Category / Short stories

by sixlakesstudios

The Runaways

PG-13; Language, Crime, Alcohol

11:00 PM, Friday, December 31st, 1999

0.75 miles outside of Leavenworth, Washington

Evan Samuels drove his truck up the mountain. His breath was shaky, and he remained focused on the road ahead despite the fact that his brain was processing 2,000 thoughts per second.

He was dressed rather slovenly: torn jeans, one gray sock, one blue sock, five-year-old tennis shoes that were showing their age, a camo t-shirt, a flannel shirt with the sleeves ripped off, a beige double-breasted coat, and titanium tunnels stretching his earlobes to a centimeter.

His hands kept moving from the steering wheel to adjust his glasses, or change the radio, or brush his pink hair. He had no idea where he was going, but he didn’t care. He just needed to keep driving until he found a good place to stay for the night. But, of course, that might have to be the truck: it was snowing, it was eleven, and this was the middle of nowhere.

Suddenly, the truck started sputtering.

“No. Please not now.”

Luckily, there was a diner with a parking lot to pull into. The restaurant looked sketchy, though.

No way in hell in I’m going in there.

He steered into the parking, put on his gloves, got out of his truck, and fetched the toolbox out of the flatbed.

Popping open the hood, he set the toolbox down on the bumper and put his hands on his hips as he surveyed all the gizmos inside the truck.

“Oh, who am I kidding?” he said to himself. “I don’t know cars.”

“Apparently not,” someone said, “Because that’s a truck.”

Despite the cold, snowy weather around him, Evan started to sweat.

“G-God?” he eeked out.

“Nope. But I have been called an angel and a demon by numerous people.”

Evan slowly turned towards the man the voice belonged to.

He saw a very attractive man in front of him: golden hair, short stubble, a thick down jacket, worn jeans, steel-toed boots on snowshoes, and a small gold hoop in each ear.

“Just come into the diner, I’ll have someone look at it in the morning.”

Evan blinked. “Um… no?”

The man chuckled. “I guess that sounded a little creepy given the circumstances.”

“Yep.”

The man stuck out his hand.

“Jim. Jim Crumb.”

“Evan.”

“Evan what?”

“Nice try.”

The man laughed.

“What do you take me for, son? A backwoods gun nut? Just grab your tool box, and come into the diner.”

Evan realized that unless he wanted to freeze to death, he had no other choice. So he grabbed the toolbox and followed Jim into the diner. Before he went in, though, he finally read the sign: “Jim’s Diner.”

“This is your diner?” Evan asked.

“Yup. Has been since 1988.”

~*~

Inside the diner, Evan froze and blushed a deep red as five men and four women sitting at the tables looked at him.

“Who’s the fresh meat?” a large, beefy man grunted.

Evan yelped and tried to run out the door, but Jim caught him.

“Joe,” Jim hollered. “Shut up and eat your steak.”

Joe shook his head and turned back to his steak.

Joe had black hair and a thick black beard. He wore blue jeans, a flannel shirt, black work boots, and had some tattoos poking out onto his neck.

“Sit down, let me get you a menu,” said Jim before disappearing into the kitchen.

Evan gulped. He had no idea who any of these people were, and there was no place in this small, roadside diner where he wouldn’t be less than a yard away from one of them.

“What are you afraid of, boy? Sit!” a short-haired brunette woman rumbled.

Evan took a deep breath, sliding into the nearest booth.

After what felt like hours, Jim finally came out with a menu for Evan: four pages of assorted breakfast foods and hearty burgers.

Another man came out of the kitchen.

“All right Jim,” the man said. “Where did you find this one?”

“His pickup broke down outside the diner.”

The man looked at Evan with a serious glare, scanning him up and down. Evan blushed even more now. Where the hell was he?!

“All right, Aaron,” said Jim. “You’ll have time to grill him after introductions.”

“Fine,” said Aaron. “I’m Aaron Stevenson, Jim’s husband.”

Evan’s eyes widened. “H-Husband?”

“You got a problem with that, punk?”

“No! Please don’t hurt me!” Evan yelped as he put his arms in front as a defense.

“Aaron!” Jim snapped.

Jim turned back to Evan. “Sorry about that, he’s a bit hot-headed. And anyway, we’re not legally married, but we have a son together. We’ve been together, oh… what has it been, 19 years now?”

“Yep,” Aaron said, softening a little. “If that’s not common-law, I don’t know what is.”

Aaron was tall- probably 6’3”- and well-built. His short, red hair smoothly connected to his short beard, which rested above a heavily tattooed body wearing a grease-soaked red apron and white t-shirt, work boots, white socks, half-inch tunnels in each ear, and, sure enough, jeans, as well. In fact, everyone was wearing jeans, except for the woman who told Evan to sit down, who had on ski pants, and the teenage boy in the corner, who wore torn khakis.

