The Purple Paperclip
There once was a purple paperclip
Despite it’s location, it was quite pleased
To the other utensils
The Paper and Pencils,
It was all they could do not to ‘sneeze’
Then on one cloudy day came a man
He was last seen leaving his sedan
But when he came knocking
The Paperclip went rocking
Until it fell into a can
Paper and cardboard piled on top,
Yet as it grew darker
The Paperclip became a marker
For what was happening atop
It had been twenty-two years since Professor Brodwick Paterson had last set foot on Peruvian soil. As far as his colleagues were concerned the poem he had just read them was something their children could have created, yet, they knew the origin of the verse.
“How’s it going with the luggage?” he turned and shouted to his hired tour guide, Mungo.
“We’re almost nearing the camp, I can take it,” the taller man behind Brodwick replied.
Unlike other tourists, who dreamed of finding lost relics and artifacts deep within some foreign land on this not so foreign planet, Brodwick knew that one could only go so far as his tour guide was willing to go. Hence why he chose Mungo to accompany him. Back in Berlin, Mungo Ackerman was virtually unknown except for a selected small group of criminals who knew him as “deadly”. When Brodwick had placed ads in the local papers, the Internet, and nearby stores facing Paterson Mansion, his estate, Mungo was the only person who replied to him through all three mediums plus word of mouth, as Brodwick found out awkwardly the very first time he decided to use public transit for a change.
“There’s a man at the back, who told me he wants to accompany you on your journey,” the bus driver had said to Brodwick’s blank face. He could still recall the conversation that pursued at his 9’oclock supper.
“What are your qualifications?” he had asked, emphasizing the word ‘are’.
“Well,” the man had responded, hands fidgeting his jackets open zipper near his groin, “I can speak in eight different languages, including violence.”
That was all that had really been needed to be said, as Brodwick appreciated a man, especially a man with a finely tailored jacket, who could defend him during his research, but still regardless of what had been a contempt look on Brodwick’s face, the man had continued.
“I can also run for forty kilometres without stopping for a breath, although I might need a drink….”
The man wasn’t kidding when he made note of his thirst. During his two hour visit, he had consumed three glasses of water, a shot of vodka, and a Shirley Temple, which Paterson’s personal chief provided as Mungo had carefully watched the preparation.
“My Doctor said I had to ease up on the alcohol,” the man had then confessed, before removing a crocodile skin wallet from his breast pocket, revealing the contents to be two pictures of what was apparently a boy on the left and a girl on the right. “That’s Wallace, and that’s Andrea,” he said in a deep voice, as he pointed to each one respectively.
Suddenly Brodwick knew he had found his guide, who knew what else he knew, but any man with a family was less likely to risk doing anything that could jeopardize his return, or his temporary employer.
As they trekked on, it became apparent that some of his colleagues weren’t coping with the extraneous walking to the same level as Mungo.
“Sue, wake up!” he barked as gently as possible as he noticed the tall woman slowing down to the pace of a turtle, that and the fact that one of her eyes were shut as the other remained transfixed on the path ahead.
“Why you yelling at me for!” she snapped back in broken English, as Brodwick manoeuvred his way over a fallen branch. If they were in the frying pan, they were now in the fire. The sheer heat was almost unbearable and he could have sworn that the amount of mosquitoes following them had doubled within the last twelve minutes.
“Shh,” Brodwick then motioned to the two behind him as he saw a low and lengthy figure ahead of them behind the ever-increasing tress and bushes.
“What is it Brodwick?” Mungo whispered behind him as he gently released the load of luggage from his back to the damp, dirt floor.
“I think it’s a jaguar, although you said they don’t usually come out at this time of day?” Brodwick replied maintaining the silent whisper.
“That I am one hundred percent positive about,” his guide answered in the same tone, “although…” there was a brief pause, “…it wouldn’t surprise me if we are approaching a mother’s resting territory and she is now patrolling the area for our scent, casual response for the mother of a diminishing species.”
“Do you have a gun?” Brodwick asked again, this time inching his way closer to the movement in the bushes less than two hundred feet ahead.
“Depends,” Mundo replied, “Do you prefer manual or automatic?”
I liked your beginning, but you didn't tie it with the story. The poem was funny, but just that - funny. With the story it seems utterly useless and doesn't have a tie at all. Now, the beginning of your actual story was strong. I liked the way you started. It pulled it in and kept me reading. However, it seems like you have a lot of loose ends in this story. You have several ideas but you don't finish them nor tie them completely with the story. I have no clue what's going on for the most part and you seem to have little plot.
