Too Much Juice
by
Kidd Wadsworth
I suppose there were opioids in my IV. I remember eating a three-foot-long, hot-pink centipede. I was a trifle worried. It was Lent. Does centipede count as meat?
While I chewed—centipedes are a might gristle-ly—there appeared by my bed three women. They “poofed” in; I thought them witches. Like a Hollywood wind machine was in the room blowing only on the three of them, their wild, flaming-orange hair and amethyst robes flowed out behind them.
They spoke, talking on top of each other, one starting before the other stopped.
My southern upbringing immediately identified them. Must be Yankees, I thought.
“Oy vey can you believe…,” said the first witch.
“Without her hair cut…,” said the second.
“She came to the hospital, and there’s people everywhere…,” said the third.
“…and her hair…,” said the second.
“You can’t cut your hair?” said the third.
“I know a place…,” said the first.
This started such a discussion about which place.
I picked up the small hand mirror Mom left for me on my bedside table.
I do need a haircut.
“My tante Zelda…,” said the first witch.
“What?” said the second witch. “Your tante? Why she’d be better off having her hair cut by monkeys at the Bronx Zoo.”
And the third witch nodded, her bangle bracelets clinking, her crystal earrings casting rainbows on the ceiling.
“Do you have any mustard for my centipede?” I asked.
“Why yes,” said the third witch, pulling a jar from her pocket. “Grey Poupon?”
As I spread spicy brown mustard on my centipede, the first witch called her tante Zelda on the phone, “How’s next Wednesday, Dear?” she asked me.
I hesitated, trying to remember when I was scheduled to be discharged. “I don’t know.”
“You’ve got to go,” said the first witch. “You have some gray, no offense…”
To which the second witch said, “But not to Zelda. Anyone but Zelda.”
I’m a Sci Fi fan—live long and prosper, dude. One of my favorite TV shows features evil aliens with glowing eyes. As I struggled to remember my upcoming calendar, I looked out the door of my hospital room. In the room across the hall, I saw my doctor. He turned toward me—and his eyes glowed.
“Oy vey, you don’t look so good…,” said the second witch.
I paused a bit of mustard covered centipede halfway to my mouth. As my doctor started walking across the hall to my room, the witches grabbed their light sabers. I dropped my fork and pressed the button on my IV.
Time for more juice.
Title Photo by Stephen Andrews on Unsplash
Kidd Wadsworth’s Books
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These are my goto gems, the sentences that keep me writing, that whisper, “you can do better.”
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I suppose there were opioids in my IV. I remember eating a three-foot-long, hot-pink centipede. I was a trifle worried. It was Lent. Does centipede count as meat?
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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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