It was roughly the size of a grapefruit, translucent, mottled, and reflecting the gold of the cushion it rested on. The sign next to it read, “MAGIC. DO NOT TOUCH!”
Mairi reached toward it, but Iain slapped her hand away.
“DON’T TOUCH IT!” he yelled. “Can’t you read?!”
“I just want to look at it better. I can’t tell what it is,” Mairi said, her lower lip trembling.
The two children stared at ball. It had mysteriously appeared on the table.
“We should tell Mom,” Iain finally said. “It gives me the creeps.”
“She’s in the kitchen with George,” Mairi said. The tone of her voice and the accompanying eye-roll said everything about her feelings toward George.
“I’ll get her,” Iain said. “You wait here, but don’t touch it.”
She frowned and stared. “What makes it magic?” she said aloud and reached for the ball as her mother and Iain came in.
*POOF* Mairi was gone.
Iain grabbed hold of his mom, terrified. “What just happened?!” he cried.
Behind them both, a deep voice ordered, “Bring that here.”
Iain looked at George. His height and heft alone were scary, but that booming voice made Iain’s stomach feel all squeezy.
“Bring it here,” he ordered again.
“But… but…” Iain stammered.
George took a step toward him, so Iain reached for the orb.
*POOF* Iain was gone.
George slid his arm around their mother.
“Now, where were we?” he said, smiling wickedly.
This is my response to this week’s Unicorn Challenge — write a 250 word story based on the picture shown above.
When Lilly saw Gemma in the grocery store, she knew this would not be the quick trip that Mom promised.
“Ella!” she exclaimed, rushing over to them. “Have I got a story for you!”
Mom glanced down at Lilly and said, “Why don’t you go get some cherries while Gemma and I talk?”
Lilly did not need to be asked twice. She loved cherries.
Still within sight of her mom, she went to the large display in the produce section. She grabbed a bag and started filling it with fruit. Then she spied something in the cherry bin.
She went back to her mom and tugged on her sleeve.
“And then I saw them –,” Gemma was saying, but Ella put up her hand to pause the story.
“What do you need, honey?” she asked Lilly.
“What if there’s something besides cherries in the cherry bin?” Lilly asked.
“That happens sometimes,” Mom said. “The fruit gets mixed up. Just put cherries in the bag.”
“But what if I want to get something besides cherries?” she asked.
“Put each different thing in its own bag,” her mother replied.
Lilly nodded and headed back.
She heard Gemma continuing, “The two of them were…”
Lilly finished filling the cherry bag and then put her other item in a different bag. She shrugged as she did it, but Mom had said.
“Ready?” Mom asked, coming alongside Lilly. She nodded her approval at the cherries, then screamed — when she saw the large snail in a bag.
Duncan opened his eyes and looked around the room.
He couldn’t believe his luck! Everyone was sleeping.
The huge family dinner had been amazing and delicious. Now the family was sprawled in chairs, sofas, even on the floor. Duncan pushed himself up out of his chair and carefully stepped over the sleeping boy with the open book on his chest. Someone stirred on the couch, but Duncan tiptoed out through the back kitchen door.
As the door clicked shut behind him, he breathed in the fresh afternoon air. Now, where was his bike?
Behind the garage, he found the blue BMX. He climbed on, but it was strange; suddenly it felt too small for him. No matter — he was just taking a wee spin around the park.
He headed down the bike path and began pedaling. He hoped he would see some of his buddies kicking the ball on the field, but he didn’t recognize any of the kids playing.
He kept riding.
The playground looked unfamiliar. The slide was bright blue, the swings were a rainbow of colors. When did they put that there? he wondered.
As he looped back toward the house, he wondered at the people staring at him.
The seat is too low, he thought. It does feel awkward. I need to raise it.
When home was in sight, he saw a woman running toward him.
“Dad!” she cried. “Dad, don’t scare us like that by taking off on Johnny’s bike!”
The two women walked along amiably chatting when Dahlia froze.
“What’s wrong?” asked Cami, stopping too.
“That’s it,” Dahlia said, pointing to floral arch creating a doorway on the path.
“That’s what?” Cami asked.
“That’s the portal that I came through when I got here,” Dahlia replied.
“The doorway to 2023?”
“Yes! I’m sure of it!” Dahlia said. “Now I can go back home!”
Cami put her hand on Dahlia’s arm. “Are you sure?” she asked.
“I’m sure it’s the arbor! I remember seeing it and being surprised that it had just suddenly appeared! Yes! This is the portal!” Dahlia said, her excitement growing with every word.
“No,” said Cami. “I mean, are you sure you want to go back?”
Oh, goodness, yes! I’ve met my grandmother. I’ve got my great-grandmother’s journal here in my bag. I’ve got so much to tell them back home.”
