PROOF OF A LEGEND

*Just a goof on the final round asignment for NYCMIDNIGHT 2009 short story competition. Assignment:
Genre; Sci Fi
Subject; Neighbors

PROOF OF A LEGEND

It is said, that the stuff legends are made of often come from true circumstance. Those things passed down through time in stories and song, while too far in the past for those living to remember, were at one time undoubtedly, or at any rate, most likely, real. Their truth stands the test of time. That is why their stories live on through the ages.
Like Jesus.

My little brother Alan, and I used to argue about the possibility of the existence of one such creature, all the way back in the fifties.

“Nothing is that color” he’d state simply.

“Some things are,” I’d counter

“Not living things” he’d argue

“What are you talking about, look right there!” I’d say, pointing.

“Well, ok, those…”

“AND other stuff…” I would never give up.

“But what about the way he looks…,” Alan was as stubborn as I.

“You mean ‘sees’?”

“Ok, ‘SEES’ What’s the difference?”

“BIG difference!”

“Forget it, tell me if you ever see one, I’ve got better things to do than look for fairytales!” and off he‘d stomp.

Over the years we’d revive the ancient song in which we first learned of the legendary creature time and time again. We’d laugh and sing with glee, imagining it‘s impossible countenance, singing louder and louder, as if the higher the volume, the more concrete the idea. For a time, the song even found it's way to the radio, most likely revived from earlier folksongs and lore.

We’d tease each other about finding it around dark corners, we tormented our little sister Diane, with stories of the freakish thing blinking at her in the dead of night. We'd describe it's lurking behind her closet door, watching, waiting, it’s skin blending chameleon-like with the lavender dress which was her Sunday best. We were merciless, often making her cry herself to sleep, terrified that it would escape the darkness of it's prison, fly out her bedroom window, then head stright back in, aiming directly for her at warp speed, ready to do it's monstrous things. And then, there was also the horn. Potentially, it could kill you.

Years went by, and the legend was no longer bandied about publicly, but in our brood, it was never really forgotten. After all, it had garnered a song. It must have been real at one time at least, probably very very long ago.
Like Jesus.

Our fears diminished a bit, as we began to dream of grown-up things, but still, before we all reached entirely into adulthood, at the back of all of our minds, the question of it's existence still lingered. If it was in fact real, where would it hide? We emptied the closet one lazy summer afternoon, and finding no one but Barbie and Scooter inside the hot pink dream house, we decided to hunt further.

Outside, Alan and I sent Diane on ahead… she would be the scout. If it ate her first, we still had a chance to run. We carried sticks, lagging behind to defend ourselves from whatever our bait should ferret out. We crept through the small forest of trees on the edge of our property, looked under logs, inside the dog-house, behind the chicken coop. We spent most of the morning searching and calling out to no avail. No sign of the infamous beast.

We then moved to the garage, an enormous structure with plenty of nooks and crannies for monsters to hide in. After an hour peeking into, under, and around cars, trunks, boxes, and bicycles, we tired of our search and ransacked the garage pantry where we found four large jars of grape Jelly. Alan ran to the house for bread and a spoon, and we three settled in crosslegged on the cold cement floor for a snack.

It took a minute to wrench off the top of the first jar, but before I could plunge the spoon into it, like a grapejuice-dipped bat, out of the wriggling depths flew a creature so horrifying, we three screamed in unison and fell flat backwards all at once! The creature climbed on the wind, then turned suddenly in the air, hovering there, training one huge eyeball directly on us. “That's the jelly Joanie's mom made!" I gasped, referring to our next door neighbors, as I cowered at the tip of a long tapered horn, awaiting impalement.

"You should have left the top on." understated Alan. “Now we know where he’s been hiding since nineteen fifty eight.”

The creature turned to stare directly at Alan and Alan stared back. He was not a kid easily intimidated. The creature stared harder. Alan raised one kid-sized finger, drew back and poked, hitting him square in the eye. The creature blinked in disbelief and burped loudly, a tear beginning to form at the corner of the injured eye. I stared at his pigeon toes as he aimed his foot-long horn directly at Alan.

“Tequila!” he spat back with a squawk, and opened his huge gaping mouth as if to swallow him whole.

“But he’s not purple!” I screamed.

"I wonder where Hilda got this recipe?" Alan wondered aloud. The creature lowered his horn as if ready to ram.

Diane, in fear for her big brother’s life, jumped up suddenly and began to snap her fingers and swing her hips in time to a primeval rhythm that seemed to echo down through the ages. Moving in time to a syncopated beat, she burst into song with a voice so pure and clear, it almost invited the angels in heaven to sing along. Loudly the ancient lyrics burst from her lips, “Sing a’ boop boop aboopa lopa lum bam boom!!!”

“We wear short shorts!” squeaked the creature in response, and began to sway.

For almost a week, the Purple People Eater followed Diane like Mary’s little lamb followed Mary. When either Alan or I tried to steal his attention, Diane fed him more jelly to assure his allegiance. They sang together in sweet harmony. They rocked the night away (right up till bedtime). It was a union born of shared passion. A match born to be wild, that is, until one night, when the creature suddenly lifted off into the inky night sky, seemingly lured by the sound of a far-off snare drum, never to return... the word “Tequila” wafting gently behind him in the breeze.

Still, sometimes, when the wind is just right…the three of us imagine we can still hear him... playing rock n’ roll through that horn in his head…

He was a one-eyed one horned flyin’ Purple People Eater, pigeon-toed, undergrowed, flyin’ Purple People Eater, he loved short shorts, friendly little people eater, sure looked strange to- anyone who ever looked at him.

So if you see a thing coming out of the sky, with one big horn and one big eye, start to snap your fingers and a’ rockin’ the land, and give the thing a job in your rock n’ roll band. ...Especially if you are purple. It could just save your life!

Or you could just feed him jelly. ...Or tequila.

Needless to say, our long standing argument has been put to rest, and we three, (four if you count baby John, who was often purple, being most days covered in grape jelly,(although he barely remembers being licked clean by the creature in question) are now certain that all songs and stories that make their way down through the ages, having stood the test of time, must certainly be fully based on fact.
Like Jesus.

We are now hunting the Elusive Butterfly. Diane says it's most certainly real, and she will find it one day.

I don't doubt that at all. She being the one with all the moves. And after all, it also has a song passed down through antiquity.
Just like Jesus.




-© by taree Belardes 3/17/2009