This weekend, I participated in WritersWeekly.com’s 24 Hour Short Story contest. (Wow I haven’t posted on here since the last one…) Here was the prompt:
From her lap, his shiny black eyes stared up at her as she admired his permanent red smile. Fingering his tiny overalls, she pictured the little ones’ faces, pressed against the icy windowpanes, waiting for her to arrive with another basket of her lifelike, homemade gifts. The last strand of hair was finally in place. As she gently inserted the needle to tie a knot, he lurched in her hand and a high-pitched voice said…
And here was my story which I titled Out the Back Door -
“Mommy.”
Where had it come from? What tiny, miniscule, little mouth was calling for their mother? I did not know. I knew there were mice in the walls. I could hear them playing tag at night. I also knew there were abnormal rates of radiation in Trenton’s water. Town hall made annual radiation reports, and this year’s said the same old thing: NOT HARMFUL. Some didn’t believe it and consequently Trenton’s market for bottled water was starting to rival New York City’s. I was one of the believers. Now, that seemed like a stupid decision.
There was a mouse, probably a foot and a half tall, living in my kitchen cabinets, who, while drinking my Trenton tap water for the past two years, had gained super-rodent powers. While I was sleeping, he probably lounged on my couch and read the books on my living room shelves. That would explain both the oddly placed bookmark in Cat’s Cradle and the recent spike in my electric bill.
It was starting to make sense now. Marcus London – only the best NFL superstar this century. Stace Lawerence – the new mastermind of Nasa. Two of the most famous people in the 21st century, both Trenton born. Their successes put Trenton on the map, but little did those TIME’s editors know the truth that lay in their article’s catchy title, “There’s Something in the Water.” Now I had given birth to Trenton’s next radiation creation. Front page – I could see it now – “Trenton Doll Creator Houses Army of Over Grown Mice.” Unknowingly. That should’ve been in there, but they’d leave it out and word would spread that I’d gone mad. Tabloids would make me out to be the general of PETA’s secret army.
Making sure that I was not going absolutely bonkers, I looked down at my lap. Sure enough, the shiny black button-eyes of my newest doll stared up at me. Just as I had remembered him. This was not a dream. But something was different. His permanent red smile, while just two minutes ago an apparent sign of his appreciation for my gentle needle work, now came across as disturbingly sinister. He knew about the mice the whole time. Who knew what other secrets he was storing in that brain of batting? This is not good.
I walked to the kitchen sure that someone – or something – was listening. The mouse was undoubtably on edge, cowering in a cabinet corner. He had had dream, a nightmare, woke up in a fright and cried out for his mother. Yes. That was it. I grabbed a steak knife.
While I had heard crazier stories than a nuclear enhanced mouse, I needed proof. Opening each cabinet would have been too risky. I walked backwards, out of the kitchen, light on my feet. I hadn’t noticed before but the ice on the windowpanes made the outside world look blurry and unfocused. There could be more mutant mice outside, waiting for me to leave the house, beneath snow banks, perhaps in trees. The Poland Spring drinkers in Trenton were also the gun touting ones. Their smarts were obvious now.
My doll lay limp in, I think, the same position as I left it. Opening Cat’s Cradle, my fears were validated. I had never seen the floppy green bookmark that lay in the valley between page 87 and page 88. Perhaps this wasn’t my house at all, but the mice’s. Perhaps I was the real intruder, reading their books, and stuffing dolls whose faces reminded you of the time your record player got stuck on your favorite line of your favorite song. My mother had always told me that I was a lost cause when it came to communal living and, sure enough, here I was, completely ostracizing my roommates. I vowed to be more cordial and put away the knife.
My fear disappeared – my heart rate returned to normal. I put the kettle on for tea. Lighting the burner, I look outside – I know that if I walk in a straight line from my back door, over the hill which houses the cell tower, and past Clipper’s Meat Packing, I would eventually – after three miles or so – reach the old nuclear plant. There are so many things in this world that can kill you or make you batty. I’m so fortunate for having turned out alright.
The tea kettle starts whistling like a fire alarm and I duck. Nothing happens. I pour myself a mug of water and drop in a tea bag. I walk back into the living room, place the mug on a coaster, and take my doll in hand. I poke his feet with my needle. He smiles on the verge of laughter. Some dolls are more ticklish than others. I take a sip of tea – the hot water rushes down my throat. Hot tea is so soothing on days like this, when the snow makes you claustrophobic in your own house, when the whole world is overwhelming like an over-packed supermarket.
There are only so many things I can control – tea helps me concentrate on these things. If I didn’t have my shelves full of books, tea bags, shiny black buttons, and running water, I fear my mind might float away.
