Beargrass: Rituals of the Day. Vespers of the Night.

I wanted to do an ‘after-hours’ thing. Like, what do the elite Beargrass Red Bus Drivers do when they are not risking life and limb to protect and take tourists safely across the Going to the Sun Road in an irreplaceable million-dollar vehicle day after day?

But alas, my source material has failed me. Thank all of you in my seasonal second life for nothing! As always, I will work with what I have. I call it…. my imagination. And it can be glorious!

I should use what Ernest Hemingway called his Iceberg Theory. It’s too bad that I am more of a Steinbeck fan (don’t start me on Rose of Sharon page 313). And that’s why I don’t drink milk. Now, storytime with heavy embellishment!

All drivers are to be tested at the beginning of every season with feats of endurance. Move a mountain, but only one thimble-full at a time. Patience, dear Grasshopper. And trust in the Mastery of Monotony.

They know not if they dig to remove, or dig to build. Are they creating a secret, or are they hiding one? Be thy a Red Bus Driver first year or a veteran, the chore is the same. The results are unspoken.

When it’s finished, all is as it was. A slate wiped clean. Tons of rock are no longer there. And yet, they are everywhere. Have the worthy been selected? Or have none of them succeeded in the first of the many trials to come? The clouds grow heavy with their unshed tears.

A forthcoming contest will show the initiates’ true colors (like a rainbow for Cyndi Lauper fans). Only the pure spirit and true of commitment will be sustained. Few will pass the Promenade to Promise, yet all will endure (some with sparkles).

An ancient heater located in the shared kitchen and relaxation commons appears to have been unused for generations. But alas, it is not there by random chance. There are spices, a black case, a wood triangle, and many empty cans of satisfaction. Such a baleful omen there has never been! What die been cast?

Much as some cultures read tea leaves or roll chance made from lamb knuckles, we must honor the Temple’s Altar of the Beargrass Heater of Atonement. It has absorbed more knowledge than the Library of Alexandria from over two millennia ago.

Nearby, a cabin has left tribute and gifts to fulfill the beast’s thirst, which must be quenched before the rising of the morning sun. One must supplicate the shadow of the night to be allowed to cast the shadow of the day.

What creature would be placated by such Ambrosia and Plastic Fowl? What hellish incarnate lurks in the day-darkness at Beargrass? Is it the name that dares not be spoken? Shall there be a ring to unite all? Or a wedge that divides asunder?

Alas, the highest priestess of Salem’s Lot steps out of the edge of Night’s Event Horizon, drawn by her insatiable need to feed. No name, no shame, but the beast must feast! Some say Banshee? Others Succubus? Ah, is there worse?

But the Cimera calls are like the Sirens that drove Odysseus ashore. No traveler who navigates too close to Beargrass is safe. Walk away from her voice and her light! Lest ye be destined to the Ninth Ring of Dante’s Inferno!

Some were wise and safely locked themselves within the timbered walls before it was too late! The spirit of the night flees the magical sounds of the six strings! The robe of the Wife Beater Master shields the mind and soul stronger than Harry Potter’s Invisibly Cloak!

This creature’s hunger cannot satisfied, no matter how many helpless souls she consumes. Ye have been warned. Here are the real dragons at the map’s edge! Run away! Terra incognita be the blessed and unknown yet safe lands! Take sail and flee, brave Pilgrim, and find a new continent!

Hold thy Tablet High, and do not kneel. She is a Specter of the Night and sister of the Black Canary; none have ever escaped her talons. Bare your back and be prepared to pass over the Eternal River to the Underworld! Your stone slab is your soul, your life, your world. Do not drop!

And yet the tribe must feast as family, for that is what they are in the light of both sun and moon. Bones are cast. Elixirs are served. Cards of chance are dealt. The happenstance (and the fatalities) of the night are forgotten and lost to the dreams of dawn.

Yet some think they can hedge their bets before the next lottery. Long hair? Hats? Shield of Salvation on the forehead? Ah, a child’s confidence is a witch’s delight!

At the end of the trials, all are secure inside the Haven. With the sacrifices made, there is safety until the next cycle. Yet are they really safe? Or are they just not afraid? Averting eyes and breathing softly because they do not trust the strength of their magic to protect them?

Fortune favors the bold. And the Elite of the Clan are bold on this night of the Mid-Summer Moon. They refuse the refuge and safety of the timbered walls. They trust not only each other but the power of the god-like nourishment known as ‘donuts.’ Only time will tell if they have chosen wisely before the next Tribulation Trial.

Yep. And that’s what you get when I have random pictures and no storyline.

But in the end, with every day we live, it boils down to just working with what you have. No excuses. No shame. Let life be your storyline, and tell it your way.

GoatBoy is out … only because … well … I had a little help from …. all of you. 🙂