Poison Ivy

Here is my first round story for the NYC Midnight Flash Fiction Challenge. We were divided into heats and given a genre, a place and an object. From that point, you have 48 hours to write 1,000 words or less. My prompts were crime caper, an auto parts store, and a pug.

Greg sat at the sales counter, doodling the same three letters - his hand so accustomed to the lines, curves and dips he didn’t even need to look.

Ivy Ivy Ivy

His mother had dubbed her “Poison Ivy”, insisting he had these feelings only because she was the lone female at work, Kunzelman’s Auto Parts.

“Choosing her is like being half dead from starvation and choosing the only rotten egg in a field of rocks. What other choice do you have?” his mother would rasp, laughing hoarsely; a cackle perfected by 25 years of smoking three packs of Pall Malls a day. The only sound more grating than her laugh was her overweight, yappy pug, Tater.

Greg wasn’t interested in his mother’s opinion, though. Her idea of a relationship was whatever guy happened to pass through the revolving door to her bedroom. He’d rather focus on Ivy - her long hair, a different color each week; her tattoos, a smorgasbord of butterflies, movie characters and Chinese symbols; her six months probation. Ivy was walking chaos and Greg was smitten with her mayhem. She was a stark contrast to his pale pudge, marked by too many freckles rather than colorful ink.

“Hey, Greg, whatcha got there,” Tim snorted as he entered the sales floor from the supply room, carrying a large box.

“Maybe I should ask you the same,” Greg retorted, although he already had a pretty good idea.

Ivy knew she had Greg wrapped around her finger and had used that knowledge to boost her eBay business - a business which consisted of sneaking out parts from the store and posting them online. After a close call with their manager the week before, Greg had told her he couldn’t risk it anymore, so she had turned her attention and affection to Tim.

While Greg was certain Ivy was only interested in a loser like Tim because he could supply her little side gig, it still pained him to hear his cell phone ding with her texts or see them talking in the break room.

The front door to the store opened and Greg looked up to see Ivy come in. She gave Tim a quick wink and held the door for him as he carried the box to her car.

“Hey, Ivy,” Greg nervously stammered. “I’ve missed your texts the last few days.”

Ivy rolled her eyes and she sighed, walking past him to the back room. Desperately trying to get back in her good graces, Greg jumped to his feet.

“There is a big delivery coming in tonight,” he exclaimed. “I think we could sneak up on it, really boost your business.”

She stopped in her tracks and slowly turned back toward her admirer, head tilted to the side with interest, signaling him to go on.

“I know the driver for this one. He is an older guy, bad knees. Jack is the only one who will be here to sign off on it, and he is so old and out of it, we could easily trap them inside or something, grab stuff and go.”

“Go where?” Tim asked, returning.

“Nothing! I wasn’t talking to you,” Greg snapped.

Ivy wasn’t as dismissive as Greg, though, and filled Tim in on Greg's idea. It was set. Before leaving work that day, Greg would disconnect the camera system. In six hours, the trio would park a few doors up and converge on Kunzelman’s, dressed head to toe in black, faces hidden by masks. They’d wait till Jack was signing for the goods, the delivery driver standing close by, and ambush the pair.

Unfortunately, when Greg pulled in at the designated time, he had an unexpected partner in the passenger seat.

“What the hell, Greg!” Ivy questioned, motioning towards the slobbering dog hanging out of the window. “Why’d you bring that mutt with you?”

“My mom had a guy over and he’s allergic. She wouldn’t let me take the car unless Tater could come too,” he explained, cheeks flushed.

Leaving the window partially down, the three crept in shadows to the dumpster next to the delivery dock, serenaded as they went by the wet yaps of Tater. After a few minutes, the canine clamor calmed; the silence as benign as a bomb before the blast. The truck arrived and they watched as it pulled up to the platform, several loads wheeled to the receiving gate.

Quietly, the three started towards the pair of men, Tim carrying the rope and Greg carrying rags to blindfold the two. Ivy motioned her smitten suitors to split up, one approaching from each side of the dock. As expected, it was not difficult to corral their coworker and the driver, putting them inside the truck.

Tim sprinted back to grab his car, while Ivy directed Greg on which boxes to set aside.

“Maybe you’re not a nobody, afterall,” Ivy gushed, flashing him a seductive smile.

Greg hardly had a second to savor her sentiment before it was interrupted by the sound that haunted his dreams - yapping Tater. The mangy mutt had squeezed through the window and was running towards Greg, announcing his freedom. Greg looked back at Ivy, fearing her reaction.

“Shut him up or I’ll turn him into tater tots,” she snarled, all affection gone.

Greg chased the dog in circles, trying to keep him from the road. Tim and Ivy loaded the goods into Tim’s car before climbing in. Greg stood in Kunzlman’s parking lot, Tater in his arms.

“Better luck next time, loser,” Tim chided.

“You’re such a sucker,” Ivy spat at Greg, leaning in to Tim and kissing him deeply, clearly not their first.

Greg walked the short trip back to the car, feeling defeated. As he opened the door, a blue light caught his attention; a shining beacon in his darkness.

He picked up the receiver of the pay phone, dialing 911, a devilish grin spreading across his face.

“Hello, police. I’d like to report a robbery.”

Tender Meat

Here is my second round story for the NYC Midnight Short Story Challenge. We were divided into heats and given a genre, a character and an object. From that point, you have 3 days to write 2,000 words or less. My prompts were fairy tale, a warden, and a due date.

Catherine, Cat to her friends, looked at her reflection in the mirror, marveling at the body she hardly recognized. Her normally flat stomach protruded, a basketball beneath spandex. The full breasts filling her swimsuit looked nothing like the small mounds that they were a mere nine months ago.

“I love you, baby girl, but I can’t wait till I can see my toes again,” she said to her belly, rubbing it gently. Her husband laughed at her insistence that the baby was, in fact a girl. But, Cat had her ways of knowing.

Cat grabbed her phone and sent her husband a text as she headed to the backyard.

Going for a swim. Love u!

As soon as she stepped outside, the oppressive heat and humidity that defines summers in Louisiana enveloped her. Cat’s grandma, a woman full of old-world charm, used to say that the air was so thick in Chalmette, it could be served up on a slice of bread with some raspberry jam. At the thought of jam, her stomach rumbled. It seemed that she was always hungry these days.

“First a swim,” she said aloud.

Walking to the deep end of the pool, she jumped in, toes pointed and nose held. There was something magical in the weightlessness of her pregnant body in the water that amazed her. Cat crossed the pool to the stairs and sat, her belly distorted by the water line. As she relaxed, a shimmer from the other end of the pool caught her eye.

