The Little Boy With The big Imagination

His name was Sonny. He lived on a farm. It wasn't a big farm as farms go. It wasn't a small farm. It was just the right size for dreaming.

It was 130 degrees in the desert when he stumbled into the oasis. Half dead he staggered among the trees. The enemy was on her knees, pulling weeds. He snuck up on her, a killer ready to pounce. In his hand was a garden spade. He raised the spade above his head and swung. She continued to pull weeds. He got down on hands and knees, and rubbed against her back.

“Purrrrr, purrrr, purrrr.”

What! Is there a little kitty behind me?” She asked and laughed.

He purred louder, and then began to growl. He crawled around her, and clawed at her face.


“Oh, my goodness! It's the monster!” His grandmother screamed, and clutched her throat.

“It's not the monster Grandma. I'm the bear.”

“Oh, my goodness. It's the bear!” She cried.

He rolled on the ground laughing. “Fooled you! Fooled you! Ha ha ha ha ha!”

“You certainly did, Sonny.” She said and laughed.

“Hee hee hee,” he said, in an evil witches voice. He rubbed his hands together.

“Now I'm going to get the strawberries!” Hunched over, and dragging his left leg behind him, he shuffled off to the strawberry patch.

“Now don't eat too many.” His grandma said.

“Hee hee hee,” He replied. “Strawwwberriessss. Strawwwberriesss!” He lunged into the midst of the patch.

He slithered through the patch, while picking strawberries with his lips. Upon reaching the other side he looked back at his grandmother. She was looking at him, and smiling.

“What are you looking at Grandma?” He asked as he rolled out onto the lawn.
“I'm looking at you silly.”


“Oh, no reason. I just like to look at you.”

He turned away and hopped across the yard. “Croak! Croak! Croak!” he bellowed.

When he reached the fence he started to dig in the soft dirt like a badger. Soon he had a hole big enough to slip under the fence, into the corn field. On his hands and knees he scurried into the closest row, and continued on until he was completely hidden by the corn. There he sat studying the dirt. A line of ants climbed briskly up and down the closest cornstalk in a single file march. He followed the trail as high as he could stretch. Still they continued on until they reached the tassel top of the stalk, milled around, and then began their trek back down the stalk. The corn towered above him. He could barely see the sky. He laid down on the cool black dirt, and watched the ants. Soon he was asleep.

The afternoon was almost gone when he woke up. He yawned and stretched, then walked to the edge of the corn field. His grandmother was gone from the garden. Gaunt shadows gathered beneath the hickory trees, stretched across the lawn.

It was time to go after the cows. He flapped his arms and flew out of the field, around the end of the fence, and into the yard. He flew low over the yard in search of mice. When he reached the barn yard the chickens scratched in the dirt beneath the big red gas tank. He swooped down on them and almost caught one in his talons before they scattered.

In the barn he saddled his pony and led him out. The black dog followed. He clip clopped down the lane, stopped by an old apple tree with a hole in it's base, and got off. From the hole he pulled his cowboy clothes, quickly dressed, and continued down the lane .

Under his black cowboy hat his curls peeked out. In his red cowboy boots, and his blue and white bandana that he wore like a bandits mask to keep out the dust, he rode the fences of the great corn plains. Twin 6 guns with black handles glinted in the sun. On the bluff above the river he sat tall in the saddle, and leaned his arms on his knees with a cocked wrist, and his elbows out, ready to grab for his guns at a moments notice. His brown eyes squinted toward the river where brave cows crossed, escaping out of Indian country.

Around his pony's hooves a black panther ran in circles, silent in the dust.