Jonas Story
Part I The day was still, not a cloud in sight. The glowing sun lit the tumbling
waves. The white foam smeared along the sandy beach. High above the oceanís
front lie cliffs with grassy hilltops. A road wove through its tangled mess.

There thoughts were bound and passion ran free. The young man gripped his
steering wheel and held the throttle. He flew through Highway 5 in his Ď78

Camero. Squealing around every corner in his hot convertible, he let his long
blond hair blow with the wind. As his heart beat fast, he was trapped in the
excitement of the moment. He braked; his open expression went blank. The passion
was gone as he slowed inches from the motor homes tail gate. The RV crept around
each corner, passing turnout after turnout, seemingly unaware of the car behind.

His face went sour as he mumbled curse words and thoughts of ill intention. The
young man gave a slight honk, but only slight, just enough to give notice of his
presence. He wanted to honk louder, but he was taught better. The man was out of
patience as he came to small straight in the road. He turned the wheel left
crossing the double yellow line. Just in view from the corner came a oncoming
semi. He stepped on the gas feeling confident that he could make it. As he
pulled by the RVís side, the motor home sped up too. The fiery red Camero
roared up the hill; its eight cylinders of pure power revved and its 450 horses
beat as it raced past the RV. The blond man pulled off quickly just missing
getting smashed by the big rig, and nearly clipping the Motor homeís front.

The young man stuck out his hand just yearning to flip off the driver of the
passed vehicle. He couldnít do it. Years of being nice were engraved in head.

Thoughts of lessons taught by his mother and grandmother circled through his
mind. As he stuck his hand back on the wheel he blurred out thoughts of anger.

It was obvious he wanted to let it out, so he floored his Chevy, breezing away
from the coast. As the Camero climbed toward the heart of the redwoods, the
young man looked with flare. He traveled up the bare twisted road of Highway 5.

Its edges seemed to crumble dangerously as he pulled around the sharp
switchbacks. The young man pulled his Camero into the check-in gate. He held his
elbow against the red door and rested his head against his hand, palming his
cheek. As he waited to be helped he looked at the scenery. The redwoods lay
thick, with huge stems blossoming a cluster of green. A sign posted to one
spelled Richardson Grove 1876. "Yes. your name please?" The woman sat in a
little house with a small teller like window. She wore greyish green clothes. A
tag placed by the shirt collar read "Anne Vansykln, Richardson Grove."

"Olin Hill," he said, as he gazed toward the redwoods. He was still stuck in
the thinkers pose. He didnít even look at her exquisite looks. "Pretty
arenít they?" She said as she smacked her chewing gum with her slender
tongue. The look she gave was not classy by any means, yet it was resoundingly
sweet: childish like an Ďimperfect-perfectí. Yet Olin did not reply, he just
sat in his pose. Then she said you may go. Olin stepped on the gas and relaxed
his pose. He gazed at his reflection in the rear view mirror. Where his hand had
rested (upon his cheek) a beat red pimple gouged in his face. Olin parked his
car in front of a huge redwood tree. A young man with black hair peered around
its massive base. "Nice rig," he yelled as he stuck his hand out, asking him
to stop. Olin shut the engine down and stood on the white leather bucket seat.

He peered over the front window, "Whats happening Justin?"Olin said,

"where is your car?" Justin smiled his crooked teeth, "Oh itís the brown
sedan over there. A piece a *censored* car." Olin took a small rubber band out
of his pocket and tied his long hair into a pony tail. "Where is everyone,"
he said as he flung the clinging lint from his short pockets off his hand.

"Everyones at the beach. Your brother and dad are down there too. Justin said
pointing down past north end of the parking lot. "Lets go