“What in the world?” Cat said, crossing towards the large glimmer.

She took a deep breath and slipped below to retrieve whatever had made its way to the pool floor. Unable to reach the bottom, she turned upwards, resigned, but found herself unable to distinguish up from down. There was an odd light shining from all directions.

Cat kicked frantically, desperately refusing the urge to inhale. Darkness began to creep in from her peripheral as she flirted with unconsciousness. Cat broke the surface and gasped. Looking around, she saw this was not her backyard, nor her pool. She had gone into the water at home, and now found herself somewhere unknown. She made her way to the shoreline of the large lake from which she’d somehow emerged.

Exiting the water, her hand instinctively shot to her belly. Sensing its mother’s panic, the baby shifted within her. Cat exhaled, her greatest fear put to rest, and looked around. Nothing around her was the least bit familiar.

Cat ran recklessly into the woods behind her. Panic numbed the pain as branches bit into her bare arms and legs. As she reached to deflect an annoyingly persistent jagger bush, she touched rough fingers. Frozen by fear, she quit resisting, temporarily resigned to the unknown captor. The haze of denial faded as Cat gawked at the hand that held her. It was large, grey and covered in wiry white hair. Cat looked from hand to face. A massive creature stood before her. If it weren’t for the pain she felt from her bleeding scratches, she’d have been certain this was a dream. Pus oozed from boils all over the mammoth, disgusting troll that held her.

“Eck will be so happy,” he growled, grabbing up Cat and throwing her over his shoulder.

Cat punched the troll as he carried her into the woods, but her blows went unnoticed. They came to a small, windowless stone structure. Before he could knock, another troll emerged, even larger than the first. Her captor set her on the ground and the new troll circled her, examining her closely. Cat felt naked, wearing just her bathing suit. He reached out his enormous, hairy hand and set it on her pregnant belly.

“Good work, Crone,” the troll grunted. “I’ll see to it that you get a double share of the panacea when its time.”

“Thank you, Eck,” Crone proudly replied, smiling broadly.

“When are you due?” Eck questioned her.

Cat stood silent. Crone struck the back of her legs, sending her to her knees.

“I will ask nicely one more time,” Eck pushed. “If you would like to make this difficult for me, I am more than happy to do the same for you.”

“Three weeks,” Cat mumbled.

If he was pleased or angered by this response, he gave no indication. Eck grabbed her arm and pulled her into the building. He opened a large steel gate and pushed her into a cell, slamming it shut. The cell had two stone slabs with blankets and a hole in one corner. A small mound began to stir on the far bed. Cat scrambled to the corner, ready to defend. To her surprised relief, a very pregnant gnome stood in front of her. The woman was short, with a long braid of red hair running down her back.

“Come sit down,” the gnome said to Cat. “My name is Kai. We don’t see many of your kind around here.”

“Where is here? Where am I and who are they?” Cat urged.

Kai told Cat that they were imprisoned by the trolls that terrorized the many creatures of Enderland. She had been captured two months ago while collecting berries. The trolls of Enderland survive on the tender meat of other creatures’ newborns, and make an elixir, known as panacea, from the baby’s blood and mother’s placenta. This gave the trolls everlasting life. Eck was their leader, overseeing the prison and preparing the feasts.

“I’ve seen several others come and go,” Kai explained, becoming upset. “I kept hoping I’d escape, but it is impossible. I’m due any day now. My poor baby will never have a chance. My husband will never see his child’s face.”

Cat put her arm around Kai’s tiny shoulders. Eck appeared, surprisingly quiet for a creature his size. He passed a tray into their cell. A piece of bread and mystery meat filled the two plates.

“Eat,” he ordered, walking away.

Kai ate without hesitation; a great relief to Cat, who was famished. Perhaps if she had listened to her stomach earlier and gone inside to eat a jam sandwich, she would not be in her current predicament. Although a part of Cat wanted to refuse the food, she knew for the baby’s sake and her own strength, she needed the nourishment.

As Cat bit into the meat, she saw Kai grab at her belly, a panic-stricken look crossing her face.

“No, Kai!” Cat commanded. “You cannot have that baby yet. I need more time to get us out of here.”

Cat finished her food, watching Kai closely. There had been no more contractions and it seemed as though she might get the time she needed to work this out. She gathered their plates and put them back on the tray. Cat set down the tray just beyond where Eck originally left it then helped Kai to the bed. Her plan would best work if Eck did not realize the gnome would soon give birth.

Once Kai was settled, Cat sat herself in between the tray and the door and began wailing loudly. Eck, hearing the racket, came towards his prisoner.

“Enough!” he barked. “I’ll give you something to cry about if you don’t shut up. Now give that tray here.”

Eck reached his hand into the cell towards the tray. As Cat reached with her right hand to push the dirty dishes towards him, her left hand shot out, plucking a single wiry hair from the troll’s gargantuan hand.

A great roar emerged from the angered troll. The sound terrified Cat, who jumped, dropping the hair. Eck entered the cell and grabbed Cat by the neck, pinning her against the wall. Just then, Kai screamed out as a contraction gripped her, unable to keep the labor pains secret.

The beast dropped Cat, no longer interested in revenge. She fell hard on the dirt floor. Eck sauntered over to the bed, an evil, eerie grin spreading across his already terrifying face. With his back turned, Cat scrambled to the fallen hair and held it tightly in her clenched fist.

“It seems I have some things to get in order,” Eck laughed as he stood over the frightened gnome. “It will soon be time to dine.”

Eck left them, the tray and his anger temporarily forgotten. Knowing there was no time to lose, Cat grabbed a spoon off the tray. In the dirt, she drew a rough sketch of Eck. She laid the hair in the center of the drawing and then traced a large circle around it.

“You see, Kai,” Cat explained. “Where I come from there is another kind of magic, voodoo magic. I am a descendant of the great Marie Catherine Laveau, the true voodoo queen.”

Turning her attention to the drawing, Cat began to chant softly. Her eyes rolled up in her head as she called for the energy of her lineage to be upon her.

“May the power of all my grandmothers be with me now. Let us use the gift granted to us by Bondye to strike down those who mean us harm. Throw the soul of my enemy into the deepest bowels of Hell.”

As Cat exclaimed this, she raised the spoon high in the air, slamming it down, piercing the heart of the drawing and driving the troll’s hair into the dirt. Eck, who was outside the cell, fell immediately to the ground as the spoon buried deep into the rough floor. Using the tray, Cat pulled in the keys that had fallen from Eck’s motionless hand.

“Is he dead?” Kai asked.

“I’d rather not wait around to find out,” Cat said, opening the cell door.

