#17

We wrote short stories today in class. We learned about using active verbs instead of passive ones. Miss Grothoff asked us to write a fantasy about our weekend. So here it goes.

Dawn! I wake to a cloudy room scented with morning dew and breathe in fresh alpine air. I sit up on my bed and survey the expanse of my living quarters – the undying sun rises and I feel its warm rays on my face. I see my visage on my wall’s mirror and know deep in my being that today was going to be a fantastic day.

I make my way down to the breakfast table and gobble down a breakfast for champs. With every swallow my body begins to bulge and develop muscle mass needed for the day’s activities. I toss my empty bowl into the hollow sink and turn to leave the house.

My bike leans on a tree; it waits for me with godly patience, like a noble steed. I mount my bike and adjust the helmet strap which guarantees my safety. I journey over to the local fireworks store to pick up some weaponry for that evenings battle. Yes, the hour of bloodshed closes in like the minute hand on a doomsday clock.

Oh the suspense! How time slows to agonizing minutes when one anticipates a victory. Cruelty lies in waiting. The mere constraining of oneself compares itself to a ship anchored at its heels, longing to be caught in the wind and whisked away on the Equatorial Current.

And how those types of thoughts flood my mind. Thankfully, those thoughts help pass the time. Hours later, dawn turns to dusk and I my nocturnal half awakes. Every sense in my body quadruples in sensitivity. After my parents fall asleep I exit the gates of my house and peddle my way down the road, block by block.

In no time at all I arrive at Carl’s house, and as I expected his window is wide open. The cool air wooshes against my face, pleading in my ears to refrain from doing what I’m about to do. The trees sway along in the wind – flapping its branches back and forth. But these things I ignore. I’m on a mission, and nothing will stop me.

From my pocket I fish out my Zippo and strike the flint. The spark ignites the lighter fluid and in less than a second turns into a small flame. I pull out the firecrackers from my bag and put the wick over the fire – the same way you roast a marshmallow, but unlike marshmallows, once the wick burns you toss it as quickly as possible.

My weekend ended with explosions and loud, loud noises; with dazzling lights and prolific screams. How I basked in that moment and cherished it. Too bad none of it is true.