“Actually,” said Evan, “knowing you guys are a couple makes me feel a little better. I’m gay, too.”

Jim smiled. “I had my suspicions, I’ll be honest.”

The other patrons started smiling, as well.

“Damn it, son,” the brunette from earlier said. “What are the odds you’d end up here?”

“He’s one of us,” her companion, a skinny redheaded woman, said.

“All right,” said Aaron. “What’s your name, new guy?”

“Evan Samuels.”

The teenager got up from his chair and slid into Evan’s booth. He held his hand out, giving Evan a flirty stare.

“Zeke Crumb-Stevenson,” he said.

“Hello,” said Evan, taking Zeke’s hand.

“This our son,” said Jim.

“Who always acts like he’s smarter than us,” said Aaron.

“He is smarter than you,” said the brunette woman.

“Well, he sure as hell doesn’t need to act like it!”

Zeke leaned in closer to Evan. “I graduated high school at 16,” he said.

“And you’re…” started Evan.

“Nineteen. Currently at the university for Meteorology.”

“That’s pretty cool. I got my bachelor’s in Geography.”

“Nice. How old are you?”

“22.”

“And he won’t buy beer for you,” Joe joked.

Zeke blushed. “Gross, no. I hate beer.”

“And just how do you know that?” Aaron questioned.

“All right, all right, maybe we should let Evan order already,” said Jim.

Everyone looked to Evan.

“I’ll need another minute,” he said.

Jim and Aaron walked back into the kitchen. Evan gazed over the menu. However, he felt eyes still on him. He looked up, and Zeke was still there.

Zeke was raven-haired, except for some green stripes, with a pink t-shirt, a white hoodie wrapped around his waist, red tennis shoes, and a lime green solitaire stud in each ear, as well as an industrial in his right.

“Hey,” said Zeke, grabbing Evan’s hand again. “Is that a tattoo I see?”

Zeke pushed Evan’s coat sleeve up to reveal part of an ivy-leaf vine tattoo going up his right arm.

“It’s pretty cool,” Zeke continued.

“Here,” said Evan, “I have some other ones too.”

Evan slid his coat off and rolled his shirt sleeves up to reveal numerous other examples of skin art.

“Impressive,” said the brunette woman, “but you should see Jill’s.”

The redheaded woman rolled her eyes before rolling up her jeans, showing off a blue viper going up her left leg.

“That’s pretty cool, Jill,” said Evan.

Jill was wearing a parka with snow boots, small gauges, and a backward ball cap.

“I’m sorry,” Evan said to the brunette woman, “I didn’t catch your name.”

“Maggie,” she responded.

Unlike Jill, Maggie kept her hair pretty short. She wore a blue fleece coat, snow boots, and small silver hoops. She also wore glasses with thick black rims, much like Evan’s.

Aaron and Jim came back out.

“Alright, kid,” said Jim. “See anything on the menu yet?”

Evan handed him the menu. “I’ll take the chicken fried steak and some orange juice.”

Aaron swiped the menu. “Good choice.”

He went back through the kitchen door, and Evan saw him through the service window as he took his place in front of the stove.

“So, kid…” said Joe. “What’s your story?”

“Well, I’m originally from Montana, just outside Missoula. My family’s very traditional, but I decided that I would come out to them before the millennium. Well, my dad’s brother had gotten him this beautiful truck for Christmas. I thought he would be in a good mood after that, but I was wrong. He kicked me out.”

“Wow. That’s rough, Evan,” said Zeke.

“Wait…” said Jim. “Didn’t you come here in a pickup truck?”

Everyone turned to Evan, whose face turned red with embarrassment.

“Well…” He started, “I’m not proud of this- I almost never do anything like this, and I don’t even have a record. But the way he reacted- I- I…” he picked the keys and twirled them on his finger. “I guess I just snapped.”

Jim sighed, putting his hand on Evan’s shoulder.

“Look, Evan,” he said. “We all do stuff we’re not proud of. I had a record back before I met Aaron. Believe me, if I hadn’t met him, I’d be in a very bad place right now.”

“Tell him how you met, dad,” said Zeke, using his foot to drag a chair over to the booth.

“All right,” Jim said, taking that seat. “It was 1980. I was at this gas station in Tukwila, filling my car, when this tall twig of an 18-year-old in church clothes jumped in my car. I yelled at him to get out, but he insisted that I drive him away. Turns out, he had just escaped from conversion therapy. I still wanted him out of my car, but he kept insisting, even offering to pay me. After a while, I finally broke down, and drove us both out of there. I was headed to Spokane, and he just wanted to get away from the ‘camp.’ But by the time we got to Leavenworth, we had grown on each other. So we stopped here-“

“And managed to rub off on each other,” said Aaron, placing Evan’s dinner on the table. “I got him to clean up his act, and he got me to loosen mine up. I mean, look at me,” he continued, gesturing to his ear gauges and tattoos, “do I look like a church kid anymore?”