The pair cautiously crept out. Opening the door, Cat glanced around, checking for Crone or any others. To her relief, they were alone. The women took each other’s hand and darted into the woods, protected by the cover of a moonless night. As they crossed into the trees, Kai picked up a squirrel, whispering a message in its ear before it ran off.

“I can’t stay here. I still haven’t figured out how I got here in the first place,” Cat told Kai. “I was swimming at home and found myself in a lake.”

“Then we have to get you back to the lake,” Kai told her. “The portal will move when the sun rises in the morning.”

Kai led the way, Cat following closely behind. Twice they stopped when Kai was overcome by labor pains, but both women knew that they could not stay in one spot for long. Finally, they reached the rocky shoreline. Fifty yards out, a light could be seen on the surface of the water. It was as if the moon, absent in the night’s sky, had been placed in the water and was shining from below.

“What about you?” Cat asked Kai. “I can’t leave you here like this.”

As if on cue, several gnomes stepped out from the tree line, spears in hand.

“I’ll be ok. Now go,” Kai reassured her.

The two women hugged and Cat slipped into the still water. She kicked toward the light. When she felt the familiar feeling of indistinguishable direction, she let the water carry her to the surface rather than resist as she had before. She was relieved to find herself in her own backyard when she broke through to the night.

Cat exited the pool, rubbing her belly, in relieved disbelief that she was actually home. Her baby stirred inside of her.

“I think Kai is the perfect name for you, my little voodoo princess,” Cat said. “You will be my greatest adventure.”

Inside the house, Cat opened the fridge and pulled out the raspberry jam and a loaf of whole wheat bread. Time for that sandwich.

The Raven's Measure

Here is my first round story for the NYC Midnight Short Story Challenge. We were divided into heats and given a genre, a character and an object. From that point, you have 8 days to write 2,500 words or less. My prompts were suspense, a motorcyclist, and fragile.

He doused the remnants of their fire and scanned the horizon in all directions. From the northwest he observed a small, red glow. He guessed it was another group of travelers, likely the three women they had driven past earlier that evening. To the far south, a bloom of red blazed on the dark horizon. A house? A church? He made a mental note to avoid the area tomorrow, even if it added to the already long journey. Such destruction was usually accompanied by trouble.

He took the head and heart of the rabbit that they had roasted for dinner and walked a hundred yards from the now smoldering fire. Placing it gingerly on a rock, he knelt down and prayed.

“I accept this fragile world which has been left to the few. May He who keeps us safe accept this offering to His loyal feathered servants. I give up to You the Raven’s Measure.”

Before he had walked ten paces, the birds descended and began to feast.

“Abe,” he heard Becca call, her voice urgent and weak.

He quickened his pace to where he had prepared their sleep sacks, hidden by what was the front corner of a house once ago in simpler times. It not only concealed them from any passerby, but it also protected them from the night wind.

He bent down and took Becca’s frail hand, which was sweaty despite the chill.

“I’m having contractions. It’s too early,” she groaned.

“It is fine,” he comforted her. “A lot of women think it is time when they still have a while to go. Just squeeze my hand when the next one comes.”

He pulled his sack closer to hers, hoping he wasn’t fooling himself. By his calculations they had another few weeks to get to where her people were before the baby came and a proper sacrifice could be found. She clamped down and moaned. He counted. Another squeeze 1,354 seconds later. He figured that to be just over 20 minutes. He counted to 1,822 and she clutched tightly for the last time before fading off to sleep.

***

He was walking along a small, tree-lined road. There were so many leaves that the brightness of it almost burned his eyes. He was so accustomed to the green of rot that he’d forgotten the shade of life. As he approached the largest of the trees, he could see something nailed to the trunk.

A black, feathered fowl, the nail through its chest, hung for all to see. Scrawled in blood below it read, “Another raven dead.”

From overhead, Abe heard the deep, throaty “kraa” of the feathered servant descending upon its prey. His sacrifices weren’t enough. The fragile balance had been broken. His time had come.

Abe startled awake.

Dawn’s first hint of light was beginning to invade the hazy darkness. The thick smell of smoke and death, two scents indistinguishable from one another, was always strongest upon waking. It was as if every day began with a reminder of the hell that their world had become.

He walked to the case attached to his motorcycle and grabbed water. He drank a little and ate just enough jerky. Rationing was intuitive. He gathered up his sleep sack and created a small nest in the sidecar. It was the only protection that he could offer Becca’s delicate, pregnant body as they traveled the unpredictable roads.

Nudging Becca awake, Abe brushed her thick, black hair from her forehead and checked for fever. Her clamminess from the night before had departed and he sighed, relieved. He handed her the water and double the jerky that he had eaten himself.

Becca ate slowly, savoring the food and watching Abe closely as he cleaned up the camp site. She had heard him again last night, yelling and screeching in his sleep. She was growing ever more leery of his sanity. It wasn’t so scary initially when he obsessively watched the birds that circled; not even too alarming when he started talking about them incessantly. When he began to pray and offer them sacrifices, though, Becca knew the strong, cunning mind that had kept them both alive had deteriorated to a much more vulnerable state.

The pair had become a living metaphor of the dying world around them; fragile and desperate.

“We need to get going. There may be trouble south of here and we’ll need to avoid it,” Abe told her, securing their supplies.

Becca climbed in the sidecar and Abe started the reluctant bike. Becca couldn’t be certain, but he appeared to nod to a raven perched on a dead tree a few yards away before pulling the motorcycle onto the road.

They drove for hours, passing two small communities. Becca had long ago given up asking Abe to stop and talk to other people. He seemed fine with the isolation. Hour after hour, day after day, on the bike, not even small talk between the two of them. She no longer missed coffee dates with her girlfriends - a luxury that was hard to believe had ever existed. What she wouldn’t give, though, to ask another woman questions about pregnancy or nursing. As soon as they made it to her family homestead, a stronghold which she was certain still stood, she would have everything she needed. The baby kicked hard inside of her enormous stomach, reminding her that advice or none, motherhood was close.

As the sun began to set, Abe pulled the motorcycle and sidecar up to a trading post, the first that they had seen in almost a week.

“You can get out and stretch, but stay close,” Abe ordered as he was collecting a couple of their small furs and some jerky with which to barter.

Gasoline was hard to come by and Becca hoped that he would be able to fill the tank with what little they had to offer. A small dog approached Becca cautiously as she leaned against a tree, watching the evening colors careen across the sky. She extended her hand and the brown and white mutt sniffed. As she was about to pet the dog, her stomach tightened and she yelped in surprise and pain.

Startled, the dog ran off.

“Damnit,” Abe yelled. “Why didn’t you grab him? You know we need something to offer as the Raven’s Measure when the baby comes.”

