering the book titles to herself. That's me. Back away slowly, and then run.

The Hero (#champion)

May 12, 2020

FREE WRITING

3
    If Arthur Fleek was honest, he had no idea where he was going.
    It had all started, of course, when he’d stolen the horse. This had seemed like a good idea at the time. But now he was beginning to daydream about the rows of cars lined up in the McAdams’ garage that he could have stolen instead—Lamborghinis and Jaguars and three different Mercedes-Benz, with their comfortable leather seats arranged just right for the traveling person’s rear. His own rear was sorer than ever, having been jostled on the back of a horse for a week straight.
    Really, Arthur knew that he couldn’t possibly have stolen one of the cars. They were all registered, and there wasn’t a single charging station to be found on this road for love or for money.
    It had only been a few days ago that he had been a mere domestic worker for the McAdams, a tall, athletic family that only ever stopped at their big ranch in the western foothills every now and again, to ski and check on the horses. Their other homes were in places that too Arthur seemed desperately romantic and far away. He had always longed to travel, of course. And the McAdams’ house, so near the old highway, seemed just close enough to adventure that he thought he would be satisfied. But his occasional glimpses across the hills to where wildflowers grew through the cracked tar only served to accelerate his longing for the open road and bold exploits.
    Arthur did not exactly look like a daring traveler. In his youth he had reached the height of five feet, five inches precisely and then ceased to grow further. At about the same time that he stopped growing, he also quit any and all athletic activity, and developed what his grandmother called “a little pudge”. But still the idea of adventure appealed to him, and the glimpses of the open road, so close to him, were like siren-song.
    And so, one night, quite without any warning or previous planning, he found himself stealing one of the McAdams’ horses (named Ginger), from their stable, as well as four hundred dollars from the vase in the front hall. Mr. McAdams often stuffed dollar bills down there when he thought no one was watching.
    He had been traveling for a week, and had seen a very few people. At the beginning, he had passed by the small scavenging villages that made their homes around old billboards that displayed ancient advertisements such as CALL LLOYD NOW FOR INSURANCE CLAIMS. He rode his horse past the people as they emerged at daybreak to search the ruined cars that lined the road for parts. Their children, ragged and gap-toothed, ran next to him as he went past, begging for a ride. He almost agreed, but their parents shouted for them to stay close and shot him glares, and Arthur realized that they must have seen the sharp clothes of a domestic worker and the fine horse and thought him to be a wealthy traveler. 
    The last person he’d talked to had been the owner of a crumbling gas station many miles previously, an old man in about the same shape as his gas station. There was, of course, almost no money to be made in selling gas these days. Arthur had felt bad for the guy, and had stocked up on a series of snacks which he had been steadily consuming since then. Now the plastic bag was beginning to swing in the wind in its emptiness, and he wondered if there was any food to be found close by. 
    The road stretched out before him, wide and empty, going everywhere and nowhere. Arthur began to imagine food at the end of the road, the fast food strip malls of his childhood, greasy food in a paper bag and a styrofoam cup filled with a cold fizzy drink that burned your throat as it went down. His stomach grumbled.
    The clouds above him grew in darkness, and the prairie grass waved in the wind.
    Looking into the distance, he caught sight of something. His eyes widened as he realized that it was a sign, then squinted to read it.
    TACOS TACOS TACOS, blue and flashing and the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen.
    He almost fell off of Ginger. Righting himself, he kicked at her sides and spurred her into a joyful gallop. As they neared the stand, he imagined plates and plates of tacos, piled up to the ceiling. He wondered if horses could eat tacos.
    The sign grew larger as he neared it, and soon he caught sight of a smaller, yellow one right beneath it, reading Best Prices Best FoodCome and Eat!
    Finally they reached the stand. Arthur leapt off of Ginger and looped her rope around a nearby pole. “I’ll get you food too,” he said, pointing at her. Then he fairly ran inside.