“How do you know that the journal will survive the trip?” Cami asked. “You haven’t even had a chance to read it yet!”
“Why wouldn’t it survive?” Dahlia asked.
Cami frowned. “We don’t know the rules of time travel, do we? You don’t even remember what happened when you came through before.”
Now Dahlia frowned. “I wish I could remember what happened before that breakfast at the Jackson farm. It’s like one moment I’m seeing a floral arbor and heading for it, and the next I’m at breakfast on a farm seventy years ago.”
Second, the only idea I had when I saw the arbor was time travel.
Third, I kind of hate that that was my first thought, especially because the parent blog for the challenge is called Tales from Glasgow and clearly from Scotland.
Fourth, for the record, I have NOT read or watched Outlander. Just sayin’. But because of Outlander, time travel in Scotland just sounds cliche.
Fifth, as I thought about the whole idea, I realized that I don’t know the rules for time travel. Would a journal travel unscathed through a portal?
For a writing class I was challenged to tell the backstory of how my father got his dog Muggsy. His father had brought the dog home one day in 1934 or 35 after finding it while waiting for the ferry. Muggsy fit in my grandfather’s pocket.
This piece is fiction — and I don’t write much fiction, but it was fun to give it a try.
Stewart, Donald, and Muggsy
She rocked on her heels under a tree while it rained. The little bit of shelter offered relief, plus someone had thrown a crust from a sandwich there. She broke the stale bread in half and offered one piece to her dog.
“Dunno why Mama don’t want me sharin’ with you,” she said to the dog, as he licked her hand.
Toward evening the blind man arrived to beg. He tap-tap-tapped his way to his usual spot.
“Hep me out,” he called as people approached, and he extended his empty open cigar box in front of him. “Can’t see. Can’t work. Hep me out,” he called, and then waited.
The little white dog lapped water from a dirty puddle while the girl watched men dig into their pockets and throw coins in the box.
A lanky man in an overcoat stopped in front of the beggar. He rummaged in his pocket. “Here you go, friend,” he said, placing a few coins in the box. He patted the blind man’s shoulder and left his hand resting there a moment longer.
“Thank-a,” said the blind man.
She scooped up her dog, muddy paws and all, and ran after the man.
“‘scuse me, sir,” she said, as loud as she could. He was heading straight for the Hoboken ferry. “‘scuse me, sir,” she repeated.
He stopped and looked at the thin little girl whose outgrown dress was smeared with mud. “Can I help you?” he asked.
“Do you live in Hoboken?” she asked.
“No,” he said. “but I live in New Jersey? Do you need to get there?”
“No, sir,” she said. “My dog does.”
A smile played at the corners of the man’s mouth.
She continued, “Mama says folks in Hoboken have houses and yards. She says there’s lotsa green grass there. My dog needs to live some place like that.”
She lifted the dog up toward the man. “Can you –“
“What happened here?” he interrupted, gently touching a long dark bruise on the inside of her upper arm. Four similar parallel bruises marked the outside of her arm.
She pulled the dog back and tried to cover the marks with her sleeve. He noticed a matching set of bruises on her other arm.
She said, “Papa don’t know how hard he holds me sometimes.” Then looking up at him, she said, “Can you take my dog home with you?”
He scratched the little dog behinds the ears.
“You got a house?” she asked.
“I do,” he replied, “and two little boys, but I can’t take your dog.”
Supposin’,” she said, “supposin’ you knew somethin’ bad would happen if this dog stayed here, like he might end up drowned or somethin’.”
“My wife doesn’t like dogs,” he said.
“Can you tell her that you found him runnin’ ‘round the docks, and you was worried that he might get stepped on or kicked or end up in the river?” Tears filled her eyes. “He’s a good dog. She’s a mama. She’d understand.”
Gently, he took the little dog from the girl and snuggled it into his overcoat pocket.
“His name’s Muggsy.” Her voice cracked as she spoke and her eyes overflowed.
He started to speak, but she had disappeared into the crowd.
Beleaguered Truth walked slowly into the public square.
Tired hands held the pole which was seated in the cup of the worn strap around her neck. No longer was her flag high and proud. Her arms, so very weary, could not keep the staff close to her breast and so it dipped.
TRUTH — the tattered flag proclaimed.
And Truth herself walked slowly in amongst the crowd.
Few stepped back to make way.
Some stopped and pointed and jeered.
Still she walked.
Eyes down.
So weary.
Her knuckles were dry and cracked, weatherbeaten.
Her robe, once white, was now dingy, like January’s snow in March.
She walked into the square, heading for the center, to stand where all could see.
Someone stuck out a foot — to be funny, to be mean, to earn a few guffaws and high-fives.
Somebody stuck out their foot, and Truth stumbled.
The sound of the pole clattering on the stones silenced the crowd, but only momentarily.
Hot Dogs and Marmalade 