story draft

1

Liam McPherson is a cannonball of a man, in his mid fifties. He is a man with a wife, Rue, that had prodcued a family. DUring their thirty two years together, their marriage has provided them with two sons and a daughter. This marriage has also produced, for them, a house on the hill and a prodigious income from rental properties and the Landscaping business.
Liam Mcpherson spends his afternoons dreaming of Scotland while his giant weathered hands work the metal hoe, the dirt shovel and spraying hose across his garden. He is a man that protects, he is a man with khaki pants and shirts with ties. Liam is a man with glasses and a recognizably fine moustache. This man, is not only the protector of Savanna McPherson (who just happens to be the love of the life of our hero William Bruce, more on this later) but also the villian of this story.
THis is a man, with his loving wife, atop the moutain working his garden who felt the cool breeze of encroaching danger before the rest. Yes, moustache or not he could sniff out the danger before the birds and/or squirrels took flight and this day, this 10th of December in the 2005th year of our Lord, Liam's moustache could not warm the trembling lip as the sapphire sky became blotted with one single white cloud.
When a man of true grit and character hears the steps of the Devil, on the wood floor of his heart, he naturally drops the work at hand to find a woman to yell at. This was the action Liam was compelled to take. He moved his squat powered body through the concrete steps up the concrete drive onto the light hardwood floor and descended, like an eagle, upon Savanna his daughter of 30 years.
'What are your plans?' said he.
Savanna she of fine auburn hair and emerald green eyes was delightfully scooping a lump of peanut butter past her perfectly preportioned, soft and plum colored lips when he appeared. The television, which had been espousing the philosophy of what you ought not wear with some vigor, now fell nervously silent.
'What do you mean?' said she.
He rubbed his deep set eyes causing the glasses to weave like a ship on troubled waters atop his bald head top. There was a slight scratching noise, that permeated the silence as the glasses arms slid across his perfectly kempt peppered sides of hair. He was as if a monk in civilian clothes, deep stomach from a life time of good meals stretched the fabric with the face of a concerened friend. As his eyes were closed and his lip trembeled from the cold the moustache stood at attention and the belly button kept its penetrating gaze on her waiting for some sign of whats to come.
'Do you have plans, today?' said he. As that single cloud slid slowly across the sun and its shade made the sign of a axe handle moustache or a gallow across the floor of this living room.
Savanna placed the spoon from her perfect mouth, out of her perfectly sized and manicured fingers atop the penaut butter jar. She could run the house on the solar power of her beauty. She was hour glassed in figure, athletic but not overly muscled, soft in the right places. Her smile had once won a spelling bee when there were just two left and the dictionary exhausted. She was a woman who prayed, she was a a woman who danced. She was a woman, kind and loving. She not was but is alive and staring at her father crumbling under the fear of whats to come.
With her peanut butter hand free she took her fathers weathered paw, rubbing half circles with her thumb. He ceased rubbing his temple and tried to battle the smile that crept from the warmth that filled his heart whenever his daughter was around.
Like most father's the relationship they have with their daughters is the closest example of how they would treat all woman if it weren't for the fear they could be abandoned or ridiculed. Like most father and daughter relations they are not just examples but proofs that God exists and loves with a mighty fury.
Savanna rubs his mitt and stares the tremble away from his lip, causing the moustache to fall from attention and the belly button eye to blink. She purses her lips then turns to a smile before saying the words that would forever crush the heart of all fatherkind.
'I don't have plans today, but tomorrow I am meeting a man for coffee...'
The rest fell on deaf ears as a blinding light seized the heart of Liam McPherson causing him not only to descend upon a nearby recliner but to be overtaken by the need for a nap. He did not faint! Just rested his eyes for a bit, and the warm rag that he found on his head, when his eyes were fully rested a few hours later, was only because of a recent chill that had been sent through the house and could have effected his constitution through the bare peak of his head.









2
The man that had caused our villian's eyes to rest was none other than William Bruce. Admire him!
He appears in the morning outstretched on a mattress bathed in morning's glory with his two dogs Walter and Stevens curled between legs and near face. Oh, these three of slow walks in the brisk air to stretch the legs and exhaust the digestive systems, lived in the center of the cities affluence district. They only observed the finest of foods and thus William's clothes were worn and stained by only the finest of sauces and weatherings.
Besides these grand two fellows, chihuahuas, that resided and kept him company, William was a man apart, a man alone, a man without qualities. For if it wasn't dependant or nailed down it had picked up and abandoned him during his seven year stretch with a great vacuum of a woman (but that is another story).
William Bruce of heroic athletic conquests of effervescent personality, unmatched popularity and the adoration of women everywhere had not aged gracefully. So that found seven years later, in a one bedroom apartment bathed in light, his pouch stomach and unshaven chin gave the appearance of a man cast away.
Our hero spent most days either delivering mail for the US Postal Servivce, our wandering to the pub for the one dollar happy hour beers. Our hero spent his days walking with his confidants Walter and Stevens through the tree lined streets, near his home, as each stared wantingly into the eyes of passing females. William would drink red wine and with their excited barkings he would recite long poems of woe and abandonment. He espoused, to them, that better days would be coming, and that they were living at 101 Rock Bottom Lane.
Walter and Stevens, hero's in their own right and of the same vein of L. Zepplin, would wag their tails and leap about towards the idea of better days. Of warm meals and two laps to lay upon. Secretly they whined at night during sleep the happy whines and leg kicks of the future that was almost in their grasp.
William slept and dreamt of Superman III and how one must fight oneself for balance. William dreamt of He-Man and the agony of Prince Adam, but the belief he maintained and courage enough to hold that sword aloft, saying, 'I have the power!'. At this William kicked his own leg, said his own whine of excitement, for one day he would hold that sword again, for one day he would alight the halls with the volume of his personality again, for one day his voice would tremor across the land reverberating through the meadows caves and valleys and they would know, WIlliam, once again had the power!
Admire them!