    The inside of the taco stand was as neon blue and yellow as the signs outside. To his left and right were small booths with neon lights stuck onto their sides. Most of the booths weren’t in front of a window, but instead each sat below a large metal safe embedded in the wall, blue neon lights flashing around it. The ceiling was completely covered in vines, twisted in with small yellow and blue lights. They almost look like Christmas lights, he thought, and spent a good minute gaping up at it, trying to pinpoint where and how the vines were growing on the ceiling.
    “Are you going to order?”
Arthur followed a large flashing yellow and blue arrow to the counter, where a teenage girl leaned up on her elbows, blowing a piece of her bangs out of her face. She stood up as he neared, eyes fixed on the menu posted above her. Her name tag read “Imogen”.
    He only had twenty dollars, but eight was apparently enough to order the Very Giant Plate of Tacos. Breathlessly, he placed his order. Imogen punched a few keys on the huge machine in front of her and pointed at the booths. 
    “Alright. It’ll be ready shortly.” 
    Arthur nodded and followed another neon arrow to a booth in the back. He marvelled at the almost-full napkin dispenser at his table. Looking around, he realized that every other booth had one as well. He wondered if in this part of the world they somehow had a way of turning prairie grass into paper. Unable to resist, he took a napkin out of the dispenser on the table, glanced around and began to fold it into a star. Outside, it begins to rain.
    Three stars later, a tall girl with glasses and a mass of curly hair emerged from the kitchen. “You ordered the Very Giant Plate, right?” Her name tag, he saw, read “Jane”.
    “Yeah, that was me.” 
    She shifted a plate the size of Ginger’s hindquarters, piled with tacos, and put it down in front of him. It landed on the table with a thud. “Good luck.” 
    He sat down at the table. His legs shook so hard that he had to place his hands on his knees to force them to still. With trembling hands, he picked up a taco and began to eat.
    After a little while, Arthur realized that he had already downed ten tacos. His hands had stopped shaking. He felt both brighter and more awake than he had been when he’d started eating, which seemed strange. Usually after eating so much there was nothing he wanted more than to take a good long nap. Examining the plate, he set aside the vegetarian tacos for Ginger. There were still at least twenty tacos left, and he set to work munching his way through them.
    He finished the entire plate in twenty minutes. The twister had passed by, whipping through the sunflowers in the next field. The girls and their grandmother continued to flit in and out of the kitchen, supremely unconcerned with either the twister or the horse standing in the middle of their restaurant.
    “All finished?”
    He resisted the urge to yelp as a third girl appeared at his elbow, nodding rapidly. This one was small, quite thin, and wore a blue apron. He looked for her name tag and found it pinned to the apron, reading “Mabel”. 
    “I am, thanks.” She picked up the plate. He raised a hand to stop her from returning to the kitchen. “I’m sorry, I just—can’t help wondering, you know—” He waved the hand. “Are you three sisters, or something?”
    “Cousins.” She smiled at him. “Our grandmother owns the restaurant, and our parents sent us here for the summer.”
    “Do you come here every summer?”
    “No...Jane and I are here for the first time. Imogen’s been coming here since she was little, though. Are you going to the rodeo?”
    “What?”
    “The rodeo. I thought, with the horse, and all—”
    “Oh—no. Just, um, passing through.”
    She nodded. “We get a lot of people just passing through.”
    “That’s because this is a passing-through kind of place,” called Imogen, leaning out of the kitchen door. She motioned at the other girl.“Mabel, hurry up. Grandma’s being weird again.”
    “Nice meeting you,” said Mabel. “What did you say your name was?”
    “Arthur.”
    “Mabel.” Imogen groaned impatiently.
    “Coming, coming.” Mabel picked up the empty plate and scurried into the kitchen.
    Arthur leaned back in his chair. The clouds began to clear outside, the rain slowing to a quiet drip. He sighed and moved to stand. At that moment, an old woman with many long, twisted braids pushed through the kitchen door. Her face, he thought, was so wrinkled as to give the appearance of someone who had taken a year long bath. She couldn’t have been taller than five feet. She looked at him, and this look froze him in his chair without a thought of leaving.
“You traveling far? Got a place in mind?” She stopped in front of him, leaned her hands against the table.
