A Stone’s Throw Away

This is one of the first stories I ever wrote. It was interesting to go back through the stuff I have written and pick a story to use as my first piece. I kind of feel like Dr. John Dorian when he asked Dr. Perry Cox concerning his screenplay for 'Dr. Acula': "What did you think of the Transylvania dream sequence because I wrote that part when I was on call and I looked at it the next morning and I was like 'What was I thinking?!'" Honestly, I don't know what I'm thinking when I come up with my story ideas. I think I take conventions and then think 'How can I flip this on it's head?' In fact, I'm fairly certain that is how I live my life in general. You know what? This blog has already helped me get in touch with the inner me! So whether anybody else reads this, I could care less! I have peace of mind! Anyway, without further ado, my first story post...

-Wes

A Stone’s Throw Away

The warm breeze that gently blows through the air rustles the weeds and shrubs as well as the flag positioned on a post along the fence in the dry desert heat. Layers of red and white which once were rigid lines now find themselves quivering unevenly as they flail helplessly about. The suns rays are beating down on the earth like a brawler’s defiant gaze, daring anybody who is willing or stupid enough to stare back. The hot beams emanating from the sky pierce everybody and everything around me, and I am no different. Every so often, the sun’s blinding light gleams off of the barbed wire that runs atop the fence which extends for miles across this place, sending split second flares into the sky. Every so often, the scorpions will prepare for battle on the cracked ground. They circle each other like two prize fighters sizing their opponent up, determining the best method of attack. Their stingers are raised in the air like a poisonous harpoon patiently awaiting a fierce blow to its foe. A gopher will poke his head out of his hole periodically, observing the wasteland that surrounds him before he retreats back into his hole. I cannot tell you how long I have been here, but I can tell you I have witnessed many more things than these in my time here.

I have seen men, men who were just looking for opportunity, often times with only the clothes on their back, try to get over this fence. Some of them made it over, quietly slipping over the hills and out of sight as quickly as they appeared. Others, however, were not so fortunate. I have seen horrific acts, acts I shudder to think of now, transgressed upon those unfortunate souls who were discovered attempting to enter “the land of the free.” On this particular day, I watch as a family approaches the fence, the parents looking around nervously like a child sneaking into the kitchen to steal cookies from the cookie jar. There are five of them in total; a father, a mother, an uncle or some sort of relative, and two children. The father is constantly checking to make sure everybody is together and seems extremely alert. The mother is compulsively attempting to keep her children with her, her eyes daring around continually seeking them out. The uncle, a skinny man with a wispy mustache, seems the calmest out of all the adults. He has an air of indifference about him, although he is visibly wary, as if he is still conscious of what the consequences would be if they were caught.

The children, small, dark, and playful, are engaged in a game of tag which their mother is frantically attempting to stifle; nervous their youthful laughs will draw unwanted attention. They slowly approach the fence, the father reluctantly advancing toward it, searching for any sign of trouble. He looks through the fence, his eyes a combination of fear and hopefulness. When he sees that the coast is clear, he motions for his family to join him as he quickly removes his coat. He throws it over the barbed wire that lines the top of the fence and signals to the uncle to climb over. After he is safely on the other side, the mother goes next. As she gets over the fence, a siren becomes barely audible from somewhere in the distance. Screaming, the mother tries to climb back over but is pulled down by the uncle. The father hurriedly helps the children over the fence as the sound of the siren grows louder. They begin to cry as they are grabbed by the mother and uncle and take off toward the hills. The father throws himself over the fence and by the time he reaches the other side, the rest of his family is disappearing over a group of hills into the great state of California. A U.S border patrol car comes into view as the father watches his family slip out of sight. Over the hill, the wife tries to break back for her husband but is detained by the uncle as they keep moving. I turn my attention back to the husband as he takes off in the opposite direction of his family as the truck approaches him, running with all his might. He is quickly overtaken by the border patrol as is tackled to the ground. As they place the handcuffs on him, he seems nervous yet relieved that his family made it safely.

Another family torn apart by this fence; a fence that tantalizes thousands with its promise of opportunity only feet away. As the border patrol car drives by, I meet the fathers gaze as he is hauled away. He doesn’t notice me of course, for I am merely a rock. A rock on the border, which is seemingly never dull. A scorpion skitters past me, it’s tail raised high in the air.