“Evan,” said Joe, “stealing that truck was not a good decision, but you’re not alone. We all have stories. We’re all running away from something, whether it be trouble or homophobia.”

“Welcome to the Runaways, kid,” said Jill.

~*~

11:59 PM

While everyone else was inside awaiting the advent of the 3rd Millenium, Evan joined Zeke outside on the porch of Jim and Aaron’s upstairs apartment.

“Hey,” Evan said. “What are you doing out here?”

“I just needed a break from the party.”

Evan nodded, looking back at the party.

“10! 9! 8!” everyone inside chanted.

Evan turned back to Zeke, who was acting rather shy right now.

“Hey,” said Evan taking a surprised Zeke’s hand.

They leaned closer.

Midnight, Saturday, January 1st, 2000

They gave each other a kiss as the people inside cheered.

“Happy New Millenium, Zeke,” said Evan.

“Happy Y2K, car thief.”

Evan gave Zeke a playful punch on the shoulder.

“Hey, now, I just gave you a kiss.”

They chuckled as they reopened the sliding door, rejoining the party.

Evan never thought he would find a group like the Runaways. But these people, with their similarities and differences, managed to create a family for themselves. After Evan had been getting to know them for a while, he became of member of this family as well. And that’s what everyone needs, whether they be chosen or not: a family you can lean on.

Set your story in a roadside diner. (Prompt #1, Sept. 10th, 2021, Reedsy Weekly Prompts Contest)

by sixlakesstudios

The Curious Store (AKA Tracing Patterns)

PG; Language

Time: 5:13 PM, May 5th, 2017

Location: Olympia, Washington

The rain platted on my umbrella as I ran inside. That whole stereotype about Washingtonians not using umbrellas? Not true right now. You’ve never seen rain like this.

I step inside and shake my umbrella off through the door before putting it in the stand. Then I turn around. Every other Friday, after class, I come to this store. No, they don’t sell food or video games. This store was more about… the curiosities. From the fascinating to the bizarre, this store had items from all over the Pacific Northwest. Historical machines, artisan furniture, glass art, and odd-looking decor are only a part of this store’s unusual inventory.

I first came here when I moved to Olympia from Tukwila back in ‘14. I didn’t have many things to fill my apartment, so my mother took me around town to different stores to make my new place feel like home. After visiting several chain stores and warehouses, we decided to stop for a burger before heading back.

However, next door to the restaurant was this place I now frequent: The Curious Store. Throughout our lunch, my mind, for some inexplicable reason, kept wandering to this store. Was it the name? Or what the name was implying? When we walked out of the restaurant, I asked my mother if we could go in there. She sighed, saying we had already spent too much that day. However, she gave me an ultimatum: I can buy one item, for under $20 of my own money, as long as I meet her back at the car in ten minutes. I quickly thanked her and went in.

As soon as I opened the door, the spectrum of colors from the oddities immediately overwhelmed me. I was pulled inside purely by intrigue. My autistic brain spent the first three minutes cataloging every detail of the items I picked up. I wanted to look at everything in the store, but I also knew mom would be pissed if I dawdled too long. I looked around for any signage in the store that would lead me to something I would at least use instead of a weird trinket I’d only use once before tossing it onto the top shelf of my pantry, never to be seen again.

My eyes landed on the sign pointing towards the clothing area. At least clothing would be practical. As soon as I got there, I saw what I wanted: The perfect sweater. A yarn-woven, long-sleeved sweater with patterns that could keep my eyes occupied for days. A beautiful tapestry of blue, orange, purple, pink, and brown. Not colors you’d usually think of together, but they worked on this sweater. And I saw the price tag: $18.95. How lucky could you get?

When I went to pay for the sweater, I was stopped in my tracks by the man behind the counter. He was striking. His silver-green eyes made contact with my hazels. His short, black pompadour greatly contrasted my messy blonde waves. He smiled at me, his teeth sparkling like the rocks in his ears. I was hoping to God that I remembered to brush my teeth that morning.

“Did you want to ring that up for you?” he said, snapping me out of my stupor.

“Um… yes?” I squeaked out as if I wasn’t sure.

I sweated like a crazy person. Because of course, I was nervous! Here he was, a well-groomed, put-together beauty of a man, while I stood in front of him in a wrinkled hoodie and a pair of sweatpants I’d been living in that entire weekend. I wish I had known that day that I’d be meeting a guy like him, but that’s not how life works.

He put the sweater in a paper bag with the receipt and two wrapped mints. I blushed as I struggled to get my next words out.

“Thank you…” I started, glancing down at his nametag. “…Brandon.”

“No problem… sorry, I didn’t catch your name.”

