Canned Lightning
“I don’t like horses,” said Kate’s father, Ian. “They’re a big mess to clean up after, and the grooming and upkeep are something I’m not prepared to be burdened with.” He gulped his coffee from his cup making slurping sounds of frustration.
“But Dad, Uncle Ken left us his horse in his will. We can’t let it die or something.”
Die — now there was an option worth considering. How would he go about getting rid of this unwanted mouth to feed? The family lived on ten acres. There was a paddock out back of their house, big enough to accommodate the beast. Once his daughter got something into her head she would wrestle with all the options. But he was adamant — the horse must go.
“We’re not going on a long-winded analytical excursion here,” he said, with a stubbornness his daughter knew only too well was like liquidising hardened cement.
Kate cried heavily into her pillow that night. She had immediately fallen in love with Lightning. She didn’t care that he was twenty-six years old and had lost his flash.
How could her father be so mean?
One day Kate’s father took the horse deep into the woods and let him loose. He raced home only to find Lightning standing on the front porch with his daughter gently stroking his mane.
Another time he gave the horse to the vicar. At two in the morning the front door of the house was kicked in. The horse had run back home to Kate.
That was Lightning’s last straw. The following morning the father sold the horse to Packington’s Dog Food Company for a hundred dollars.
That night the family ate through dinner in stony silence. His daughter’s head hung down almost touching the bowl of stew in front of her. She wasn’t eating.
Her mother toyed with the green peas, carrots, and bits of meat smothered in rich brown gravy.
After finishing his stew the father wiped his plate clean with a piece of bread and butter. He washed this down with a large gulp of red wine. When he had considered that the silence had gone on long enough he commented on the meal.
“That was the best stew I’ve eaten in years, dear,” he said to his wife, while wiping his lips with a napkin. “You’ve excelled yourself this time.”
“Oh, I didn’t cook the meal. Your daughter did the cooking. She wanted to surprise you.”
“Well what a surprise,” he said cheerfully. “You’ll have to cook stew more often.”
The girl raised her head smiling wryly.
“We’ll have it more often all right. I bought a hundred dollars worth.” The girl rose. Going to the pantry she opened the door revealing the cans of Yum-chow from Packington’s Dog Food Company.
“Good-god girl!” he said, grasping his throat in horror, “you’ve fed me dog food.”
“No Dad, not dog food,” she said mischievously, “that’s canned Lightning.”
[Don Cronk initiated and runs the Billabong Valley web site, dedicated to encouraging children to read, at www.billabongvalley.com.]
I’m sure most of us have seen the old American western ‘Gunsmoke’. You know the one with James Arness as Matt Dillon. I was watching the program one day and the scene was an Indian and a Cowboy wrestling in the back of a covered wagon. From out of nowhere Matt Dillon rides up, draws his gun, and shoots dead the Indian.
After a moment’s thought I wondered how Matt knew who to shoot. I mean the wagon could have belonged to the Indian and the Cowboy was fixing to steal it.
The story line overlooked the cold-blooded murder of another human being and Matt just rode off after checking to see that the Cowboy had recovered from the ordeal.
Now being a writer I thought I’d add my own dialogue to the scene…
Somewhere along the dusty trail stands a covered wagon with two horses hitched to it. In the back of the wagon is an Indian and a Cowboy wrestling, with the Cowboy having a gun in his hand and the Indian with a knife in his hand.
Matt Dillon suddenly comes on the scene. He whips his horse nearly senseless as he races towards the pair fighting in the wagon. He draws his gun and shoots the Indian dead. He reholsters his gun and says to the Cowboy. “You all right there mister?”
“I am now Marshall. Thanks for shooting that Indian for me.”
“My pleasure,” replies the Marshall, beaming full of pride at his gallant effort. Suddenly
the Marshall sees an Indian woman coming up from under a blanket in the back of the wagon. She has a knife in hand so the Marshall draws his gun and shoots her dead as well.
“It seems this place is crawling with Indians today,” says the Marshall, reholstering his hot gun. “You take your wagon and head straight for the safety of the fort.”
“Oh it’s not my wagon,” said the Cowboy.
“What do you mean it’s not your wagon?” asks Matt, sitting high in his saddle.
“The wagon belonged to the Indian and his wife. I offered to buy it from him for a dollar but he wouldn’t listen to reason.”
“You’re pulling my leg now aren’t you, Mister?”
“It doesn’t matter about those Indians, Marshall. If they hadn’t died in this movie they most surely would have been scalped in some other one.”
With that Matt pulls out his gun and shoots dead the Cowboy…
“I hate ‘B’-grade Westerns,” says the Marshall as he rides off to shoot more Indians.