Becca, bent over in pain, looked up at Abe, anger and disgust burning in her hazel eyes. As the contraction released its grip, she lowered herself to the ground.

“I am sick of hearing about your precious ravens! They are nothing but lowlife scavengers,” Becca exclaimed. “You have lost your mind if you believe otherwise.”

Abe walked back to the bike and filled the tank with the gas that he had been able to haggle from the traders. He knew that he should be worried about the grunts and groans she was making, but he was too focused on her words. Didn’t she know that without the proper sacrifice it was all for naught? They were all three damned - him, her and the baby. The balance must not be broken.

He had walked this tightrope, negotiated their survival in a realm of ruins, for what seemed like ages, even if it were a mere several months. It wasn’t by mistake that they had made it as far as they had. If that were to continue to be the case in this ever-fragile world that was left, no misstep could be taken. Every decaying body they passed on their journey could have easily been them. They would be a grand feast for the ebony servants that circled the skies. Abe couldn’t understand why Becca didn’t see this.

Returning to the tree, Abe offered his hand and pulled Becca up from the ground. They walked back to the bike and he helped her get situated as comfortably as possible for a woman in her condition. Reaching into his bag, Abe drew out an apple, green with some spots of red and a few that had started brown. Becca drew in her breath. It was the first piece of fruit she had seen in two months.

“We will share it,” she told him, feeling guilty for her earlier outburst.

Abe shook his head. “No,” he said. “You need it. You and that baby.”

Becca bit into the fruit, its smooth skin against the roof of her dry mouth, and began to giggle. Although slightly bitter and mushy, Becca thought it must be the most delicious apple she had ever eaten. She turned towards Abe and extended the apple to him, trying again to share, but he simply shook his head and started the bike.

When she was done eating it, she threw the core behind her. A raven dined.

***

Becca stood alone in the middle of a long, dark tunnel.

She could see a dim light on either end. She heard a child - no, children - laughing and playing. It echoed so loudly that she was uncertain from which direction it came.

The laughter was interrupted by a flutter of wings.

“KRAAAAA!”

The children began to scream.

Becca wanted to run to them, but she was torn on which way to go. She had to save the children. How could she save the children?

A bolt of pain pulsed through her, pulling Becca from her sleep. She tried to sit up, but the pain kept her pinned down. She felt something wet running along her thighs. There was no more denying it. She was having this baby.

Turning to wake Abe, Becca discovered his spot empty. Gingerly pulling herself up, she began to walk into the darkness, listening for him. She spotted a small fire and headed toward it.

“Abe!” she called softly.

Just as another wave of pain overtook her, Becca saw him, arms spread to either side, a conspiracy of ravens on all sides. She gasped, partially in pain but mostly in shock at the sight. Abe turned in time to see her crumble to the ground.

The birds took flight.

Abe lifted her, slipping his arms under hers and gently dragged her closer to the fire. He ran back to where they had made camp and grabbed both sleep sacks. After getting her set up on the bags, he ran once again to the parked motorcycle and grabbed the limited supplies that they had.

When he got back to the fire, Becca was responsive, although he wondered how aware she was. He poured small sips of water into her mouth and murmured words of comfort as best he knew how. Although Abe was a caring man, expressing it was never his strong suit. Especially now. His whole focus was mere survival, on maintaining the balance.

Time passed slowly. Becca slipped in and out of consciousness. As the night dragged on, dehydration, hunger and pain held her awareness at bay. Abe kept lifting the blanket and checking between her legs, although other than a baby’s head, he didn’t know what to look for. Occasionally Becca would scream out in pain. Abe worried that these fits would attract unwanted attention, but it seemed as though no other people were around.

Abe stared out into the darkness, convinced that the ravens were there watching, waiting. He had tried to bond with them earlier, to prove to them he knew their power, that he understood the fragile balance of the new order. After dinner he had left his offering, the remnants of a squirrel. He feared the Raven’s Measure hadn’t been enough. Every day it became harder to find them proper reparations.

Now the baby was coming, and he had no offering. Surely this new life required payment, otherwise they were all three doomed to die. He weighed the options. He could offer up Becca in exchange for the baby. The baby would die, though, without its mother for food. He could offer himself, but Becca couldn’t drive the bike, and they wouldn’t have any way to finish the journey. He could offer the baby itself. But how could society ever rebuild if new life was not given a chance?

Becca screamed and Abe pulled the blanket down to check. The baby’s head had almost fully emerged. He grabbed a towel and gathered up the baby girl, wrapping her securely. He tied off the cord and laid her on Becca’s chest. Becca looked at her baby girl and smiled before slipping out of consciousness.

From behind him, Abe believed he heard the sound of dozens of ravens’ claws moving across the hard ground. Decisions needed to be made as the sun was beginning to rise.

“Ahhhhh,” Becca called out, her eyes flitting open momentarily, her body twisting in pain.

“Hush now,” Abe told her. “You did real good. That is a fine looking little girl. Just rest.”

Abe grabbed the wet rag laying nearby and reached down to clean Becca up, only to quit cold. Another small head was blooming from the womb. He removed his shirt and wrapped up the baby. A perfect little boy.

Becca didn’t stir as Abe cleaned up the site and loaded the bike. They had been on the road for close to an hour before she awoke, panicked.

“The baby! Is the baby ok?”

Abe motioned to her lap. “Your little girl is perfect. Everything is just fine.”

Becca brought the baby to her breast and began to nurse.

“Her name is Eve,” Becca said, smiling.

Far away, the Raven’s Measure had been paid.

The fragile balance was restored.

A baby boy wailed.

Birds feasted.

Tiger For the Lady

Here is my second round story for the NYC Midnight Short Story Challenge. We were divided into heats and given a genre, a character and an object. From that point, you have 72 hours to write 2,000 words or less. My prompts were comedy, a science teacher, and a masked ball.

Have you ever had one of those experiences that are a combination of exhilarating, mortifying, surreal and yet so totally real you will never forget a single feeling from it?

I’m not going to lie, I don’t get many “OMG” moments, unless it is a reaction to some impossibly low test score or asinine answer from one of my students.

I’m not even kidding.

Recently on a test about transparency, the kids were asked, “What is hard water?”

Want to know what half of them said? Ice. Ice! For the record, in case you thought the answer was ice also, it’s water that has a high mineral content.

As much as I love teaching, there are days I think I should have just stayed in bed with my cat, Chinese takeout and Netflix. Don’t get me wrong, I adore my students, but we all have our breaking point.