“Christian.”

“Nice to meet you, Christian. Feel free to come back anytime.”

I wear that sweater a lot. Every time I do, I sit on my couch after dinner, tracing the patterns with my finger, thinking of Brandon.

I went back to The Curious Store two weeks later. However, unlike my first time, it was crowded in there. I’m not too fond of crowds, so I instinctively went right back out and sat at the burger place instead. My bacon and mushroom burger didn’t taste as good that time because I was mad at myself for chickening out.

So I made a plan: every two weeks, no matter how crowded it was, I would stay in the store after class for an hour.

This isn’t just for him, although I am glad that he works in this store. The store itself is good for me. I get stressed easily with Asperger’s and ADD, especially near the end of the quarter at school. This store, I find, has helped me calm down when I need it. When I come in, I go to the last place I was the previous time and look at the details of anything that grabbed my attention. Sometimes, I would trace my hand over an object. Touch is an overlooked sense. The feel of a certain texture can change your emotion. I enjoy smooth or patterned textures, but rough, moist, uneven, and sticky items make me uncomfortable. I don’t touch everything, though, either through my own aversion or if the item seems fragile.

My favorite part of the store is the bookshelf in the back of the store, near the hallway leading to the bathroom and a barricaded staircase that I can only assume leads to the apartment upstairs. Like the rest of the store, the bookshelf is loyal to the PNW: you’ll only find titles from Washingtonian, Oregonian, Idahoan, and British Columbian authors on here. Like David Guterson, Debbie Macomber, Sherman Alexie, and Gary Larsen are among those that line the shelves. I look at the covers and read the descriptions on the back, trying to decide if I should buy a book that day, if at all. I sometimes peek inside that book, but never too deeply. Brandon gets annoyed when people get too into the books on the shelf, treating the store as if it were a library.

But there’s one other thing in the store that piques my interest: the phonograph next to the bookshelf, surrounded by paintings from local artists. I’ve never dared touch it, nor buy the unsurprisingly expensive antique, but I wanted so much to hear music played on it.

This brings us to tonight: May 5th, 2017. It was already dark thanks to the heavy rain. The sound of rain on a window has a hypnotic, relaxing effect on me, and during a storm like this, my mind will go where it wants to. As I was staring at the 90-something-year-old phonograph, a daydream took over my mind. I was attending a 1920‘s ball, standing by the phonograph as a waltz played, and couples in haute couture danced by.

And then I saw Brandon walking toward me. Instead of his usual green apron, polo, and khakis, he was in a luxurious tuxedo. He was stunning. That characteristic sparkle of his was there, too, in his eyes, teeth, and earrings. I wanted to say something, but he opened his mouth first.

“Are you okay?” he asked.

Suddenly the daydream flew away, and the store was back to normal. His tuxedo was gone, as well, replaced by his uniform.

“Huh?!” I sputtered out.

“You were just staring off into space for a while there,” he continued.

“Um… sorry. I let my mind wander sometimes.”

“You come in here a lot. Remind me what your name is?”

“Christian.”

“Right. Why do you come in here so often?’

I’ll just tell him the truth. I won’t be able to come up with any less weird of a lie, anyway.

“I come here to stim,” I said.

“Stim?”

I have no idea why I’m telling him all of this, but the ball’s already rolling.

“I have Asperger’s, and ADD,” I continued. “Self-stimulating, or ‘stimming,’ is a repetitive behavior many autistic people perform to calm themselves when they’re stressed. When I stim, I trace patterns, like the hexagonal one on that wall hanging.”

I pointed to a wooden wall hanging covered in hexagonal tiles.

“Huh,” he replied.

Without queue, I continued. “My favorite pattern to trace is on this sweater.”

I opened my raincoat to show him the sweater I had bought the first time I was here. His face lit up immediately when he recognized it.

“That sweater,” he whispered as his hand reached out to touch it. “May I?”

I hesitated, trying to process the situation. But before I could string together a clear thought, I blurted out: “Go ahead.”

His fingers brushed down the sleeve on my right arm. His touch sent a shiver down my spine. I had never thought this would happen.

“I remember this sweater,” he continued. “You bought the first time you were here.”

“I was fascinated by the patterns.”

“I see,” he said, still brushing his fingers along the sleeve.

I could feel my face getting red. We’ve never been this close before, yet here he was, tracing patterns on me.

I think he realized how long he’d been doing this because he suddenly pulled away, blushing. It was weird to see him like this. Every time I saw him behind the counter, he was always focused and calm. Now he looked… flustered and nervous—time to break the awkward silence.

“How long have you worked here?” I asked.

“Ten years,” he said. “I started out helping my grandparents, but after I finished college last year, I’ve been running the store myself. They still live upstairs.”

“So, this is technically your store now?”

“My grandma still has the final say, but I guess?” he shrugged.

