The Mighty Viking

Conquering those things we must, one story at a time

Requiem for a marmot:

The red-brown rodent held his body in tense anticipation on the edge of a wide, flat rock. To the left and right he could not see it’s end, but 50 feet straight ahead was a high spot, perfect for basking in the midmorning sun.

He prepared for this scamper across open ground with the same ritual he always did, its refined tradition having kept him safe for three seasons. He saw no reason to change his habits now. He held stone-still, he listened for the foxes and weasels, and watched for the shadow of the hawks that had taken so many of his family. The only shadows were of the behemoths swirling past with such mind-numbing speed that he couldn’t comprehend their arrival or departure, only that fleeting moment when they were just suddenly there. But they seemed a benign species, never taking predatory interest in him. And so he worried not at all about them.

He focused even more sharply on his objective, and on his awareness of his enemies. They were crafty, and his only defenses were stillness and speed. The time for stillness had come to an end. Now, his body taut and ready, he brought forth every ounce of speed he could muster to reach the wall and return to invisible stillness in the warmth of the sun. He burst into motion.

Julia Cartwright fumed at the wheel of her ancient brown Datsun station wagon. It’s sides suggested wood paneling, but closer inspection revealed that it was an illusion created by a combination of rust, sun-fading, and a million tiny scratches. Her angst, always compounded by the stress of driving this dilapidated car, was fanned by the prospects of the afternoon shopping invitation from her sister. Her sister’s life was perfect, from the new car, to the trim lawn surrounding the pristine driveway that her own car would have to infest while they drove The Perfect Car to the mall. She loved her sister, really she did. But she always felt this internal animosity towards her success, with an undertone of cynicism at the compromises in principles she always assumed must have accompanied them. Her own stance of eschewing fashion, luxury, and comfort had not given her the sense of satisfied peace she’d always believed it would. And now she drove – not to the mall but to her sisters Perfect Driveway, where they would stash her car while they went out in public together. Just once, she thought, she’d like for her sister to say, “hey, your car is a classic, and it has such cool bumper stickers. It gives off such an aura.”

But the only aura it gave off caused the mechanic to furrow his brow, when she could afford him. Its rusting body’s return to its natural state would have been better to allow to happen in a deserted field. But her chosen profession and ideals didn’t allow for a better option. so instead she drove it onward anyway, in sullen compromise. Usually she avoided the thoughts that came when she thought too hard about it. But visiting her sister had a way of digging up the emotions out if the compost bed they sat in to rot. The atmosphere in her head was rank with its volatile aroma as she sped as best she could down the highway.

20 scampering steps into his dash, the marmot suddenly felt an unseen weight, pinching and then smashing his tiny body into the strange, black rock. In an instant his body exploded, his guts bursting through a a widening hole rent in his abdomen by the inconceivable weight of the speeding behemoth. His body rolled five times in that one second, his bulgingl eyes fixed on its rear bumper. A faded sticker was the only witness to his passing, his squashed lungs quivered in vain to breathe just once more. It spoke its ceaseless Utopian message as an impromptu eulogy and benediction as the light faded from his eyes.

“Visualize World Peace” it intoned.

And bowed an amen as it disappeared over the horizon toward a Perfect Driveway, to hide its social shame.

 

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