I took a literal hike along the low-saline soil over yonder, not far from the precipice. I bore witness the Roman-nosed rock face. A roadrunner flashed between the Manzanita trees. Coyote failed to emerge. My cerebral narrative loom began to weave…
What if Roadrunner had a kid? A son, one Coyote never knew existed.
Montages of Kid Roadrunner in training, Dad Roadrunner analogous to Texas Pop Warner football coaches:
“Dammit son! Your ‘Beep Beep’ is way off pitch!”
“Spin your legs, don’t rotate ‘em!”
“Evade! Evade! Evade!”
Furthermore, montages of warm memories when Dad Roadrunner dropped the tough guy act:
“Holy bearded dragon! There’s poop all over your beak! ‘Over here you little stinker.”
“Whoa! Keep the door locked son, that’s all I ask! I’ll even remove parental controls on the cable box for ya, just keep this door locked!”
“Geez Kid, you gotta remember I attended UC Santa Cruz for undergrad. You really think the ‘dead skunk’ excuse gonna work on me? Now hand it over so I can flush it.” [Keeps it for himself]
Mom Roadrunner tragically died in a dirt road crossing long ago when Kid Roadrunner was known as Toddler Roadrunner. She zigged when zagging would have dodged the prickly pear red Jeep Cherokee that took her life. Needless to say, this heartbreak accelerated the paternal bond of the Californian earth-cuckoo.
Like all sons, Kid Roadrunner exceeded his father’s skills. In his father’s film sessions (of which there were many) he’d secretly watch Coyote: the bombs, the snares, ye ol’ boulder-down-a-mountain. Evasion had been Dad’s M.O. but not the Kid’s; aggression had festered within ever since his mother’s passing.
One day Coyote got the jump on the old man, every dog has his.
Coyote’s dusty China finally went to work and let me tell you, Roadrunner tasted delicious. Children love toys because it takes forever to open the packaging.
Kid Roadrunner awaited his return in their cactal dwelling all night, all morning, all alone.
His time had come. Too early? Most likely but nonetheless, the time to become a hero has never been a convenient one.
Kid Roadrunner put on some pounds, doubled his rattlesnake intake for six days then he crafted snares, planted charges and designated a kill zone.
The day arrived, the Looney Tunes’ Orchestra amped it up O Fortuna-esque.
Coyote aimlessly meandered down the run like cattle to slaughter. Trapped in a snare, exploding boulders perished Coyote.
47 Ronin could not have done it better
Kid Roadrunner let out a sigh, not of relief, but of dissatisfaction. More, he desired more cathartic revenge.
Then suddenly, like a desert sandstorm formed from nothingness, the adrenaline-fueled Kid excavated the glitteriest of gold nuggets in a moment of miraculous memory recall…
Jeep Cherokee CA license plate # 4TYB345
Prewitt Scott-Jackson’s work is a mutation of sorts, a tripartition of poetry, prose and flash fiction. The University of California Santa Barbara alum grew up on Southern storytelling prior to achieving degrees in Native American Studies and Religious Studies. He prefers short walks on the beach because – and I quote – “It’s really hard to walk on sand.”