Trying to hide my blush, I looked at the phonograph.

“There’s no one else here,” said Brandon. “You can try that out if you’d like.”

My eyes widened. I finally get to play this thing?

He went over to the phonograph and opened the drawer, pulling out a blue phonograph record. He blew the dust off of it.

“This hasn’t been played in a while. Bear with me,” he said, slipping the record onto the turntable.

When the needle hit the disk, Brandon held out his hand, and the room filled with a beautiful waltz.

“Can I have this dance?” he asked.

Originally written for a Creative Writing class project at Eastern Washington University.

by sixlakesstudios

The Friend Lock

G; Sports Action

Location: University Place, Washington

Time: 1:03 PM, January 20, 2023

A snow day on a Friday. That was the dream.

At least it was for Wyatt and Martin. They hadn’t seen snow like this in years, as it rarely snowed in University Place, and when it did, it usually melted hours later. Yet the universe blessed them with a foot of snow and a three-day weekend to enjoy it. Whatever I did right, though Wyatt, as he ate the PBJ his grandmother had made for him, I have to remember what it was.

Wyatt bolted out of his house after lunch, with his saucer flying along behind him.

The 13-year-old raced to Chambers Bay Park, to the hills that were absolutely perfect for sledding. He spotted Martin almost immediately. It was hard; Martin was only 15, but he had to be 6’1” already, towering over Martin’s 5’ stature.

Wyatt ran up to Martin and jumped in his arms.

“Hey, Slugger,” Martin said slyly.

Wyatt chuckled.

“Hey, Mega-Mart,” he said.

Wyatt finally let go of Martin. He held up his giant, plastic, blue saucer.

“Your choice, Martin,” Wyatt said, “Rope or Handles?”

“Neither one’s the safer option, so handles.”

Wyatt put the saucer on the ground and hopped on. As he grabbed the rope, Martin got behind him. Wyatt glanced at Martin. He had known Martin for years, and they were best friends. But with Martin at the High School and Wyatt still at the Junior High, they rarely got a chance to hang out anymore.

Wyatt and Martin were different. He had to admit that. Wyatt was short, autistic, straight, brunette, introverted, and kind of a nerd. Meanwhile, Martin was tall, gay, blonde, extroverted, and one of the popular jocks. Of course, there was also the 21-month age difference. Wyatt had integrated himself into the coding club and film club, while Martin was varsity and theatre. However, they liked hanging out together, even though it was happening less often.

Wyatt and Martin took a deep breath.

“Ready?” asked Martin.

“Do you have to ask?” said Wyatt.

Wyatt kicked off. The saucer moved like a snail at first. Wyatt and Martin grunted. However, before Wyatt could stick his foot out to try again, the saucer zoomed down the hill, flattening the teenagers against it.

Their mouths flapped in the wind as Chambers Bay and the Golf Course morphed into blurs. Wyatt screamed, and Martin white-knuckled the handles. They both nearly wet their pants when they hit that rock, sending the saucer soaring through the air.

“I’m going to die!” Wyatt shouted.

“I’m already there!” Martin shouted back.

The saucer landed back on the hill and kept zooming towards the field. The boys’ eyes widened a tree popped up in their view.

“Lean!” shouted Martin.

“Left or right?!” Wyatt hollered.

“Just lean!” Martin screamed, yanking Wyatt to the right with him. The saucer narrowly avoided the tree.

The saucer kept racing down the big hill. Suddenly, the view of the field became clearer, and they saw crowds of people playing around, oblivious of the occupied saucer rocketing towards them. Wyat started to lean, but Martin put a hand on him.

“It’s our safest bet to keep going!” he shouted.

“How do you figure?!” Wyatt yelled back.

“If we lean left, we’ll crash into one of those concrete structures by the golf course! If we lean right, there’s a fifty percent chance we’ll go into the water! So stay still and yell at the people to look out!”

Wyatt sucked in a massive load of air and let out an intense scream.

“HEY, PEOPLE! LOOK OUT!”

A few people indifferently looked up from their activities but ignored the boy’s warnings. Wyatt screamed again.

“SERIOUSLY! GET OUT OF THE WAY!”

Before anyone could react, a rock- unseen by both Wyatt and Martin- tripped the saucer and sent Martin and Wyatt flying. The spectators gasped, and a few even took pictures. The saucer crashed down into an abandoned snow fort, only feet away from the cushy snowbank where Wyatt landed. He got up and brushed himself off.

“Are you okay?” a girl asked.

“Yes!” Wyatt shouted breathlessly. “But where’s Martin?! What happened?!”

Wyatt jolted upward when he felt someone poke his shoulder.

“WOO-HOO!” Martin exclaimed. “Bro, that was awesome! Let’s do it again!”

Wyatt held a finger up as he caught his breath. A few seconds later, Wyatt stood straight up.

