The foot race was on!

Historical Fiction.

This piece may not be exactly blog worthy. It is based on a true story about two of my heroes—my dad, Virgil, and my Uncle Bobby.

The sun had been up for an hour or so and it was already starting to get hot. Bobby and Felipe had yet to come around the hill. Virgil looked over the vast, arid countryside. No sheep or goat nearby. The only thing to do was to wait for Bobby and Felipe to come round.

Virgil had covered his area faster than Bobby and Felipe had covered theirs--he always did. Oh, sure, maybe he hadn't done a perfect job, but who cared. "God, Bobby and Felipe are slow, " he thought.

The vine caught his eye. It spread over the hillside, laden with gourds—red, yellow, black, brown. Virgil dismounted and walked over to the vine. The gourds were great. Some were soft and fleshy, others were hard as rocks. One was just the size of a hardball, smooth and round.

Virgil could hear Bobby yell "Heeyaw!" They would be coming around the hill soon.

Quickly, Virgil led his horse behind a mesquite bush--rolling the gourd in his hand. Here came Bobby, chasing a goat. "Dumb sonofabitch, don't think you're going to get by me, " Bobby shouted, as if the goat could understand what he was saying.

"I wonder if I can hit him, " Virgil thought. He threw and heard a loud TWACK. Bobby fell from his saddle as if struck by a bullet.

"Bobby, are you alright? Oh my God, what if I've killed Bobby?" Virgil ran to Bobby laying on the ground. "You fat little bastard. Wait until I get my hands on you, " Bobby shouted, his face red as a tomato.

Virgil ran as fast as his 11-year-old legs would carry him. He knew his big brother would whip his ass when he caught him, but he couldn't keep the smile off his face.