Author : Kyle DeBruhl
â€œOh manâ€¦â€ Jeremy sighed as he stared out the window. â€œThe old manâ€™s at it again.â€ He pulled himself out of the chair and lumbered to the front door, seizing an rain slicker from the coat rack as he went. Thunder crackled in the distance and he peered out the embedded front door window with hesitation. Heâ€™s going to catch frigginâ€™ pneumonia. He turned the handle and the door swung open with a bang, carried in full circle by the howling wind.
The lawn had been transformed since the afternoon. What was earlier a large green blanket with the occasional wildflower or misplaced stone, had become a filthy mess, a deep marsh that soaked the toes of even the toughest tennis shoes.
â€œHey Murray!â€ Jeremy shouted hoping to catch the manâ€™s non-existent attention. The frail figure across the street did nothing. Jeremy took his last step through the water and opened his front gate, all the while keeping his eyes on the man across the way. A quick jog across the street and Jeremy was now at the opposite gate which he cleared with a short jump. The old man could now be seen clearly; sickly white columns of flesh surrounded by red Bermuda shorts stood atop a lawn table. The open t-shirt showed an array of exotic fruits and ukulele prints and was barely hiding the pale, almost skeletal chest it adorned..
â€œHey man, I think you ought to get back inside, itâ€™s cold and Iâ€™m not sure youâ€™ve got the, errâ€¦ shorts for it.â€ Murray had never stood on the table before. He apparently was getting wise to the ease with which Jeremy could force him back into the house.
â€œIâ€™m gonna pull you down man…â€ Jeremy thought it sounded confident enough, but he was having a hard time with the physics. The last thing he wanted was to harm the old guy; the neighbors would throw a conniption fit.
With as much strength as Jeremy could muster, he eased the old man off of the table and onto his back, taking care not to contort his cargo on the way down. Murray kept his back straight, and the void expression on his face remained. In the end youth won out and the old man was pushed (gently) back into his home. Jeremy walked quickly back to his own piece of Churchill street and regaled in the good work of a good man.
Somewhere deep inside of 143 Churchill Street a silent voice spoke. It spoke to the electrons in Murray Fecklesonâ€™s brain. It seethed as an ocean and whispered as a child. It burned. So thirsty, It thought. What a thick, brainless, species. Canâ€™t he see that we are thirsty? Murray nodded mechanically as the voice carried on. Canâ€™t he see that we are dry? Canâ€™t he see? Suddenly the TV burst to life and the lightâ€™s soft colors soothed itâ€™s â€œmindâ€. Murray? Be a doll and draw up a bath for us would you?