The Garage Sale. The Horror.

I have been sitting here, listening to music being played at the garage sale I was conned in to helping at with a friend, thinking of the days come and the days gone. Which day might I choose to be the epic, very first post for this? A day, much like every other day, from my recent time at college (now gone, thank you, graduation)? Perhaps a day more like right now, where it’s nearly 80 outside, my friend is walking her half-wolf, and I’m sitting in a camping chair that barely comes up past my ankle would work better if I wrote about the fleet of ninjas that attacked just moments ago. (Are ninjas a fleet? Maybe they are a herd… yes. A herd of ninjas)

I need something that is the epitome of a day where I can truly say to whoever that asked me “Nothing happened.” Parents ask their kids all the time, and they always answer that they learned nothing, saw nothing, heard nothing, said nothing. Do kids live a life of mutes when they are in school? (I just Google’d what you call a group of ninjas, and the best answer I have seen is a hedge of ninja. “We are a hedge. Please move along.” Indeed, mystery poster. Indeed.) Back to children. I distinctly remember saying that nothing ever happened when I was younger, which was a LIE because kids lives will always be more damn entertaining than the lives of adults with mortgages and bank statements.

Wake up. Work. Go home. Write whatever it is that I’m thinking of. Go to bed. Is this a fun life?

IT CAN BE.

This is what shall come of this blog.

Garage sales are, in general, boring. You sit in the sun (luckily there is sun as here, in this state, it rains all the time and everyone likes to make fun of it), you sell things that you never want to see again to people that will, in time, also be selling it at their garage sale after they realize how useless it is, and you whine about the boredom. But this was no ordinary garage sale. This had war torn horses laying in agony. There were letters that wanted to be hooked on you. There were bees trying to steal the children, picking them off one by one. Small, furry animals, helpless in their state, were being abandoned in boxes, staring out at passers-by. There were torture devices. And, the evil of it all, the guard dog.

As I came across the iron board, with horses lying on their sides after a long run and a hard fight, I noticed one that had seen some better times. It was white and brown, spotted, with his mane flowing behind him. It had the usual tangles as every wild horse would. I saw the rear leg but it was cut off just below the knee. Clearly, this was a horse that had been in battle, but hadn’t come out unscathed. The brothers and sisters surrounding him were simply tired; this one was dying. A bandage flapped loosely, where the blood had been staunched, but it was still in pain.

Reeling back in horror, I turned and saw crate after crate of small animals, all crying out for attention and care. Each wanted to be bought, taken from their terror. No one wanted them.

Some were even being attacked by the garage sale terrorists that hid in the bushes under the guise of trash bags and camouflage shirts. They were vicious. Toys were eating other toys.

I thought some were safe, some looked a little friendly, but they were just murderers in disguise, just as the rest were. My friend and I were not safe in our own garage sale! The more I looked around, the more I realized that we were trapped. There would be no escape.

We had to get out of there. As we ran down the driveway, screaming and crying, the equipment attacked. What looked like work out equipment was really the final trap. It jumped up, and my friend and I were both taken hostage.

As I am posting this now, the garage sale terrorists are yelling things at me. Things I don’t understand. “Low prices.” “Cheap clothes.” “Books for sale.” The guard dogs are watching us in our jail. I’m not sure what any of it means anymore. I need to be saved from this horror.

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B.K.