“Why are you crying, boy?” a man said behind Marston.
Marston was crying the cry of his life. He had never known he could cry like this before. He turned around and say a man with a white cowboy hat and a long beard plus mustache, eyes sharp and face as serious as a rock. He looked at Marston as if he was disgusted with him.
“Where is your dignity, boy? You’re a man, not a woman,” the man continued, surprising Marston. Where was all this coming from? Why was that man scolding young Marston.
Marston responded: “Dignity?”
“Your pride,” he replied, his voice thick with Texas accent.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Marston said with his sob still present.
“Just playing with you, kid,” he said finally. “I saw what happened back there. You okay?”
“Okay?” Marston yelled, annoyed at this person in front of him. “What part is this okay? That Sasquatch took my ball. He took my ball without permission. And I’m lost in this jungle. How can I be okay?”
“Whoa. Relax, boy. I’m just asking. What’s your name, by the way?”
“Marston? Sounds like a cowboy’s name to me.”
“Its my name, not a cowboy’s name.”
Standing before Marston was a tall, cloth-less man. He was seven-foot tall and had red eyes, staring devilishly at Marston. But that was not the worst part. What’s worse was that he was covered in fur. Like dog fur. Or probably monkey fur. Full of them.
In the man/creature’s hand was something that Marston knew well. It was Richard’s ball.
Without thinking, Marston yelled out, “Give me back my ball!”
The man/creature smiled and laughed. “Do you know what I am, Marston?”
Marston kept quiet; the voice of the man/creature frightened him. He shook his head slowly.
“You’re still young so you probably won’t know me. I am a Sasquatch.”
“A Sasquatch?” Marston said quickly. “You look like a Bigfoot.”
Marston walked among the plants cautiously, making sure he did not step on any plants unnecessarily. The forest was a scary place. He had heard time and time again of stories about missing children and of monsters lurking here from friends at school. Yet, he did not know why he didn’t insist on not going. Probably because he was guilty of causing Robert’s ball to end up here.
Why didn’t I say no? Marston thought, shaking his head in the process. This is a bad idea.
Marston flinched, hearing a growl nearby. He was sweating furiously now. Another growl nearby. What is it? Marston imagined the monsters. This is scary. He was seriously scared right now.
Marston shrugged off the thoughts and kept walking in the direction of the ball. After walking about 45 minutes, it became apparent to Marston that the ball was lost. There would be no more use searching for it. He might as well go back now.
Marston turned around and let out a gasp. Behind him, there were only plants. There was no path. He did not know which direction to take. He walked nonetheless but after ten minutes of excruciating walking, he realized he was lost in the forests of Chisolm’s Creek.
After completing first grade, summer became a time that Marston and Robert polished their love for soccer. They even called the game football, which was the proper name for the sport in its birthplace, England. In this summer, they began to dream of a bright future as soccer players. After watching the Barclays Premier League of England on the Internet, they took up the goal of being as good as those players. They took up a vow to enter the Major League Soccer, the professional league in America when they grew up.
To make a long story shorter, the two boys decided to meet up at Chisolm’s Creek in Wichita along with their families to play soccer. It was summer and the condition was perfect to play soccer. They played and played until they were astray from their families, who were chatting happily under a canopy roof.
Once upon a time, in a not too distant past, probably two or three years ago, there lived a boy named Marston. He had no last name, just Marston. His parents knew that when he grew up, he would do something for society. They knew Marston would be great. They gave him that name so that people who hear his name would instantly know it was him, not someone else, not some other Marston.
Little Marston lived in the state of Kansas, in a little city called Wichita. In Wichita, he had many friends and he was kind to the neighbors. He had been bred by his parents as a gentleman and even at a young age of six, he had been adored by many.
Dangerous Creek For Balls is a story that I had written a few days after I watched Fred: The Movie recently. In the movie, there was a scene where Fred played ball with a boy and the ball strayed into the woods. The boy chased the ball but then was never found again. Fred later meets the boy all grown up, living like an animal in the woods.
That is just one scene in the movie but as a writer, my mind was racing like piston in an engines. I knew that this can be a story. This can become something great. And after a few days of thinking, I knew how to write it. So I began writing and writing and before I knew it, I had a full story and material for my blog.
What you are about to read is a work that is written after this blog is created. Dangerous Creek For Balls is both a comedy, thriller and fantasy. I wrote this thinking that I need to integrate it with this blog and so, the story is short every chapter (originally I wrote parts but changed to chapters) and it is straightforward. There are also lots of dialogues to make reading easier.
I hope you send me your feedback and comments and thanks for reading this blog. Hope you enjoy reading Dangerous Creek For Balls.