At 33-years-old, I am a self-pronounced science dork. I’m more comfortable with a beaker in my hand than a champagne flute. I can list the periodic table, and yet am a little backwards on the top 40 hits. Since most of my friends have gotten married, my social life has slowed dramatically. I don’t hold it against them that I’m not always included anymore since it is just as uncomfortable for me to be the third wheel as it is for them to have me tagging along.

I’ve dated plenty of men, just none of them for very long. Trying to meet Mr. Right has left me feeling like Dorothy walking the yellow brick road through the woods, weary of lions and tigers and bears. And yet, it was a tiger that eventually caught my eye.

I am very fortunate to teach in a great district. We recently won a large monetary award, prompting a celebration. Some genius in higher administration thought a masquerade ball would be a fun way to celebrate. While I could think of a million better ways to celebrate (once again, my cat, Chinese takeout and Netflix) this wasn’t really an optional event for me since I was on the committee that worked to get the district recognized.

So, on the appointed day, at the appointed time, I showed up at the appointed place. Not to be too full of myself, but it was almost a Cinderella moment for me. I had shed my practical slacks and sweater vest, took out the bun and shown up to the ball looking like a princess.

I adjusted my mask, took a big breath in, and opened the heavy double doors that led into the ballroom. The room was extremely crowded given that the scheduled start time was just 20 minutes earlier. I could see some faces I knew and a lot that I did not. The one curse of a large district is you don’t always know all of your coworkers at the other schools, or I suppose it could be a blessing, depending on the person. I made my way through the tables, looking for one with my school’s name displayed on the center plaquared. When I found it, it was already littered with several empty beer bottles and drink glasses, sweaters and purses left lying around haphazardly, not a person in sight.

“Seriously, they are worse than the students,” I mumbled.

Suddenly a tall, dark haired man was standing in front of me. His tiger mask hid part of his face, but his dimple, freckles and deliciously dark brown eyes gave me a clear enough picture.

“I’m sorry?” he asked.

“Oh, I was just talking to myself,” I stammered, my face flushing.

A large Cheshire grin spread across his face.

“As long as you don’t answer yourself,” he replied, offering his hand. “I was just headed to the bar. Care to join me?”

Sometimes I think God made me attractive to make up for my lack of couth in these situations. I took his hand without saying a word and let him lead me to one of a few bars set up throughout the ballroom. He ordered himself a Captain and Coke before turning to me.

“Red wine, please.”

As he handed me my glass, a bevy of screeching swans ran up to me, grabbing my arm and sending the contents of my glass all over my mystery man’s white tuxedo jacket. Again I found myself unable to form words, an elephant stuck in a butterfly net.

“Well that’s unfortunate,” he said, raising an eyebrow. “I’m going to head to the restroom and see what I can do about this.”

I tried to follow him, but I found myself cornered by five of my coworkers in matching white feathered masks, obviously oblivious of the mess, literally and figuratively, that they had just made.

“Sharrrrron,” they squawked, before each going off on their own tangent.

Honestly, I had no idea what any of them were saying. One on one they each had the tenacity and chattiness of a 15-year-old girl after downing a Venti Frappuccino with an extra shot. Combined it was like standing next to a space shuttle at takeoff.

“Who was the hottie?” one of them asked.

“I don’t know, ladies. Somebody made me spill my drink all over him before I even got a name,” I responded more angrily than I intended.

I walked up to the bartender and got a new glass of wine, opting for a white; in hindsight a precaution I wish I had taken the first time around. I was just suggesting we go on safari to find the beautiful beast when the loudspeaker boomed asking us all to take our seats.

Of course, this was not an immediate process. In a room full of overworked and underpaid educators, another trip to the open bar seemed reasonable before we were all stuck in our seats listening to the superintendent. There was a fast rush towards where I stood, so I made my way back to the table.

There were thank yous and speeches and awards. Eventually my name was called to come up to the stage area to get a small token of appreciation for my committee work. I thought for sure I’d be able to track down my lion from the front of the room, but I was mistaken.

I was headed back to my seat, almost resigned to the notion that he was nothing more than a figment of my imagination, when I saw him slip out the backdoor to the patio area. Refusing to let him get away again, I followed him out back, a tigress on the prowl.

“Guess I know how to make a memorable first impression. At least let me pay for the dry cleaning,” I said, sitting down in the empty adirondack chair next to him.

Unfortunately, I misjudged the amount of give in my party dress as I tried to sit. I ended up in an uncontrolled flop the last couple of feet, which sent the chair on its side. My tiger caught my elbow just in time to prevent my rear from being as bruised as my ego.

“Memorable may be an understatement,” he managed between laughs. He straightened my chair and help me sit down.

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen you at a district event before. Although it’s hard to say for certain with these ridiculous masks on,” I said, trying to regain my composure.

“I feel like we are in some strange Eyes Wide Shut thing,” the tiger joked.

“You’re really funny,” I said, removing my mask.

“Funny how? Funny like a clown?” he asked, his Cheshire grin again lighting up his face as he removed his own mask. “Sorry, that was dumb. It was a line I heard once that I always wanted to try.”

I didn’t care at all about how dumb his last line was. He was even more gorgeous with the mask off than I had originally thought. My Cinderella moment was complete with this real life Prince Charming in front of me.

“I’m Sharon,” I finally managed. “I teach science at Ginsberg Middle School.”

He again extended his hand to shake mine, a formality which seemed a little silly given the series of blunders that had transpired between us over the last hour. I certainly wasn’t going to miss an opportunity to touch this god of a human, though.

“Jason,” he replied. “I’m the new math teacher at the high school.”

“A handsome hire. They finally got something right at central admin,” I joked, again feeling my face flush.

We spent the next half an hour playing “getting to know you.” Where did you grow up? (He grew up in Virginia.) How many siblings do you have? (He has two sisters.) If you could be a werewolf or a vampire, which would you be? (Definitely a werewolf.) You know, the important stuff. Without warning, he looked at his empty cup and then looked at me.

“I was going to get another drink,” he said, “but I think I may want to kiss you first.”

He sat there looking at me for what felt like forever, but in reality was probably just a few seconds. Next thing I knew, I felt like somebody else had taken control of my mouth. I was a dummy at the mercy of the ventriloquist.

“Why don’t you kiss me, get another drink, and then kiss me again,” I heard myself say.

He leaned into me and our lips locked. My nerves and elation were a silently crashing crescendo. He gingerly placed his hand along the side of my face, his forefinger and thumb perfectly cradling my jawline. As we pulled apart, he tucked my hair behind my ear so gently and naturally, it felt as though he’d been doing it for years.

Wouldn’t it be fantastic if that was how the story ended? However, this is a story about my life, and my life doesn’t end with a life altering kiss.