“I don’t know, dude,” he said. “I need a few minutes. That was intense.”

“All right. Then grab your saucer, and let’s take a walk on the bridge.”

The “Bridge” at Chambers Bay wasn’t really a bridge, per see, as it was only connected to land on one end. It just rose above the beach and allowed people to walk out over the water.

“Yeah,” said Wyatt. “Let’s do that.”

The boys headed toward the bridge. But Martin noticed that Wyatt was looking a bit bothered.

“Hey, are you okay?” Martin asked.

“I’m worried about us,” Wyatt stated outright.

Martin stared confusedly at his friend. “What do you mean?”

“We’re so different. I mean, that didn’t use to be a problem until we started going to different schools. I mean, we hardly see each other anymore.”

Wyatt sighed. Martin went silent, a bit surprised by this revelation. But then again, he thought, is it really that much of a surprise?

“I’m sorry,” he said.

“Why?” said Wyatt. “I’m not trying to blame you.”

“But I feel like it’s my fault. I don’t even know what you’ve been up to lately. The last time we saw each other was shortly before I left to spend Christmas in Reno.”

“Well, I haven’t exactly been doing much on my part, either,” Wyatt admitted. “I haven’t been interested in much else since I started dating Leilani.”

Martin jerked his head toward Wyatt.

“The new girl?” he asked. “I didn’t know that! Good for you!”

“Thanks, I guess. We’re just seeing where things go right now.”

“If they go good, maybe you guys can double with me an Oscar!”

“The captain of the swim team? Holy cow, dude!”

Wyatt high-fived Martin.

“Wow,” Wyatt said. “Remember when we met? Jimmy Fitz’s 7th birthday?”

“Oh geez,” scoffed Martin. “Don’t remind me. That mechanical band still scares me.”

“What about me? I was so overwhelmed by the crowd, I hid under a table!”

“Same table I was under. I was like, ‘who the heck are you?’”

“Yeah. But it was either stay under the table with a stranger, or go back out there with the creepy band and the field of hands and elbows.”

“If Oscar and Leilani saw us then,” joked Martin, “they wouldn’t have given us a second look. Oh man, remember…”

The boys were interrupted when they walked into the fence.

“Holy crap,” Wyatt remarked. “We’re at the end of the bridge already?”

Martin snickered. “Apparently so.”

“What were you going to say?” Wyatt asked as they turned to walk back.

“It’s nothing.”

Wyatt didn’t believe him.

“You were thinking about the 7th-grade prom, weren’t you?” He questioned.

“Hey, I was the first one to come out in my class. No one would go with me. But you stepped in.”

“Martin, it wasn’t a big a big deal.”

“It was. You’ve always been there for me. I don’t want to lose that. So no, you don’t have to worry about us drifting apart. But what we can do is make an effort to be with each other more.”

As the boys came to the curve, they noticed all the “love locks” on the bridge. Some of them years old, the locks had become a small attraction in U.P.

“I have an idea,” said Martin.

He pulled a padlock out of his jacket.

“This is the lock you gave me when we played Junior Hockey,” he continued.

“You carry that around everywhere?” Wyatt asked.

“I have. However, I would like to prove to you that I am going to make an effort to hang out with you more.”

He opened the lock and put it around one of the railing cables.

“Lock it if you promise to do the same,” he told Wyatt.

Wyatt smiled and closed the lock with a satisfying click.

“Did you really have to ask?” he said.

Martin smiled.

“Now come on,” Wyatt said excitedly. “Let’s do the hill again!”

Wyatt and Martin bolted back towards the hill, ready to face the adrenaline again.

Based on the prompt “Write about two people going sledding for the first time in many years” from the 77th Weekly Reedsy Prompts contest.

by sixlakesstudios

The Aviary of Henry Weston

PG-13; Bullying, Language

Location: Ruston, Washington

Time: 9:01 AM, December 19th, 2014

Connor Weston stared through the glass wall. He stood on the parlor side, within the 6-bedroom, 7-bathroom, ocean-view house that his late Uncle Henry had bequeathed to him, his sister, and three cousins. Each Weston had a job assigned to them after Henry’s death the day after Thanksgiving. Henry’s lawyer would evaluate their work on Christmas to determine whether the job had been completed in a manner that would’ve satisfied Henry’s wishes, whatever that meant. If they had, they would receive their share of the estate.

Henry’s big sister, Isabel, was renovating and re-opening the once-popular Marina Diner, an old haunt of Henry’s that shut down in 2008. His cousins Samantha and Timothy, Henry’s kids, were given high-ranking positions at Henry’s construction company. His cousin Burt was tasked with restoring the cars in Henry’s collection, saved from the crusher years before but not touched since. Connor’s job, however, was the oddest. The job waiting for him on the other side of the glass.

