TM Prompt: #53
Write a drabble/ficlette based on the word: fun.
"Oh, shit!"
What started off as harmless fun was totally not turning out to end that way. Two ten-year-olds stood hopelessly by the fence of Phil Lamarre's back yard, staring at the baseball that lay only mere feet away, nestled easily in the grass of a certain Ms. Dobbs, in the stereotypical way that elderly widows have unkempt yards next door to the neat, flowered ones in suburbia. She was that old lady that every town had, really, who walked with a cane and glared at everybody who dared pass by her house and kind of scared the bajeezus out of small children. And not so small children.
Max Carrigan didn't much care about Ms. Dobbs.
Max Carrigan cared about Ripper, the currently sleeping pit bull.
For every Ms. Dobbs that a little town had, if she wasn't one of those crazy cat lady types that had a million of the things running around her house and mewling up a storm and puking on her tea cozies, it was the gristly attack dog with the inch-long teeth that she kept chained up in the backyard. You know, the kind that hated everybody very much not Ms. Dobbs. Ripper in particular had honed some kind of thing for Max, ever since he'd accidentally knocked over Ms. Dobbs a couple years ago.
He couldn't help it! It had been his first time on a bike without training wheels! Did she care that he'd skinned his forearms all the way from his elbow to his wrist? No, so he didn't much care that some old chick had fallen all nice and safe in the grass, okay?
"I'm telling, Max. I'm telling your mom you said 'shit'."
"So didn't you, so put a sock in it, I'm trying to figure this out."
Phil danced from foot to foot, punching a fist into his baseball club. "Man, I'm gonna get in so much trouble, that's my dad's. He always says it's his lucky ball or something stupid like that."
"Yeah, and if you don't shut up it's gonna be Ripper's lucky chew toy, so be quiet."
Max reverted to his peering out the fence, then, cheek pressed against the side of the thing so he could see as far as he could through that tiny knothole. "Ripper's sleeping."
"Yeah, won't last that long."
"He's a stupid dog, how light of a sleeper can he be?"
Maxwell Carrigan, ten, had apparently decided he had lived a full enough life. He rolled up his sleeves and started marching around the fence. Phil automatically jogged after him, eyes wide and bowl-cut flying. "Cripes, Max, you're not seriously--"
"I'm seriously." Dirt-streaked fingers gripped the gate clasp, as Phil peered over the thing. The baseball was a good fifty yards away. Ripper was a good fifty-five. Max unlatched Ms. Dobbs' gate.
"Hey, hey!"
"What?"
"Be careful."
Max latched the gate behind him, nodded, took two steps in before Phil piped up again.
"Hey!"
Max glared. "What?"
"Can I have your card collection if he bites your face off?"
"Yeah, yeah, whatever. Just cram it, Phil."
He could make it, right? Fifty yards wasn't that long. Fifty yards was, like. Fifty feet. Right? What was a yard, anyway? The more he stared, the farther the baseball looked away and the closer Ripper looked, though, and he wasn't liking that math. Three of Phil's fingers gave Max a bit of a jab in the shoulder, sending him stumbling a few feet forward. "Go on, then!"
"Bite me."
There was a distinctly louder way, Max was finding, that grass crunched underneath Chuck Taylor sneakers when somebody was trying to move around all stealth. Every step sounded like he was snapping twigs underneath his feet, and he winced as he inched forward, eyes riveted onto Ripper all warily. The dog wasn't waking up. Which was good, very good. Max liked his limbs where they were.
He was nearly there, already, and... huh. This was less of a sweat than he thought it was going to be. And, well, his fingers wrapping around the baseball felt like victory, as he turned back to Phil to grin and wave the thing over his head like some kind of weirdo trophy. Phil was a wussy, was all. So afraid of nothing.
"Ripper, dinner!"
Or not such a nothing.
"RUN, CARRIGAN!" Phil screeched like some kind of freaking howler monkey, and it didn't take Max looking back over his shoulder to pinpricked eyes of doom to know that a horrible, snarling beast had just awakened.
Max didn't think he could have ran faster if you'd set his ass on fire.
And, sure, he'd practically peed his pants at the time, but you try outmatching the nastiest dog in the neighborhood and not be your friends' hero the next day in school.
