Here is my first story - no ChatGPT was used in the making of this story!
The First Wordle Oater
It was a hot steamy day and the darkness in the sky foreshadowed a welcoming cold rain. The cattle were lounging, waiting for the shower to temporarily wash the flies away. From the valley floor came a line of horses carrying young and old men on their backs, and sweat on their bodies, hurrying back from repairing fence lines damaged by the last storm. Looking closely, there was some sort of creature amongst the horses and their riders. It was an odd sight, one I would only expect to see after days wandering in the desert. A large being, about the size of a brown bear, atop a small unidentified ranch object (URO), silver and green with red flames that left no trail of smoke. The only sound coming from the URO was a faint and fast click, click, click as it keep up with the horses.
As the horses and URO drew near, the clicking grew louder, my vision became clearer and my confusion rang the carnival bell. The creature wasn't a creature, but a biker. The biker wasn't a biker biker, rather a bicyclist, astride a faded and unusually long lime colored banana seat, arms stretched high and forward, holding on silver bars with a sea of red plastic flowing from the ends. The brown bear was a bear in size only, appearing to be Hagrid’s long lost, and larger, twin brother. How he fit on the bike was a feat that Houdini would struggle to replicate. And the noise, to those readers not of a certain generation who hadn't figured it out yet, was generated from cards and clothespins. Not just a few, but what seemed like hundreds of colorful cards attached to the spokes holding tires that inexplicably hadn't burst from the mount(ain) they were carrying.
Having won the race against mother nature, the cowboys and the one I'll call Big Hagrid (Big for short) dismounted their rides by the stables. All but Big did so with the grace of a butterfly moving on to the next flower. Swiftly and silently they went from saddle to soil and begin the task of removing the tack from their rides. To say that Big's dismount wouldn't score well in a gymnastics competition would be as understated as saying one of the local mice wouldn't fare well against the gang of feral cats patrolling the stables. It wasn't so much a dismount as it was an extraction. He squeezed one sequoia sized leg through the gap between handlebars and pedals and swung it over behind the bike, sending the banana bike's wheels deep into the ground. Once both legs found their way to the same side of the bike, Big’s bike went further underground as he pushed off the part of the bike that remained above sea level in order to stand erect. No need for a bike stand after that dismount.
Once all the horses were as secure as Big's bike the crew took the short walk, about 300 steps for the cowboys and what seemed like 30 for Big, to the bunkhouse. The common area in the bunkhouse had dirt floors that looked like the surface of the moon, with craters that matched Big's shoe size. A long table bisected the room and had 10 chairs on each side along with a sofa at one end, providing a place for each cowboy and for Big. Before sitting, the crew headed to fish out bottles from an old rusty horse trough, each one catching the limit of two cold ones.
But not Big. He headed over to another URO, this one a metal box with an opening on top the size of 2 of Big's fingers. Looking closer, a small spout protruded from the front, about the size of an honest Pinocchio’s nose. Next to the metal box was a basket partially covered by burlap. Big headed over the URO #2, pulled back the burlap, reached in and grabbed a handful of apples (six fit comfortably in a single hand). He placed them in the opening, and reached behind the box to start the show. Within seconds, a whirring sound came on and the apples disappeared. A few minutes later, Big grabbed a large mug from a pin on the wall and walked back to the machine. He held the mug under Pinocchio's nose, and searched with his thumb sized fingers and hand sized thumb behind the box. A loud click and a stream appeared from Pinocchio's nose, filling the mug with apple cider and the room with the aroma of cinnamon and cloves.
Big joined the crew, most of whom had gone fishing again. It was quite a sight, 20 drunk cowboys and a giant sipping cider. Not long after, the cooks brought in trays filled with meat that appeared to be the same color as the charcoal that was on the bottom bunk of the barbecue. Joining the meat was a bucket filled with beans and one with ears of corn peering over the sides. Each cowboy brought a metal plate over to get their meals. Big carried over what could be best described as an oven door. Once the meal was served and all were seated, the clanging of forks and knives and laughter provided the background track for the rest of the dinner.
As the meal concluded, Mr. Big stood up and an unearthly quiet entered the room. The only audible sound was the rain dancing on the roof and the sonic blasts of air released with each breath Mr. Big took. As he opened his mouth to speak, I braced myself wondering if I was about to hear the true source of the sound from a sonic boom, thunder or an avalanche. But what came next was unexpected. Never have I heard a finer voice. As crisp as the air after a summer storm, as calm as the sounds of a mountain stream; delivered in tone that would make Barry White jealous. “Boys”, Big said,” I am about to head off and say goodbye to this place and all of you. I am forever grateful for your hospitality after my unplanned arrival at your doorstep. You welcomed me, taught me and made me part of the group. I learned about this place and will carry this knowledge forward.” And with that Mr. Big smiled, circled the table and gently tapped each man on both shoulders. A strange way to say goodbye I thought as he headed to the door and disappeared out into the rain. Just outside stood the URO, somehow dislodged from its earthen bike rack and clean as the plates left behind by hungry cowboys. I watched as Big straddled the bike with ease, sank into the seat and transformed into what appeared to be a small child. It was then I noticed shiney new cards attached to the wheels, each glowing a faint blue. Mr Big, or should I now say Junior, pushed his right foot slowly forward on the pedal, and red flames shot out from the handle bars. In an instant, he was launched toward the horizon like a Shohei Ohtani liner to center field, leaving behind the cowboys and acres of unanswered questions