The Theft of Arlo Muddleton

by C. M. Amidon

A chill air descended on the late August evening. It was an unusual chill, thirty degrees below average; frost hung in the air. The wind whistled though the prairie grass. If not for the time of year, it would have been positively pleasant. The stars flashed in full forth; the Milk Way curved across the sky. Most nights like this I usually could see a meteor or two, but no such luck yet.

I sat on my wrap-around-porch, reclining in my favorite wicker chair, thumbing through a Montana Living magazine, once again bitterly disappointed about the abundant western mountain coverage and the unsympathetic scuttling of all things eastern. I put the magazine down and retrieved my pen and notebook hoping for a moment of inspiration before bed; that's usually when I get most of my good stuff out. For twenty minutes, I scribbled notes and sentences and grammatically gruesome statements until I was writing so fast my hand cramped and I had to stop. I swallowed my last swig of tea--and yes, I know how unfitting tea is for a good ole Montana boy, but coffee always makes my joints throb, and ever since I was little, it's been tea or nothing--and rose to retire for the evening. Suddenly, I swore the stars dimmed, the wind let loose, and a low bass drum vibration rumbled up the gravel road.

Shivering uncontrollably from the shock of icy wind, I nearly dropped my empty cup, yet, with hands shaking, I somehow stowed it safely on the chair. The horizon began to glow a faint orange, in the form of a figure, like a parrot perched on its edge. I leaned over the porch railing, squinting, and eventually I leaned too far and slipped. It was a good thing Minnie was already asleep or she'd have thought me drunker than a bottle of whiskey.

The orange glow intensified.

Upright again, wobbling on unsteady legs, there, just coming over the horizon, was the orange glow. It took form, and it stole my breath.

A red knight sat atop a black horse. Flames flickered from the horse's nostrils, exploded with every horse's step, flapped behind the knight's cape. The knight was heavily armored in curved, polished blackmail with a swirling tinge of red as if veins crisscrossed the metal. Embers of fire swirled in his mail. Worst of all, his fire dart eyes held my rapt attention; I could not look away.

Worse yet, I had seen this red knight before, many times before, and he scared me even worse every subsequent meeting.

"You can't have it!" I shouted.

The red knight emitted a breath of flame.

"I won't let you!"

Flame sword raised, he charged.

I tore my gaze from his and it felt like my eyes were ripping from my sockets. I turned. I yanked on the screen door like it was a rusted gate and stumbled backwards as the door did not budge.

The red knight was half way up the drive.

I glanced around wildly, looking, thinking, rushing to find somewhere to fend of the beast. Only seconds into the confrontation and already I felt hope seeping out my ears, sapped by the August chill.

My mind landed on the garage. Maybe there was something of use in there--shears, shovels, brooms, jumper cables, acetylene torch, riding lawn mower. I had no plan, but I had to move.

I ran.

After a dozen steps, a wall of wind caught me by my chin and flattened me to my back. I lay on the ground, staring at the starry sky, unable to move or twitch or anything.

It was only a matter of time. My bones were like barite, heavy and useless, pinned by gravity. The stars vanished one by one, engulfed by the fiery redness proceeding this way. The red knight slowed his pace, a slow steady plodding, now assured of simple and swift victory.

I never saw him. Never. All I saw was the flame sword, bright and orange and outstretched.

It came down, slicing the night in half.

Consciousness fled.

#

When I regained awareness later, it was but a few seconds later--I glanced at my watch--I knew what had happened, but did not want to admit it. Trying to stand was like the day after playing football for eight hours. Every joint creaked, every muscle complained, and my vision would not focused. In this crippled state, I made my way back to the porch and slumped into the wicker chair. Minnie was going to slap me silly for letting this happen again. She did not approve of this, not at all. She had told me to stand up for myself, and once again I had failed.

With a wrinkled forehead and acid in my stomach, I looked at my pen and notebook sitting on the end-table. He had done it; yes, he had done it. The sword had skewered the pen. That bastard, that fiery bastard had stolen my muse.

And not just this once. He had done it, done it again. To steady my nerves, I tried to take a sip of my tea but found the cup already empty.

Blast. Blast. Blast.

I would have to fight, even harder this time, to regain my muse.

THE END