After the kiss, I sat back in my chair and closed my eyes for a moment, trying to let the magic sink in. The sound of clicking heels pulled me out of it, though. Walking towards us was a beautiful woman in a long black gown.

“Jason! Where the hell have you been? We have to get going. I promised the babysitter she would be home by 11,” she demanded. She turned her attention to me. “Who is this?”

Perhaps I could have taken half a beat before reacting, but after an entire night of roller coaster emotions, I was spent. I lept to my feet, perhaps the most fluid movement of my evening, and slapped Jason across his perfect face.

“Seriously? Are you kidding me, Jason,” I screamed. “The babysitter?”

I turned and quickly headed for the door, feeling like a complete moron. Just as the sound of laughter hit my ears, a hand grabbed mine and turned me around.

Jason.

“Sharon,” he began, shaking his head, “meet my sister, Allison. She also teaches at the high school. I’m staying with her and her three kids till I finds a place of my own.”

He reached into my open clutch and pulled out my cell phone. After hitting a few buttons he handed it back to me, kissed me on my cheek and began to walk away. As he reached the door he turned back, that beautiful Cheshire grin lighting up his face one last time that night.

“Call me. At the very least the cleaning bill is on you,” he said.

As Jason and his sister disappeared, I looked down at my phone in disbelief. Even if I had ended my Cinderella night as more of a jester than a princess, I had still won over my prince. Score one for the science nerds!

Nolan’s St. Baldrick’s Essay

This is an essay Nolan, age 10, wrote about his involvement with St. Baldrick’s Foundation. I am so proud of his commitment!

Nolan Oliphant

4th Grade

As a kid there are a lot of rules and a lot of adults making the rules. Sometimes it feels like grown-ups think kids can’t make good decisions by themselves. I think that as a child I have made good decisions and have been a good leader to help other kids make good choices. With our good decisions we are helping to make changes in the world.

Every minute a kid is diagnosed with cancer. The St. Baldrick‘s Foundation is an organization that raises money so in the future there will be a cure for pediatric cancer. They do this by men, women and children shaving their heads to raise awareness and show support for kids (and adults) who have cancer.

It is a very easy way to make a difference. You start by just making an account online. You can sign up to shave your head or to volunteer. Then you share it and people can join you or donate to you. How is it hard to help kids? It is actually pretty easy to help a kid in need.

I first shaved my head with St. Baldrick‘s in 2015 when I was seven. My mom did it in 2010 and was doing it again in 2015, so I decided to join her with my younger brother. We were part of Team Brave and Mighty. My mom’s friend Carl was the team captain. He was shaving for the fifteenth time in memory of his little brother, Andy. I was really nervous about shaving my head. I knew I had to be courageous, though, like the kids actually battling cancer. I’m glad I didn t listen to my fear because it was an awesome experience, even if my head was freezing in the cold Pittsburgh weather.

In 2017 I decided to do it again. This time I joined Team Ty, with team captain Drew Shields. Ty went to high school with my aunt and died of cancer in 1996 and Drew, his older brother, played baseball with my dad.This time I let classmates vote on what color I should dye my hair before the shave. If they donated even $1 they got to vote. It made it more fun for me and made the rest of the school more inspired and aware of what I was doing. I was determined to raise as much money as I could for this cause. In the end I raised $1,125 for 2017. It was a lot more than 2015 when I only raised $340.

When it got time to sign up for St. Baldrick’s this time, I decided to be a leader, and created my own team and try to get friends to shave with me. At first only a couple of other kids signed up to be part of the team, Naked Noggins. Now there are 14 kids shaving, plus Carl and his wife (she is a volunteer). Right now there are four days until the shave and my team has raised almost $6,000. I am so proud of my teammates. Also, to celebrate my commitment to St.Baldrick’s since this is my third year, I am being honored as a Squire of Hope.

I have been on a lot of teams with these kids. We have played soccer, baseball and basketball together. Naked Noggins is different than the fun we have playing sports because this time we are changing the future of pediatric cancer. Some people may think kids can t do a lot to make a difference, but my friends and I are proving them wrong.

Kids can make good decisions, and I am proud of the way my leadership, commitment, teamwork, determination, courage and citizenship have played a part my choice to be a successful part of St. Baldrick‘s.

https://www.stbaldricks.org/participants/mypage/1007493/2019

Make America Great Again

Here is my first round story for the NYC Midnight Short Story Challenge. We were divided into heats and given a genre, a character and an object. From that point, you have a week to write 2,500 words or less. My prompts were action/adventure, a restaurateur and spearfishing.

Make America Great Again

By Leann’s estimate, they had about an hour before the sun rose, casting an unwanted spotlight. They needed to finish up and head back to the caves quickly, before they found themselves exposed.

She knew that the small game, berries, and mushrooms they had gathered were not enough to feed everyone. She had hoped for a deer, but it was rare they saw any before day break.

“Let’s hit the stream,” she commanded. “We need to fill these water jugs and hopefully spear some fish.”

When this group of outcasts had formed, Leann had no ambition of being a leader. However, once she stepped up to help with food, she realized she had that title, whether she wanted it or not.

The burden had grown as their party did. What started with three people had grown to nearly thirty. They had seen other “racial traitors”, but there was no room in their cave community for more. The greater the number, the greater the risk. As much as it pained Leann to not help everyone, the policy was to share a meal, offer a night's rest, and send them south where another camp had been established.

Just last week a government ICE Pursuance Party had been spotted less than a half a mile away. Leann’s group was careful to leave no traces, but it was becoming increasingly difficult to remain hidden from these raids, even with the well concealed caves - indiscernible among the rock structures. It was a stroke of great fortune that had delivered this sanctuary to this party of pariahs.

One of the regulars at her restaurant was a geologist before they were forced into hiding. Asim Mostafa had moved to South Carolina two years ago. Being Egyptian in New York City was becoming increasingly dangerous, even if he was an American citizen, so he decided to head south. After the freeze on all immigration and the promised border wall became a reality, racial tension had grown at a dizzying pace.

For a short time after Asim moved, Charleston wasn’t wrapped up in the president’s efforts to “remove those who threaten the moral and puristic fibers that run through American blood”. However, the president’s aspiration to make America white again had quickly blanketed the country, suffocating the protests of dissentients.

It was a Wednesday morning when the president declared that all Muslims were to be gathered and sent to internment camps. By Wednesday afternoon, the news stations were broadcasting image after image of Muslim men, women, and children being beat, shot and dragged; not just by the government search parties, but by their own neighbors. On Friday, the president addressed the country, thanking those who helped terminate and round up the vermin that were polluting the streets.

