Fiction – Grandpa Bob Encouraging Leadership

There once was a village named Smithville, tucked neatly beneath a mountain. Life was simple until the mayor spotted a massive boulder teetering on the slope. Experts confirmed the obvious. The massive boulder might fall and crush the town.

In a flash of civic urgency, the mayor declared: “We must secure the boulder!” And so they did. With ropes, pulleys, and sheer determination, ten villagers at a time held the lines to keep the boulder in place. They rotated shifts around the clock. It became routine, then tradition, then law.

Children sang, “Hold the boulder, hold the boulder, we must resolve to hold that boulder!” before school each morning. A cabin was built for the rope holders. A trail crew was hired to keep the path safe for the endless march of workers. Rope suppliers prospered since the intricate rope system required constant maintenance. Soon, nearly half the town’s budget went to “boulder security.”

Still, the village flourished. Visitors came to marvel at the rope-wrapped rock. “Come see our mighty gravity defying boulder!” proclaimed their glossy posters. A bond was passed to fund a visitor center and tour buses. Hotels filled. Restaurants boomed. Property values soared near “Boulder View Estates.”

One day, a newcomer named Brunswick questioned the logic of leaving the boulder where it was. “Why not break the boulder into smaller, harmless pieces?” The council laughed at his question.

The mayor beamed with pride, “Our boulder isn’t a threat. It’s our livelihood! Besides, we have a rope system to protect us.”

The townspeople nodded, waving their SAVE OUR BOULDER signs in support.

Who could argue with prosperity?

Brunswick left shaking his head.

Years later, despite the ropes, despite the cables, despite the slogans, the inevitable happened. That winter, the boulder grew heavier than ever with snow and ice. Villagers had trouble reaching the ropes, as storms blocked the trail. Shifts went unfilled. Fewer villagers meant fewer ropes to hold the boulder.

“The forecasters said it wouldn’t be this bad,” the mayor reassured them, as though the weather itself had broken its promise.

Workers tugged and shouted, trying to keep their grip. Fingers numbed, feet slipped, and a few gave up entirely. The remaining ropes snapped one by one. The sound echoed through the valley like rifle shots. The mountain itself seemed to groan.

Then came the moment. The final rope gave way with a thunderous crack. The boulder lurched forward, dragging what remained of the cable nets with it.

As it tumbled down the mountain, the ground shook violently. Houses rattled, dishes shattered, and children screamed.

The mighty rock careened toward the valley, smashing trees like twigs and carving deep scars into the earth. Clouds of dust rose as if the mountain were on fire. Each bounce sent shockwaves through Smithville, knocking people off their feet. The villagers ran in terror, listening to the deafening roar as the great stone rolled ever closer.

When it finally came to rest, the devastation was complete. The visitor center lay in ruins. Boulder View Estates was flattened into rubble. Streets were cracked, and smoke rose from shattered chimneys.

Yet by some miracle, no one was hurt. The thunder of the falling boulder gave everyone time to flee. Amid the destruction, whispers of a miracle could be heard all over the battered town.

As the dust cleared, townsfolk began to consider their plans for rebuilding. Some sketched designs for a grand new visitor center. This one would tell the story of The Great Fall.

A five-year plan was drafted to study rope alternatives, complete with a Rope Oversight Committee and quarterly progress reports.

Bureaucracy bloomed again, strong as ever.

Though no one mentioned the missing boulder.

Story behind the image – I used Google’s new Nano Banana image generator for this image. I asked it to produce a large and evil boulder sitting on top of a mountain, held by ropes, overlooking a nice town that it’s threatening…in a cartoonish style. This is the first image it produced. It missed the part about the ropes, but I like the over-the-top (see what I did there?) theme of this rendering. And that boulder may appear in a few more stories in the future.