Muse: Max Carrigan
Fandom: Across the Universe
Word Count: 774
"Oh, shit!"
What started off as harmless fun was totally not turning out to end that way. Two ten-year-olds stood hopelessly by the fence of Phil Lamarre's back yard, staring at the baseball that lay only mere feet away, nestled easily in the grass of a certain Ms. Dobbs, in the stereotypical way that elderly widows have unkempt yards next door to the neat, flowered ones in suburbia. She was that old lady that every town had, really, who walked with a cane and glared at everybody who dared pass by her house and kind of scared the bajeezus out of small children. And not so small children.
Max Carrigan didn't much care about Ms. Dobbs.
Max Carrigan cared about Ripper, the currently sleeping pit bull.
For every Ms. Dobbs that a little town had, if she wasn't one of those crazy cat lady types that had a million of the things running around her house and mewling up a storm and puking on her tea cozies, it was the gristly attack dog with the inch-long teeth that she kept chained up in the backyard. You know, the kind that hated everybody very much not Ms. Dobbs. Ripper in particular had honed some kind of thing for Max, ever since he'd accidentally knocked over Ms. Dobbs a couple years ago.
He couldn't help it! It had been his first time on a bike without training wheels! Did she care that he'd skinned his forearms all the way from his elbow to his wrist? No, so he didn't much care that some old chick had fallen all nice and safe in the grass, okay?
"I'm telling, Max. I'm telling your mom you said 'shit'."
"So didn't you, so put a sock in it, I'm trying to figure this out."
Phil danced from foot to foot, punching a fist into his baseball club. "Man, I'm gonna get in so much trouble, that's my dad's. He always says it's his lucky ball or something stupid like that."
"Yeah, and if you don't shut up it's gonna be Ripper's lucky chew toy, so be quiet."
Max reverted to his peering out the fence, then, cheek pressed against the side of the thing so he could see as far as he could through that tiny knothole. "Ripper's sleeping."
"Yeah, won't last that long."
"He's a stupid dog, how light of a sleeper can he be?"
Maxwell Carrigan, ten, had apparently decided he had lived a full enough life. He rolled up his sleeves and started marching around the fence. Phil automatically jogged after him, eyes wide and bowl-cut flying. "Cripes, Max, you're not seriously--"
"I'm seriously." Dirt-streaked fingers gripped the gate clasp, as Phil peered over the thing. The baseball was a good fifty yards away. Ripper was a good fifty-five. Max unlatched Ms. Dobbs' gate.
"Hey, hey!"
"What?"
"Be careful."
Max latched the gate behind him, nodded, took two steps in before Phil piped up again.
"Hey!"
Max glared. "What?"
"Can I have your card collection if he bites your face off?"
"Yeah, yeah, whatever. Just cram it, Phil."
He could make it, right? Fifty yards wasn't that long. Fifty yards was, like. Fifty feet. Right? What was a yard, anyway? The more he stared, the farther the baseball looked away and the closer Ripper looked, though, and he wasn't liking that math. Three of Phil's fingers gave Max a bit of a jab in the shoulder, sending him stumbling a few feet forward. "Go on, then!"
"Bite me."
There was a distinctly louder way, Max was finding, that grass crunched underneath Chuck Taylor sneakers when somebody was trying to move around all stealth. Every step sounded like he was snapping twigs underneath his feet, and he winced as he inched forward, eyes riveted onto Ripper all warily. The dog wasn't waking up. Which was good, very good. Max liked his limbs where they were.
He was nearly there, already, and... huh. This was less of a sweat than he thought it was going to be. And, well, his fingers wrapping around the baseball felt like victory, as he turned back to Phil to grin and wave the thing over his head like some kind of weirdo trophy. Phil was a wussy, was all. So afraid of nothing.
"Ripper, dinner!"
Or not such a nothing.
"RUN, CARRIGAN!" Phil screeched like some kind of freaking howler monkey, and it didn't take Max looking back over his shoulder to pinpricked eyes of doom to know that a horrible, snarling beast had just awakened.
Max didn't think he could have ran faster if you'd set his ass on fire.
And, sure, he'd practically peed his pants at the time, but you try outmatching the nastiest dog in the neighborhood and not be your friends' hero the next day in school.
Muse: Max Carrigan
Fandom: Across the Universe
Word Count: 774