| huit - choisissez votre propre aventure |
[Apr. 15th, 2009|12:15 am] |
Here are the rules. You'll figure everything out as you go. The links at the bottom of the entry are going to take you out of my journal and into another one. Have no fear. It's supposed to do that. Enjoy yourself. Do it as many times as you want (that's what she said). If you feel the need to comment, comment the last post (you'll know when you get there). Take me with a grain of salt, most of my friends do anyway.
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His life starts out like many do. A small house, a set of parents, an older and younger sibling, and a six year old cow as a best friend. Her name was Chessie, and she loved grass. At least that's what he suspected since it was all she ate. It was all she seemed to do in fact, eat grass. That and stare at him when he stood right in front of her face. Well, that's not entirely accurate. Some times she liked to lie down in the field and stare at him when he sat in front of her face.
He used to climb under the fence to see her, his tiny five year old self ducking under the slats, knees pushing into the grass or the snow or the mud, soaking the knees of his pants in brown, green, and deep blue denim. And no one ever knew. He always escaped the house when it was time for Backgammon, his brother disappearing as well into the barn while he slid out into the fields. His aunt's farm had always been a bit of a spectacle, there was fanfare when they'd try to leave. There was fanfare when they'd leave anywhere really, his tiny sister crying whenever their mother so much as inched towards the diaper bag.
Chessie's eartag number was 37, some thing he still remembers to this day, as there would have been no way for him to find her had he not memorized her number. There were too many cows for a five year old to be able to memorize spots, no matter how much he actually tried to do so every time he sat in the field. He'd stare at her in the eyes and try and internalize the way the spot on the left side of her face dipped down to her nose and came back up. The tiny brush stroke of gray on the top of her ear.
By the time he turned six, he was still looking at eartags as he picked through the grass, though the knees of his pants were no longer green or brown or dark blue, because he took greater care of his clothes now. His mother had insisted in fact that he do such. Who knew who would see him, out there in the cow fields, while his dad smoked cigarettes and his mom played Backgammon with his aunt and his brother disappeared not to the barn, but the girl next door's.
Chessie was seven and he was six when his mother handed him a choice. Stay on the farm or embrace a week of space camp. Space camp. A boy's dream. Chessie. His best friend.
To send Elijah to Space Camp, go here. To keep Elijah on the farm, go here. |
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| another one of those secret santa posts... |
[Dec. 2nd, 2008|08:30 pm] |
| [ | Current Music |
| | i'm just glad to have my icons back, really | ] |
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![[info]](http://www.insanejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif) priceline |
[Mar. 25th, 2008|03:48 pm] |
for the next few weeks i am only concerned with what is pure and beautiful.
( awards ) |
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