Chobie's First

The first installment for the story of Chobie.

Chobie sits on the front stoop of his parents log cabin. 
It's a bright day filled with sunshine and his entire being is serene, content.

He watches the aftermath of wind's winding influence on the tall grass.

He listens to the birds sing songs and watches the squirrels give each other chase.

He chews on a stem reminiscent of his own blue eyes.

A soft and vibrant white stem enriched with deep blues.

It tastes like sweet mother earth.
It's name is Amanita.

Serenity is now being paired with direction.
Intent and purpose linger close behind.
He is now a visionary.
He yawns and warm tears glide up and over his high cheek bones.

He begins to walk barefoot on the soft, dry grass.

He turns the corner and places his hand on a cross section of two logs.

The wood is rotting on the edges and resembles a dirt-like form.

He wipes the excess on his khaki shorts.

The brown changes the hue of his clothing.
He turns the second corner and begins to walk into a finely trimmed backyard.

The one he has labored for.

A weathered picnic table lays claim in the center.

A pile of wood littered with nails is piled on the northern edge.

Parallel to the house lies a trailhead.

He thinks about heading down the trail when a cloud passes under the sun.

Another yawn with warm tears and the scenery has differentiated.

The light has been taken. 
Absorbed high above his world.

Darker greens.  Colder wind.

The spine attempts to crawl out of the skin.

The cloud continues on unchanged.

Enter again: Sun.

It pours an endless, intense stream of vibrant energy.

Again, it has all changed.

The trees smile back.  The grass has risen.

A frog lays claim to the beginning of the trail. 

Green and moist and the size of a baseball.
He sits as still as his body allows.

Breathing.  In, out, in, out.

This frog garners significant meaning.

Chobie sees destiny...

 

The frog begins to hop down the trail and Chobie follows close by.

The cat-tails turn to oak and ash.

The light now filtered, strains to be heard.

Hop.  Hop.  Hop.  Hop.

A large maple winces with slow resolve.
Swaying left and right in the wind.

Hop.  Hop.  Hop.  Hop.

A gentle stream follows Chobie and the frog, parallel.

He begins to ponder all of the life beneath the current.

Is he just as ignorant to all that's above him, looking down?

A large burl seems to glare at Chobie as he passes by.

A product of stress.

Innocence is layered within the center rings of the tree.

Wisdom claims the outer.

It vibrates waves outward from it's core.

The white birch.  The narrow popple.
They all share the same omnipresence.

Ubiquitous nature rubs off on Chobie.

He glows, sharing the light.

Up ahead the trail begins to open.

 

Chobie and the frog stand on a beautiful landscape.

Smooth, dark green grass with a perfect texture and rhythm.

Great tone. 

A man-made pond in the middle, no bigger than his parents log cabin.

Suddenly, Chobie's eyes alarm him.

Kneeling on the other side of the water is some kind of monster.

A stitching of mammals.

Horse legs.  A human torso and arms and hands.  A goat head.

This disfigurement both confuses and frightens Chobie upon recognition.

Goatboy seems peaceful, yet determined.

He is drinking from the pond.

Is this all real?

He wears a necklace that dips in and out of the pond with each swallow.

It's comprised of a gold chain with a bright and electric purple emblem hanging below.

It looks incredibly expensive and one of a kind.

The emblem reads: Chosen.

The frog hops to the waters edge and dives in.

Out he swims towards a cluster of lily pads.

Chobie notices a large boulder to his left and takes time to sit and absorb his surroundings.

The sun is glorious in this setting. 

An epic take on nature.

As chobie reflects, the waterline lowers steadily in the pond.

Goatboy is now on all fours with his head lowered, steadily drinking.

His necklace leans against the underside of his chin.

Down goes the frog, inch by inch, lowering with his lily's.

Eventually, Goatboy is kneeling on the mud and muck left from the water's absence.

The frog is sittin on his lily pad which has become a rug beneath his feet.

The frog looks on, indifferent.

Goatboy stands with a glossy glaze upon his face.

His very bloodshot and lazy eyes gazing seemingly to nowhere.

Suddenly, Goatboy's ears rear back and his hair stands up.