The birds. No, not the movie. The birds of Henry Weston’s aviary, a peculiar collection of exotic, yet legally obtained pet birds, of whom Connor had been made the de-facto guardian. Successful people are notorious for being quirky, but the extensive bird collection of the late Henry Weston had people talking. They wondered what would compel an army veteran-turned-construction mogul, a husband, and father of two, to adopt all those birds, much less build a dedicated extension on the house for them. One or two birds would not have turned the rumor mill, but fifty’s just weird, Connor thought.

Henry’s wife, Iris, who passed a year before Henry, had agreed with this sentiment. However, with Henry being one of the nicest people you’d ever meet, people generally kept their opinions to themselves.

***

Connor snapped out of his stare after feeling a hand smack his back. He turned around to glare at the perpetrator: his abrasive cousin Burt.

“What are you trying to do, nerd,” Burt sneered, “make them explode?”

Connor brushed his cousin off and went into the atrium to feed the birds. That’s when Horace, Joey, and Glenda, Henry’s largest macaws, started squawking obnoxiously.

“Con Man! Con Man!” Horace yelled, repeating an unfortunate nickname Burt had given Connor in middle school.

“Oh, shut up!” Connor shouted.

“Shut up! Shut Up! Con Man!” Joey yelled.

“Screw you!” Connor scolded.

Glenda then proceeded to squeal so loudly, Connor gave up and fled the room.

Conner was diagnosed with Asperger’s syndrome when he was five. He hated loud noises and would easily get overwhelmed by sounds like a crowd at a party, styrofoam squeaking – or the macaws’ recent outburst.

Isabel had come into the parlor before Connor had and saw him taking deep breaths against the door of the aviary.

“I’m guessing the feeding didn’t go well,” Isabel inquired.

“I didn’t even get to that!” Connor said. “Those macaws are devil spawn!”

“Connor, are you sure that you don’t want me to do this for you?”

“No, I have to do this myself!”

Before Isabel could respond, Connor braced himself and went back to the aviary, slamming the door behind him. The macaw start started squawking again, but Connor chose to ignore them this time. He walked across the room, past the colorful birds of Henry Weston’s aviary, and into the supply shed. He grabbed the giant bag of bird food he had opened after cleaning the aviary yesterday and pulled it to the center of the room. The birds went quiet. Although they usually weren’t well behaved, they knew not to bite the hand giving them food. They waited as Connor filled each bird feeder with seeds, dried fruits, and nuts. He then closed the bag after loading the last feeder and took it back into the shed.

This was the only part Connor could handle without gagging. Because after the dry goods come the insects and worms. He put on Henry’s old gardening gloves and carefully pushed the hand truck, holding containers of mealworms, potato bugs, and earthworms, out of the room.

“Oh, God,” Connor murmured to himself, bracing as he opened the mealworm drawer and put scoops into the two largest feeders. Placing the hand truck next to the feeders, he went around to the other side.

Opening each container made him cringe, and he gagged with each scoop of crawlers. He quickly poured the bugs into the feeders, feeling the birds’ impatient stares around him, and closed the containers. Of course, he’d have to open it again soon, sending yet more crawlers to their avian doom.

Finally putting the containers back in the shed, he sighed in relief, taking off the gloves before leaving and locking the shed and turning on the faucet for the birds’ drinking fountain. The fountain’s small bowls filled with water, after which Connor turned it off and walked to the door. He turned towards the birds for the final step of the feeding routine:

“Bon appetit!” He called.

He flinched, despite seeing it every time, when all fifty birds flapped at the same time towards the feeders and fountain, like shoppers at a mall on Black Friday.

***

When Connor locked the door, he immediately went into the hall bathroom and thoroughly scrubbed his hands with soap and hot water. He shook his hands off afterward, a bad habit he had developed in preschool but never able to get over.

“Hey, Con Man.” Burt said from the door, making Connor jolt up and spin around.

“What do you want, jerk?” He said through his teeth.

“Your boyfriend’s he…”

Connor blew past Burt before he could finish. This was the best part of Connor’s day. Mario Flores, whom Connor had been seeing for a year now, would visit him every day after work.

Mario worked at the nearby zoo as an ornithology expert. Henry frequented the ornithology center at the zoo, where he met Mario. Hoping to get a bird expert to join the family, Henry had initially tried to set him up with Samantha. However, upon learning Mario’s gay, he refocused him towards Connor without batting an eye. Connor and Mario were both insulted at first that Henry was setting them up for selfish reasons. However, they ended up hitting it off pretty quickly.

Connor flung his arms around Mario, tears in his eyes.

“Oh, Mars,” he said. “I don’t know if I can hold out any longer. Those rude birds and their gross food… I hate it! Why would Uncle Henry make me do this? I…”

“Whoa, whoa, Connor,” Mario shushed. “what happened?”

