I once again find myself in this black hole of helplessness. It's called 30 Minus 2 Days of Writing. To make it worse, it is just DAY ONE. Nicky and Mike sponsor this hellish event over at We Work For Cheese. Please go read the works of the other shackled participants. Better yet, join in the drudgery fun by posting your own story. It's easy to do. Just go to the liquor store and start typing.
Our writing prompt for today is gouda. Yeah, you heard me. Gouda. Thanks, Nicky and Mike.
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It has been said that you can't go home again which suited Cooter just fine.
Cooter had been born and raised in the small community of Muenster located in North Central Texas and much too close to the Oklahoma border for Cooter's liking. It was a close knit village of farmers of German descent with just a few Czechs thrown in for fun. There wasn't much diversity in the town of Muenster.
Cooter was the seventh in his family of nine children. It was a joke among the townspeople that his parents simply ran out of names after the sixth child and just didn't care after that. Others in town claimed that his parents had taken after an Indian tribe across the border in Oklahoma and named their last two children after the first things they saw after their births. Cooter was fond of his own name, but he did feel sorry for his two younger siblings, Bratwurst and Gouda.
Expectations were clear in Muenster. If you were born there, you were expected to marry a good German girl from there. More than likely you would die there. Those expectations were more than Cooter could bear. With only a thousand residents in the entire town and with half of those residents being his relatives, Cooter's dating pool was far too shallow. As soon as he graduated, he left Muenster behind with no thought of ever returning.
Little did he know that Muenster was about to visit him.
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