Author’s Note: In this piece I am trying to juxtapose two elements: one happy, another tragic. I want the reader to be tossed back and forth, knowing that these two worlds are about to collide. BTW this is a true story.
Ping Pong
Green never took on as many shades, or the Earth appear as lush, as in the summer of ‘92 in Ann Arbor, Michigan. Windows down, radio up, I drove, my newly minted sister-in-law in the seat next to me. I’d been married a blissful eight weeks. We’d eaten lunch at Red Hot Lovers, a delightfully greasy hot dog joint. I had the dregs of my Sprite in my cup holder, and she the last of her Diet Coke in hers.
Slowing, I came to a stop behind a sedan waiting to turn out into traffic.
We jammed to the beat, hands in the air.
Filling the crowded sedan were four Arab men in robes and two women in hijabs. One woman sat in the middle of the front seat, the other in the back on the right.
I drank the last of my Sprite.
The sedan driver turned yelling, pointing his finger. The woman in the backseat threw open the door. The man beside her, pulled her across his lap as she tried to escape. She thrashed against him. The second man in the backseat grabbed her. Her fist hit the back windshield. Her legs pummeled the first man as he reached out and slammed the door shut. The sedan, wheels squealing, sped out into the traffic. A car honked; another swerved.
I clenched the steering wheel, shaking.
As the sedan disappeared around a bend in the road, she whispered, “Did you get the license plate?
“No.”
“The car was white.”
“It’s going east on…” Frantically, I searched for a street sign. “what road is this?”
“I think it was a Chevy? Maybe a BMW?”
*
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The dragon lay on a bed of cooling lava, the black cracked surface revealing, in thin meandering channels and small pools, the fiery red molten rock beneath. The heinous creature was stretched out on its belly, its four legs extended outward to each side. The dragon’s long snout also lay flat against the harsh, jagged rock, its mouth open, its black tongue extended and uncurled. If not for the horned spikes running down its back, its huge wings, its lethal, razor sharp tail and reeking breath, it might have been a pup flopped on a rug in front of a fire.
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This is the beginning of a story I’m considering for the Bethlehem Writer’s Group new anthology. By the way, did I mention the Bethlehem Writer’s Group’s short story contest is now open for submissions?
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Kidd Wadsworth writes to bring to life our magical, fire-breathing world. She believes we are super heroes. It’s time we put on our capes.
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Kidd Wadsworth writes to bring to life our magical, fire-breathing world. She believes we are super heroes. It’s time we put on our capes.
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Kidd Wadsworth writes to bring to life our magical, fire-breathing world. She believes we are super heroes. It’s time we put on our capes.
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