This is how Leann’s group first formed. She hid Asim and two of his friends in the basement of the restaurant. He talked about an intricate cave system east of the city that he had stumbled upon while looking for a salt cave for work. It was tucked away in a forest and he thought he could hide there. She wanted Asim and the others to stay, but he didn’t want to put Leann at risk for harboring Muslims.

Only a week after the initial declaration, a new order came down that “the risk of terrorist hiding among us will remain critical as long as we allow those of inferior races to remain in our streets, businesses, and schools.” Suddenly, the glowing brown, Bolivian skin she had always admired was now her death warrant. After the first brick was thrown through the window of her restaurant, she knew it was time to leave.

“Guys, let’s hit down here by these rocks. They extend out for better fishing,” Leann ordered.

The group of five walked down to the water’s edge. Three members of the hunting party began filling the water jugs while Leann took D’Andre, a newer hand of the team, out to the rocks to show him the best way to spear a fish.

“Ok, D’Andre,” Leann began. “You have to stay very patient when spearfishing. It takes a lot of concentration and a sense of humor because you’re going to miss more often than hit.”

Almost contradicting herself, Leann speared the first fish she went for, plunging the sharpened wooden tool into the slow-moving waters. She showed D’Andre how to let the tip reach the bottom of the shallow stream and wait a moment until the fish weakened its struggle. She threw the fish in the leather bag that hung across her body before walking to another rock, giving D’Andre space to try for himself.

Twenty minutes later, all the jugs were full and a total of seven fish had been pulled out of the water. In all of the excitement of spearing his first and only fish, D’Andre had slipped off the rock and into the stream. Luckily it was still early September and he wouldn’t be too cold on the walk back to the caves.

They were only five minutes from the cave entrance when D’Andre suddenly stopped.

“Oh, no! Oh, shit,” he exclaimed. “When I fell in, I set my spear on the rocks. I left it there. My spear is at the stream. What if a search party comes through?”

Leann could feel her heart begin to race, partial anger, partial panic. This was a risk they could not afford to take. It was a small mistake that could have major consequences for them all. She was mad at D’Andre for leaving it, but even more upset with herself for not taking inventory before they left the site. She slipped the bag off of her shoulder.

“You guys go back to the cave. I’m sure nobody will see it, but it is a chance I’d rather not take,” she assured them.

“No, I can’t let you go back,” D’Andre protested. “It was my fault, I should go.”

Leann looked at D’Andre, only nineteen-years-old, still wet behind the ears - both literally and figuratively - and knew this was something she needed to do herself.

“I’ll be fine. There and back. It’s a trip I’ve made plenty of times. Go start cleaning the fish and I will make a nice fish and mushroom soup when I get back.”

As she crept back to the stream, Leann made a mental list of the ingredients she wished she had from her restaurant: heavy whipping cream, garlic cloves, and oh, how she missed her spice rack. Granted, nobody complained about the meals she was able to scrape together for them, but she missed the finer things to which her palate was accustom.

She neared the stream, spotting the spear on the rocks. She remained hidden behind a tree for a few minutes, listening for voices or any movement. Once Leann was satisfied she was alone, she made her way out, retrieving the handmade fishing tool.

Leann didn’t have a chance to register the flash in her periphery before feeling a sharp sting in her thigh. She kicked her leg out, reacting instinctively. The attacker, a large dog, circled in front of her, crouched down and leapt. Leann had no time to think. She stuck the spear out and pierced the dog through his chest as he began to bound - sharp, white teeth bared.

The large German Shepherd lay in the water, whimpering softly as its crimson blood ran pink in the stream. She saw its collar and registered the real threat this dog posed. ICE Federal Agent it read, alongside the Federal Seal. Not only had she just critically injured a canine agent, she was sure there were more agents, human agents, close behind.

The puncture wound to her leg was bleeding, but the adrenaline coursing through her kept any pain temporarily at bay. She had to quickly decide her next move. If she stayed in the water and ran, she could mask any scent in case there were more dogs. Staying in the stream left her without any cover, though. She pulled the spear out of the dog’s chest, producing a heartbreaking cry from the animal. With the tiny bit of protection in hand and her hunting knife in her belt, she made a quick break for the tree line.

“Stop right there,” a voice bellowed.

Leann had just made it into the woods. She ignored the voice and headed for denser cover. Her injured leg couldn’t take her full weight, and she felt herself being slowed by the hobble in her run.

A shot rang out. She braced herself for a hit that didn’t come.

Leann could hear more voices behind her, but luckily no barking. She wanted to head north a bit and then cross over the stream, away from her camp and the neighboring camp south of them. She was several hundred yards into the woods when she spotted a large boulder. Leann hid behind it, trying to buy some time to catch her breath and plan out which way to get back to the stream.

Leann’s sprint into the woods had increased the bleeding to her leg, but she had nothing with which to wrap or even wipe the wound. The wind gusted, swaying the treetops. Sticks fell. Branches groaned. Leann held her breath, unable to tell if all the sounds were nature or if the cracks and creaks could be those of the men hunting her.

As she was about to peek out from her hiding spot, she heard the unmistakable sound of a walkie talkie call, followed by words she couldn’t make out. She couldn’t gauge how far away the agent was until she heard him answer.

“I’m headed southeast currently. No sign of the scum yet,” the gruff voice said into the walkie talkie. He was no more than ten yards from where Leann sat, frozen.

“Wait. It looks like there may be some fresh blood here,” said the agent.

Leann could hear him getting closer. She had no idea what she should do. Should she stay where she was and hope he didn’t find her? Should she make a run for it? Her biggest fear wasn’t being killed at this moment. She had heard stories of “racial traitors” being tortured for information on where others could be found. Asim, D’Andre, and the rest of her crew had become an extended family to her and she could not betray them. She also knew her spear and knife were useless against the agent’s gun.

The walkie talkie buzzed. “I’ve spotted something west of the stream. Please provide back-up.”

“Copy,” said the agent.

Leann didn’t realize how rigid she was until her body began to relax as the footsteps faded. She waited a few minutes after he was gone before peering over the rock. She was alone. Tears of relief spilled down her face. She knew sitting there crying was not a luxury she could afford.

Although she didn’t want to lead anyone to the caves, Leann decided to continue east since it was clear they were looking the opposite direction. Using the spear as support, she began walking. Her leg was screaming, but luckily the bleeding had nearly stopped. Now that she was calmer, she had a better grasp on her location. She had been hunting and gathering in these woods for months. She felt ashamed that in her panic she had lost sense of her surroundings, wanting to believe herself more level headed.

Leann headed up a hill and walked along the top of a steep, rocky drop off. Just ahead was a path that would lead her to a heavily wooded valley where she could stay hidden until the sun went down. Leann just hoped nobody from the group came looking for her. A stick snapped behind her, pulling her out of her thoughts.