As a crazy trail runner, I look forward to days like today. My truck’s outside temperature reading showed 93 degrees as I embarked on my run. I planned to take the slightly less strenuous route, which meant I’d save the biggest hill climbs for the middle part of the run, rather than the beginning. As usual, I stopped at each bench for a round of push-ups…ten at each bench, rather than the usual fifteen. Giving myself a break in the heat seemed like a good plan.

My run up Big Red, the highest peak in the park, had gone well, meaning I was able to make it to the top without stopping. The good news is there’s a bench at the top, so I was obliged to stop and do push-ups, and catch my breath. I looked forward to descending the back side of Big Red, and reaching the turnaround point where I’d be heading into the wind. Running into the wind, and catching a bit of shade from the trees next to the trail would help me cool off and recover from the first couple miles of the run.

I had just started enjoying the shady portion of the run when all of a sudden a guy on a mountain bike whizzed by me on the left. In fact, he was so close that he actually clipped my left elbow on his way by. I yelled,”IT’S ON THE LEFT, JACKASS! TRY HAVING SOME TRAIL MANNERS!” I didn’t think he heard anything and I continued down the trail.

As I came up to the only bench with a roof (we refer to it as The Bus Stop), there was Mr. Mountain Biker. He was off his bike, and seemed to be waiting for me. I thought about just running by, acting oblivious. But, it was a bench, and I’m required to do at least ten push-ups at each bench.

I approached the bench and just as I started my push-ups, Mr. Mountain Biker asked, “What’s the deal with you? You veered across the trail just as I was about to pass! What were you yelling?”

I finished my ten push-ups, and took a nice swig of water from my water bottle. Maybe I should have skipped this bench was the first thought that came in to my mind. I generally like my runs to be solitary affairs. There’s nothing like pushing against my physical limits to clear my mind. “Have you seen the signs around the park? Bikers yield to runners, and runners and bikers yield to horseback riders.” I caught my breath and continued, “I didn’t hear you coming since you didn’t say ‘ON YOUR LEFT’ like most bike riders do.” Then came the fighting words before I could stop them. “Do you know anything about trail etiquette?”

That last question didn’t sit well with Mr. Mountain Biker. He tossed his bike aside. “I asked you what you were yelling at me, butthead!” He stepped toward me, and I thought he was about to shove me in the chest like seventh graders do at the beginning of fights.

I stepped back to avoid the shove that I knew was coming. He stopped short and stood there, waiting for me to escalate. I couldn’t help noticing that I was about six inches taller and at least 50 pounds heavier than Mr. Mountain Biker. I think my subconscious mind noticed as well and that’s when the words started flowing. “Buddy, you picked the wrong guy to mess with. Sure, I’m a trail runner, but this is just for conditioning. My real hobby is Jiu Jitsu, and I’m a personal injury attorney, always looking for new plaintiffs.”

He stepped back a couple steps. I’m not sure if it was the Jiu Jitsu part, or the attorney part, that scared him the most.

“My trainer is going to love this! I actually get to use some of the submission moves he’s been teaching me, outside the gym!

He stepped back another couple of steps, and moved to pick up his bike. “Dude, relax!”

“I am relaxed! I just wanted you to know what you’re up against. Besides, I’m the one who got hit, so I’m trying to figure out what your deal is.”

Mr. Mountain Biker was looking for the quickest way to exit the scene. “Sorry about your arm. I’ll be more careful next time.” He hopped on his bike and headed down the trail…luckily in the opposite direction from where I wanted to go.

Thankfully, the rest of my run was uneventful.

As I listed my hobbies for Mr. Mountain Biker, I failed to list my favorite. Fiction writer. Fiction writing is basically writing lies for fun (and profit, if anyone buys your stories).

I am a trail runner. I occasionally watch a UFC fight, but the blood makes me queasy. My friends never let me live down the time I actually fainted while watching a UFC fight. I work with corporate lawyers on a regular basis, but I’ve never even met a personal injury attorney.

Oh yeah, about Mr. Mountain Biker. He doesn’t exist either. Isn’t fiction great!