Resplendent Bagginess Part 2

The gripping finale to part 1.  Really though, from now on I think if I just have a normal fiction/literature story and not something with a twist or suspense I will just put it all in one blog post.  Without suspense, the order of blog posts doesn't make sense.

So here is the entire story instead of just the second part.  I'm learning here, folks :)

A brown Silverado, dented but not rusted, pulls into the parking lot of Safeway.   It's an early morning, and cold too; the short dirty skirt of mudcicles on the running boards won't be coming off any time soon.   

The Silverado arcs to the spot farthest from the Safeway entrance, rocks once, and three baggy piles of hand-me-downs rustle out.   They each lose and then find their footing on the dirty ice and begin a trek of ordered chaos:  The largest, a brown duffel-bag finds it easiest, and stretches out in front of the other two.  The second, a rumpled backpack, struggles but makes his boots work like blocky skates somehow.   The third, the smallest - not much more than a satchel of funny-looks from head to toe falls and falls again.  By the time satchel meets duffel and backpack he has become the dingiest, and everyone is huffing steam from various indignities.

The whole experience of a grocery store sends the bags into another cacophonic symphony:   They split off as soon as the doors slide open to the ocean of warm smells within.  Backpack cruises down the bread aisle to the bakery.  His head reels from the fresh scents of baking and frosting.  Duffel sets out for the pharmacy, inhaling the medicine and bandage aisle as the chemistry and coats wait for him ahead.   Satchel slinks off toward the toys, which are shelved in a small nook next to magazines and cheap books. 

Satchel looks at the toys for a long, long time.   He runs his mind over the textures without touching or opening anything.  He shifts from foot to foot, knocking off caked dirt around them in boot outlines.  he wipes his runny nose with the back of his ratty leather glove and stares at the G.I. Joes.   The leather smell increases as he takes the gloves off and stuffs them in too-small pockets.   Sense-memories of grand dreams float through Satchel's mind, and his eyes glaze.  They are clear amber eyes, and he reaches out with fine piano-player hands to the Joe with the most gear.  This one is head-to-toe a ninja, sporting enough bandoleers, pouches, and extra weapons to be functionally immobile.

There is a brief flight inside Satchel's mind, where he imagines that he becomes Joe, and flip-kicks his way out through the roof, bounding tree-to-tree  to the river, where a speedboat waits, bobbing in water the same color as the Silverado.   He remembers where he is and pulls back from touching the plastic view-box of the package.  Duffel whisks by, trailing the pharmacy-odor with him and proclaiming "not today."  Satchel's heart does a told-you-so bounce off the floor.

"But how does sledding sound?"

Satchel slips his gloves on and grins.

Out above the town, fifteen miles north on a plateau with nothing but farms and fields, there is deep powder.  It is the straw and nothing patchwork where horizons are the exact curvature of the earth.  Backpack and Satchel take turns on a steerable ski-sled towed behind the Silverado.  Duffel fishtails around roads and empty fields.  The powder blows up and back behind them like a powerboat's wake.

Falling out of the sled is like falling through a cloud.  Satchel gets whipped off a drift and flies through the air before jetting through the snow.  He feels safe and warm, even when thrown through snow doing thirty plus, even in winter gear that wicks up water like wearing paper towels.

POST REMAINDER REMOVED, PLEASE LEAVE A COMMENT IF YOU WOULD LIKE AN ELECTRONIC COPY OF THIS STORY.  THANKS! -A

Thanks for Reading