First story for September Bridgets Flame contest.
Here it is: no happy families, no bumbling, drunken aliens. The prompt was "mud', and this is waaaaay out of my comfort zone.
The mud shone with rainbows- there seemed to be a skin of something more than water over the top of it. Will touched it, sending out a faint ripple which was divided into smaller ripples by the grasses on the edge, until the entire surface of the puddle shimmered.
Will had seen mud before: in Central Park, in the gutters, and the odd corners where buildings met. But that mud was gross, filled more with garbage than dirt and water. It was not for playing in; his mother used to say, "Eew, disgusting, leave that alone! God knows what's in it!"
Since they had moved to Vermont, though, he had spent a lot of time in their humongous yard, poking and digging and jumping in the mud. He had made it in the garden with water from the hose, and he and his new friends had once gotten into it at school, but that had not been a good idea: when they lined up to go in from recess, the playground teacher had freaked out and called all their mothers and made them wait in the office until they came with clean clothes. They had all had to stay in at recess the next day, too.
So, Will thought he was pretty much an expert on mud at this point. This mud, though, was different. He had known he would find excellent mud at the edge of the swamp; it was the reason he had come here this morning.
He had gotten up early so that he could avoid his mom's questions about where he was going and all that, ‘cause he wasn’t supposed to go near the swamp. He had left a sticky note on the coffee machine, playing in the woods, back for lunch, so she wouldn't freak out too much. But still, he should try to be back before too long, in case she went looking for him anyway.
He grabbed a stick and poked it in. It stuck about two feet under the surface. He really, really wanted to jump in, but he knew mom would freak if he came home filthy. He wished he had a bucket to bring some home in, but it was pretty far to the swamp from home, so he had left his bucket this time. Maybe if he took off his pants, and just waded around in it . . . he could walk home in his boxers and rinse off with the garden hose before anyone saw.
He took off his shoes, socks and pants, leaving them in a neat pile on the grass. He slowly pressed his feet into the soft earth at the edge of the puddle; the mud was cool, and oozed up between his toes with a slimy squish. He wiggled his toes in it, enjoying the gritty slipperiness of it, and then walked deeper into the muck.
He got in up to his knees, level with where his stick was hey, was there more of the stick buried in the mud than before? when his right foot got stuck so he couldn't get it out. Great, it was stickier at the bottom. He heaved himself at the edge of the puddle, trying to grab the little trees that were just out of his reach. He was now sort of lying in the mud, with his arms on the bank.
He tried to wrench his leg free, but instead he sank in deeper. The mud had an odd sort of suction: he could sink deeper, but he could not seem to work his way out. Maybe if he tried pushing with his left foot . . .
Oh, man, now his left foot was stuck. He was starting to get nervous, now. He had sunk in the mud up to his waist, and now there was no way he could get home before mom panicked about where he was, never mind cleaning up before she saw him.
He thrashed around in the mud, trying to get to the bank, but he just sank faster. He was in up to his chest, now, and really getting scared. The pool had only been two feet deep a minute ago, and no one knew where he was, and the stick was now totally gone, buried in the mud,. Oh, no, oh, no, ohnoohnoohnooh NO! He was in up to his chin and it was hard to breathe and it hurt so much and he felt funny, and was it getting dark? And oh, god, he was in up to his ears, and he couldn’t keep his nose above the surface anymore, and oh, mommy . . .
The mud shone with rainbows- there seemed to be a skin of something more than water over the top of it. Will touched it, sending out a faint ripple which was divided into smaller ripples by the grasses on the edge, until the entire surface of the puddle shimmered.
Will had seen mud before: in Central Park, in the gutters, and the odd corners where buildings met. But that mud was gross, filled more with garbage than dirt and water. It was not for playing in; his mother used to say, "Eew, disgusting, leave that alone! God knows what's in it!"
Since they had moved to Vermont, though, he had spent a lot of time in their humongous yard, poking and digging and jumping in the mud. He had made it in the garden with water from the hose, and he and his new friends had once gotten into it at school, but that had not been a good idea: when they lined up to go in from recess, the playground teacher had freaked out and called all their mothers and made them wait in the office until they came with clean clothes. They had all had to stay in at recess the next day, too.
So, Will thought he was pretty much an expert on mud at this point. This mud, though, was different. He had known he would find excellent mud at the edge of the swamp; it was the reason he had come here this morning.
He had gotten up early so that he could avoid his mom's questions about where he was going and all that, ‘cause he wasn’t supposed to go near the swamp. He had left a sticky note on the coffee machine, playing in the woods, back for lunch, so she wouldn't freak out too much. But still, he should try to be back before too long, in case she went looking for him anyway.
He grabbed a stick and poked it in. It stuck about two feet under the surface. He really, really wanted to jump in, but he knew mom would freak if he came home filthy. He wished he had a bucket to bring some home in, but it was pretty far to the swamp from home, so he had left his bucket this time. Maybe if he took off his pants, and just waded around in it . . . he could walk home in his boxers and rinse off with the garden hose before anyone saw.
He took off his shoes, socks and pants, leaving them in a neat pile on the grass. He slowly pressed his feet into the soft earth at the edge of the puddle; the mud was cool, and oozed up between his toes with a slimy squish. He wiggled his toes in it, enjoying the gritty slipperiness of it, and then walked deeper into the muck.
He got in up to his knees, level with where his stick was hey, was there more of the stick buried in the mud than before? when his right foot got stuck so he couldn't get it out. Great, it was stickier at the bottom. He heaved himself at the edge of the puddle, trying to grab the little trees that were just out of his reach. He was now sort of lying in the mud, with his arms on the bank.
He tried to wrench his leg free, but instead he sank in deeper. The mud had an odd sort of suction: he could sink deeper, but he could not seem to work his way out. Maybe if he tried pushing with his left foot . . .
Oh, man, now his left foot was stuck. He was starting to get nervous, now. He had sunk in the mud up to his waist, and now there was no way he could get home before mom panicked about where he was, never mind cleaning up before she saw him.
He thrashed around in the mud, trying to get to the bank, but he just sank faster. He was in up to his chest, now, and really getting scared. The pool had only been two feet deep a minute ago, and no one knew where he was, and the stick was now totally gone, buried in the mud,. Oh, no, oh, no, ohnoohnoohnooh NO! He was in up to his chin and it was hard to breathe and it hurt so much and he felt funny, and was it getting dark? And oh, god, he was in up to his ears, and he couldn’t keep his nose above the surface anymore, and oh, mommy . . .