He makes eye contact with a scattered Chobie.
Neither creature blinks in this minute long affair.

Goatboy's head is slightly tilted to the right, trying to piece together his reality.

Chobie is terrified.

 

Goatboy turns around and begins crawling on all fours up the embankment.

He wipes his hands on the soft grass and twists his head for only a second to see Chobie.

Then he turns back around and heads into the woods.
Thud.  Thud.  Thud.  Thud.

On he marches.

Chobie curiously begins to follow and the frog hops up the wet bank and follows as well.

The sky has taken an orange hue.

A hint that dusk lingers on the brink.

Chobie's bare feet endure as he tries to pick up pace beyond Goatboy.

It's of no use.  When Chobie speeds up, Goatboy does too.

When Chobie slows, Goatboy almost mockingly slows too.
Chobie notices that he now exists in the golden hour of daylight.

Gold air, gold leaves, gold sky.

Gold heart.

 

Chobie manages to reach Goatboy.

When he arrives at another opening, Goatboy has already begun digging a hole.

It is a spectacle.

He sends barrel fulls of dirt airborne with his bare hands.
Along with rocks ranging from golf ball size to larger than TV's.

Sweat beads off the white curly, frizzy mop on top of his goat head.

His hands quickly become filthy and bloody.
He is a savage.

Within minutes the hole is big enough to fit his parents log cabin inside of.

Goatboy stands and stares blank into the woodline.
If he was exhausted, you wouldn't know it.

Not a single muscle twitching.  Only bloodshot eyes, heading to nowhere.

Chobie, cautiously begins to walk around the hole to Goatboy.

With each step he tries to become quieter, so as not to wake him from his trance.

Chobie steps on a small twig and snaps it.
Chobie inhales a subtle breath and waits, but Goatboy remains perfectly still.

Now five feet away from Goatboy he can see features he never noticed from distance.

He wears a ragged dirty cloth with holes cut for his head and arms to slip through.

His legs are that of a malnourished horse.

Defined muscle, but in an underachieved form.

Cuts and scrapes line his shins.
He's filthy from goat head to horseshoe.

His eyes, still bloodshot, have become cloudy as well.

Chobie walks around Goatboy now standing behind him.

He notices a handle protruding out of the back of his neck.

It's silver and lined with rust.

Reasonably so, Chobie is compelled to compress the handle.

When he does, Goatboy violently bends over and heaves bountiful color into the hole.
Chobie releases his grip, but it's too late.

Nonstop flow pours out of Goatboy's mouth.

Red, purple, blue, orange, green.

On and on it pours, leaving no time for Goatboy to muster a single breath.

The handle still having been compressed then sounds a single, 'click'.
Goatboy's mouth remains open has the last few drops hug his lips and fall.

He drops to his back on the lush grass, lifeless.

It's over.

The hole is now filled to the brim with a colorful liquid.

The colors, bright and gleaming, never mix together, but remain cohesive in their independence.
Like oil and water.

They maintain a dance Chobie will never understand.

Chobie looks to his feet and sees Goatboy lying there.

Before he can make a decision on what to do, Goatboy's body transforms.

Each fiber of his being disentegrates into purple butterflies and they flutter away, aimless.

Goatboy's necklace lies face up in the grass.

It's beautiful with the sun's glimmer.

Chobie can't help but to retrieve it and place it around his own neck.
It vibrates just below his neck in a subtle comfort.

Shadows fall and he hears in the distance a great wind.

He looks up and sees the procreation of thousands of butterflies.

They are in perfect 'V' and swoop downward into Chobie's face.

They enter his mouth and eyes and nostrils and ears.

Chobie feels no pain, only discomfort.

His legs grow brown with coarse hair.
His head becomes white with curly frizz and bloodshot eyes.

His mouth dries with an unquenchable thirst and he kneels and begins to drink.

An unknown determination rigors his soul.

The frog hops out of the shadows and dives into the pond as a lily pad surfaces seemingly out of nowhere.

Author's Note

I marked it as a screenplay, but it's like a screenplay/poem/short story hybrid. The fragments sentences are all intentional. I've been trying to create a more original style of writing for myself, even if hit brushes against the grain of traditional form.