Thou art in thine parking lot

Occasionally sent to retrieve my lil’ sister (Bree) and cousin (Kathleen) from their private nun-guarded edifice of education, I oft on these occasions send the odd text in order to inform said girls the make and model of my vehicle as well as the when and where to meet me.   Because of the now numerous siblings, uncles, cousins, fathers, and well-trained pets capable to carpool, constant cellular communication is crucial, see?

Enough with the alliteration.  After typing ‘Murph.  In parking lot.’ nearly seventy times, I decided upon a more elegant and creative means of relating my whereabouts to the girls.  What follows are several examples:

  • Atop the highest climes of Appalachia, there dwelt a man of great lore and wisdom, a brother and cousin renown, a sage of uncommon valor long forgotten in these darkening times when parking lots fill with fools and beasts of chrome, scouring the roads for the souls of innocent pedestrians, consuming the flesh of nimble hare or fawn, and belching forth the reek of decay from their unholy repast.  Arise children! Rebel against your masters and join me to repel these unholy forces, slay their demonic drivers, and perhaps obtain a milk shake from the blessed Chick’fil’a.
  • Behold, unto the land of Bree there dwelt a parking lot of polished ebony, whence came an engine, blue hue akin to those of the deepest ocean trenches, azure currents lining the eastern skies at dusk where flies our dreams to dance and sing among the moon and stardust.
  • And the knight escorting these fair maidens, whose beauty could stay the darkest storm or tame the wolf to tend a lamb, halted to await his charges; and the maidens with auburn braids spied their champion anchored in the parking lot, his stately bearing and saintly voice brimming with the harmonious chords of Arcade Fire.
  • The bell toll again, this time a warning to the weak, a challenge to the strong. Each clang like a king’s sentence, a call of doom and despair: arise young ones! Throw off your cares and concerns; let Loss collect your fears and regrets like her mournful minions collect our forgotten tears and right-most socks; Harken the paean of freedom that comest from that lone cart!  Is it Bach?  Handel’s Messiah?  Styx’s Mr. Roboto?  Halloo, Murph waits in the parking lot.
  • And lo! Within walls of tear-soaked textbooks, shackled to oaken desks where angelic wardens wielded flaming rulers, Kathleen and Brigid waited the toll of the bell, of the end, of the new beginning . . . ah, the blessed sojourn to the Kingdom of Weekends, fabled land of milk and honey, where alarm clocks do not assail the ears and homework shuns the brilliant light of day.
  • Yet the pair of dark-haired maidens are beset by demons in guise of young girls stride beside them in the hallways, stalking their shadows like banshees beside a blessed country chapel, sensing the innocence of their prey, of blood untouched by cold or sin. Gingerly like a mouse at midnight they peer around the corner sniffing for the cat, that ogre-teacher of athletics, woman of foul temperament and fouler still stench, donning a robe of grey glistening with sweat and the glow of processed cheese-crystals. Seeking their champion Murph across yonder black sea of asphalt . . .
  • Stardate MMXII.  Planet: Earth.  Dimension: Unknown.  Location: Parking Lot.  Your captain: Murph.  God, help us all …

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