Sunday, November 13, 2011

A Fine Day At the Beach

     A fine day at the beach. Jim Collins watched his daughters frolic in the sand. They were well and cheerful. The beach was spotted with vacationers- here and there they sat in clumps, beneath beach umbrellas, sprawled about on towels, delving into picnic baskets.

     The air suddenly changed. Jim couldn’t tell just what it was, at first. But suddenly the beach was hushed, and a low flying jet could be seen approaching from the south.
Mouths agape, the beach-goers gasped in horror as they noticed that the jet was delivering a package.

     A three-hundred pound bomb, painted white, just like the jet, bounced on the sand not four meters from Jim, over his head, and those of his girls, and down the shore toward the waves.

     “Get down Terry, Kelly!” he screamed, and to emphasize the point, he gathered them in his arms and slammed to the ground. The bomb went off in the surf, spraying the beach with heaps of wet sand. Here came another, not but thirty meters to his north, bouncing down the sand and exploding.

     By now, people were screaming, gathering up their beach gear, and running for the coastal road. Jim did as well. Further away in the sky he could see them- more jets were coming.

     “Run, kids, run!” And they did.

     Jim, Kelly, and Terry reached the apartment house where he had parked his car in the underground garage. “Get it, get in, we don’t have much time!” By now the girls were screaming, too. Terry’s face was the perfect picture of sadness, drawn into a sullen and tearful pout. Kelly looked nothing if not confused, too confused to express the emotions she shared with her sister.

     Jim started the car, and backed out of the garage, tires squealing. He no more had cleared the exit than a bomb crashed into the apartment house above him, and more screaming could be heard, as smoke and car alarms began going off.

     He tore away up the coastal road. He would need to take the east-west streets if he was to avoid any strafing- and the latest group of jets were indeed, scouring up the landscape with scores of machine gun hits.

     Jim could not quite care how it had begun. All he knew at this time, was that the war had come home. And as for home, that was twenty miles uphill, in the highlands above Santa Barbara. That was where he would be headed, just as soon as he got batteries, fresh water, and some groceries.

     But the grocery stores were shutting down, as the grocers got calls from their concerned relatives, and packed it in for the day themselves.  One last chance- he stopped at a convenience store just before his freeway exit, and managed to fulfill most of the requirements. Enough fresh water for a week or so. Enough pet food for the dog and cat for the same time, and cereal, cookies, and frozen dinners for the rest of the family.
Maybe it would work. It was a gamble.

     When he arrived at the house, he sent the girls inside. Soon he could hear them chattering with their mother as to the nasty adventure they had but barely escaped. His wife beamed with admiration. That Jim had delivered them safe and sound back to her apron strings. From here they could plan what they might do– just in case the invasion happened to get a little more serious.

Read more about Mexico's invasion of the USA in Bus of Fools at

No comments:

Post a Comment

Le Surrealist apprécie vos pensées, comments et suggestions. Continuez-les venir ! Doigts Heureux !