“You stupid, bitch!”

Leann turned quickly, instantly terrified, not just by the weapon pointed at her, but by the look in the eyes of the agent holding it.

“That was my dog you killed! He was my partner for five years and you took him away from me!”

The agent’s rage was palpable, as though he had harnessed the immeasurable energy of the ocean and unleashed the crashing waves of disgust on her unexpecting stillness. The hatred he radiated became a physical force, pushing her closer to the unforgiving drop off.

“I’m sorry,” Leann begged. “I am. It was just a reaction.”

“Shut up,” the agent ordered. “You disgust me. You and everyone like you. This is the exact reason we are wiping you all out. We should have done this a long time ago.”

The agent pulled out a walkie talkie with his free hand, the gun never moving from Leann.

“I have her. As much as I’d like to waste her right now, I’ll bring the bitch back for questioning,” he said. A sick smile spread across his face as he turned his attention back to Leann. “We have some fun ways of making you animals talk. Now throw down your weapons.”

Leann took the spear and knife and dropped them over the edge and onto the rocks far below. Maybe somebody from the group would find them and know that she was taken. Then again, if she were taken she’d be tortured. As much as she would never want to give up their location, she couldn’t risk their lives. Looking at the agent, she began to laugh.

“I feel sorry for you,” Leann told him. “There have always been people like you, scared of those who are different; scared of what you don’t understand. Understand this. You can torture me. You can kill me. But there will always be more people like me.”

“Shut up,” he yelled. “Quit talking and put out your hands.”

“The hats weren’t lying. America will be great again, but not in the way you want. America will be great again because this tyranny is not going to last. I have hope for the change that tomorrow will bring. Love is going to win, not you,” Leann finished, taking a giant step over the edge.

As she fell backwards, she smiled, knowing that everything she said was true, she had kept her people safe. She shall not have died in vain. It was for love. Love wins.

Not Quite Woodstock

Here is my second round story for the NYC Midnight Flash Fiction Challenge. We were divided into heats and given a genre, a setting and an object. From that point, you are given 48 hours to write 1,000 words or less. My prompts were comedy, a silo and waterslide.

Not Quite Woodstock

Let’s get the dirty details out in the open from the start. My name is Hibiscus-Fairylight Nowakowski and I live in a barn. As much as I wish I were kidding, this is the running joke known as my life.

Perhaps I could be more accepting of this Bohemian name if my parents were children of Woodstock; if they’d been forever changed by the love, drugs and music that emerged from that small New York town in 1969. I’d even understand if they lived in the Haigh-Ashbury part San Francisco during the hippie movement.

The problem is, my parents were born in 1972 in rural Kansas. They’ve never even been to California or New York. For some reason, they always felt slighted that they missed out on the generation of “make love not war” and by saddling me with this grain-fed, organic name, they could somehow capture a piece of the past. Rather than people looking at me like I know the secret to total tranquility, they look at me like I have three heads while I try to explain my name.

“Yes, I’m serious.”

“You forgot the hyphen. It is all one name.”

“No, the hyphen is between Hibiscus and Fairylight, not Fairylight and Nowakowski.”

“Yes, I’m sure. It is my name!”

“N-o-w-a-k-o-w-s-k-i.”

Don’t get me wrong, despite these peculiar details, my life is boringly non-remarkable. The barn we live in was converted on my great grandparent’s old farm and my Nana and Poppy live next door in the farmhouse. My dad works in construction and my mother is a nurse. They were high school sweethearts; a real Jack and Diane love story. It is all so disgustingly romantic. Kind of makes me want to barf.

My favorite place on the property is the abandoned grain silo. What once housed crops now plays host to my art studio, my reading hammock and has been transformed into something resembling the Church of Hibiscus-Fairylight. I have yet to find any parishioners, though, other than my fat cat, Jerry.

It was this unwavering love for my sacred silo that made it so hard to stay away from it the week leading up to my sixteenth birthday. I had no idea what my parents had planned, but whatever it was required me to move out anything I might classify as “good” and stay away for an entire seven days. While part of me was excited, I also worried that this meant there was no new car in my future. I mean, isn’t that what every 16-year-old wants?

A day before my birthday, my parents blindfolded me and led me away from the house.

“Isn’t there some quote about never letting a hippie take you to a second location,” I joked with them. “With all of this build up, there better be a car waiting for me.”

“Very cute,” my mother retorted dryly.

I could hear the sound of running water, peaking my curiosity. When at last they removed my blindfold, a water slide stood in front of me, the top of it three-stories high, emerging from an opening in the silo, emptying into our pool below. It was amazing and more than I could have ever imagined.

“No way. No way,” I stammered.

“Try it out,” my dad invited.

I didn’t need to be told twice. I darted up the stairs and climbed on. I sat for a minute admiring my dad’s work. I always knew he was talented, but this was truly some next level shit.

The ride down was fast, fun and nearly flawless. With about four feet left, my thighs rubbed against the fiberglass, slowing my final approach and delaying my splash. Always quick with an answer, my dad returned with a large bottle of hand soap.

Climbing the stairs, my dad explained, “We can add a bit of soap and really get it going.”

Of course he was right. We stayed out there for nearly an hour enjoying my dad’s handiwork before going in for lunch. What came next we may never really know, but we all have a theory. Mine involves a fat and curious cat.

As we ate our grilled cheese, Jerry came to the back door, meowing loudly. I went to let him in, only to discover he was covered in big, fluffy suds.

“Holy, Jerry Garcia,” I managed, looking at my parents curiously before the clarity of understanding swept over me.

I sprinted to the silo, Mom and Dad right behind me, only to find white fluff emerging from every opening. Soapsuds spilled out, coating the ground all around. As it melted into the surrounding dirt, a big muddy mess was left behind. I know I shouldn’t have laughed after all of my dad’s hard work, but it was a sight to see.

The best I can figure is Jerry some how knocked the connecting hose loose, which combined with the uncovered soap, leaving a messy sea of suds. As my dad sprinted through to get to the water valve, he slipped, leaving him coated in a combination of sticky brown mud and crisp white bubbles.

My mom stood there laughing, tears of disbelief running down her cheeks.

“Find something funny?” my dad asked her, throwing some mud in her direction.

Before I knew what was happening, the three of us were slipping, sliding, laughing, crying and creating shenanigans. Jerry sat there, watching all of us as though he had never seen anything quite like us.

As we cleaned up the disaster left behind that evening, I looked over at my parents. My dad with a push broom, my mom, rag in hand, both mud coated from head to toe.

“Guess that car is sounding pretty good right now, huh, guys?”