    “N-no?” He cleared his throat. “I’m just wandering. Looking for, um, adventure.” 
    “That’s fine, fine.” She brushed an invisible speck off the table. “You got a map?”
    “No.”
    She tapped her long brown fingers on the table. “Alright, let me go get one for you. You’ll need it, since you’ve disabled your wrist’s tracking mechanism, yeah?” Arthur gaped at her, and she fixed him with a glare. “Don’t tell me you forgot to do that.”
    “No, I did.”
    “Good.” And she strode away towards the far corner of the restaurant, returning with a map in her hand. The words “MADE IN THE U.S. 2040” were emblazoned on the front in red. Wondering how reliable a map thirty years old could be, he took it and unfolded it across the table.
    It was blank.
    “Are you sure this is the right map?”
    But the old woman was gone. 
    The three girls emerged from the kitchen, walking in a line—first Jane, then Imogen, and finally Mabel. As he watched, refolding the map, Imogen and Jane walked to adjacent booths, stood on the seats, and began to enter codes into the safes embedded in the wall above their respective booths. With a pop, the safes swung open. They reached inside and both pulled something out that was covered in a dishtowel.
    “She sent us to give these to you.” Jane held out her hands, offering the object covered by the dishtowel. Ginger watched with seeming interest from next to him as he lifted the dish towel to reveal a small dagger. Eyes wide, Arthur took it from her. Gripping it in his hands, he turned it around and watched the neon lights glint off of it. There were words engraved upon the handle. He squinted to read them, for all the world they looked to be nothing but gibberish.
    “Watch it,” snapped Jane as he waved the dagger past her. “It’s not a toy.”
    “Sorry.” He put the dagger down on the table, over the map.
    Imogen was standing over him now, with another dish-towel-covered object.
    “Do you really need the towels?”
    She sighed. “Look, Grandma likes the mystery of it all. Just take it off.”
    In her hands lay a small silver flask.
    “She wanted me to tell you that it won’t take liquor,” she said. “It holds water and nothing else. But it’ll keep giving you water for as long as you need, so you’ll never have to refill it.” She handed it to him. “She also said something about using it for good purposes or whatever.”
    “Thank you.” He put it in his pocket.
    Mabel stepped forward. She had no dishtowel, but a brown paper bag. She handed this to him. “It’s tacos, for the road.”
    He took the bag and cleared his throat, frowning. “Can I ask why I get all this? I didn’t pay for a dagger and a magic flask, I don’t think.”
    Jane spoke. “Grandma does this for the heroes.”
    “Heroes?”
    “Yeah.” She looked him over, pursed her lips. 
    “But I’m not a hero.” Still, the very thought of the word being connected with him filled him with a sort of gleeful joy. He could barely keep a grin from spreading across his face.
    “No kidding,” mumbled Imogen.
Mabel elbowed her. “What she means is that the people Grandma usually does this for are usually...more muscular.”
    “And taller,” added Imogen.
    “But honestly,” said Jane, in a lowered voice, “We don’t know if she’s crazy or if there’s actually anything to all the heroes. But she has a stash of these objects in the safes, and she gives them away to anyone she likes the look of.”
    “Maybe she’s just trying to clean out,” said Imogen.
    Mabel said, kindly, “I’m sure you must have something heroic you’re going to do.”
    Arthur swallowed. “I mean, I didn’t have anything in mind…”
    They all looked at each other. “Well, good luck figuring it out,” said Jane, business-like. “Is that your horse out there?”
    They followed him out of the taco stand, and watched as he fed Ginger her tacos and got up onto her. The rain had finally stopped, and the sun was peering through the clouds. Standing below him, they squinted in the light. Imogen and Jane had their arms crossed. 
    This was the beginning, he thought. The story now stretched out before him as far as the open road. 
    He turned the horse around, towards the road, and waved to the girls. Mabel waved back. He nodded, once, to himself, and clucked to Ginger. Slowly, he rode away, towards the endless road and fields of sunflowers.

 

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2 Comments
  • Anne Blackwood

    This entire thing is quite wonderful, but the one thing I have to point out is how flawlessly you told the reader what the time period was.


    over 1 year ago
  • Deleted User

    Hey lizbadiz! Thanks for joining the bracket challenge! Glad to have you!


    over 1 year ago