“Nothing other than the usual. The gross worms, and those obnoxious macaws, and if that wasn’t enough, Burt keeps…”

“Connor, you’ve got to stop letting them get to you – man or birds. Be the bigger man.”

Connor pulled himself off of Mario. “Yeah, if I had $10 for every time that I’ve heard that, I wouldn’t even need the inheritance money.”

Mario sighed. “Connor, you know I could do this for you. I won’t tell anyone.”

“But I would know. And I want to get my inheritance honestly.”

“Well, at least let me come in with you tomorrow. Let me watch. I’m an ornithologist, remember?”

“Fine, but please, let me handle this.”

***

6:20 PM

That night, Mario joined the Westons for dinner. Connor helped Timothy prepare Henry’s favorite meal: Margherita pizza, oven-fried zucchini, and Shirley Temples.

“My dad would’ve been 67 today,” Timothy mused.

“I wish I could say ‘I know how you feel,’ but I don’t,” said Connor. “Losing both your parents in your late twenties must be incredibly rough.”

“It’s not just that. I feel like he left at the worst time. Katherine and I haven’t even set a date yet, and Samantha’s finishing business school. He’s going to miss some of the biggest moments in our lives.”

Connor, who was not a fan of hugging anyone other than his parents and boyfriend, hesitantly gave his cousin a side hug. “I know. But he’s up there now with grandma, grandpa, and your mother.”

It was a silent dinner, with the five Weston’s, four significant others, and the birds, watching the diners curiously through the glass wall of the aviary, past the parlor, and into the dining room.

Burt was the only one at the table without a partner. He and Connor were also the only ones who lived in the house. The others lived with their partners nearby but had access to the house through keys given at the will reading. It was likely that Connor, who was close to Henry and Iris, would get the house since Timothy and Samantha had turned it down, but Burt was competitive. Connor and Burt always had a rivalry, going back to early childhood, when the larger Burt would push Connor into closets or sit on him until an adult dragged him off. Connor truly despised Burt for his bullying, which had become less physical over the years, but still made Connor angry. Isabel, Timothy, and Samantha sided with Connor, as Burt seemed to target him.

Samantha broke the silence. “I’d like to make a toast.”

Everyone raised their glasses.

“To Henry,” she said. “He’s finally flying with the birds.”

The others laughed.

“Hear, hear,” added Connor. “Happy birthday, Uncle Henry.”

“Happy birthday,” everyone said as they clinked their glasses.

***

9:57 PM

After dinner had concluded, and the dishes had been cleaned and put away, the guests started to filter out until it was just Burt, Connor, and Mario remaining.

Burt went upstairs to his room, blasting music at an obnoxious volume. Mario sat on the parlor couch with Connor, staring at the birds through the glass wall.

“They’re gorgeous,” Mario remarked. “Your Uncle had great taste in birds.”

“Agreed,” said Connor, “but you have to admit it is strange for one person to keep fifty for a personal collection.”

“When did he even start?”

“Henry’s had a parrot ever since he was little. When he hit it big in the construction business, I guess he just started investing more in his Ornithophilia.”

“Hmm. And what did Iris say about the birds?”

“She and everyone in the family thought the flock was getting to a weird point,” Connor chuckled. “She put up with it, though. Uncle always made sure she was his top priority, anyways.”

They were rudely interrupted by the feeling of a wet finger in Connor’s ear.

“Burt!” he shouted.

Burt laughed. “Don’t mind me, just getting a beer before bed.”

He wobbled towards the kitchen.

“You’ve had enough, don’t you think?” asked Connor.

Burt turned on his heel, glaring at Connor.

“And who made you the boss, punk?”

“Watch your tone, Burt. You’re an asshole when you’re not pixelated, so lay off the glug-glug, okay?”

Burt stepped menacingly toward Connor. “Listen to me, you little reta—HURK!”

“Walk it off, Burt,” said Mario, as he pulled Burt to the door by his collar. “Come back when you’re ready to apologize.” Mario yanked Burt onto the porch and slammed the door.

“You didn’t need to do that,” Connor said.

“Beleive me,” said Mario as he locked the door, “It was necessary. And you need to get over this stubbornness. You can’t do everything yourself.”

Connor sighed. “Fine.”

Connor got up and yawned. “Thank you for spending the night tonight, by the way.”

Mario followed Connor up the stairs, turning the light off behind him.

***

9:15 AM, December 20th, 2014

Mario sat on the bench, watching his boyfriend fill each feeder, as the birds perched silently around him. Earlier, the birds had caused a ruckus, as they were not familiar with Mario. However, Mario was able to show Connor how to calm them down. Mario also offered to scoop the worms for Connor, but Connor reiterated his point about having to do this by himself.

Connor then turned on the faucet to fill the drinking fountain.

“So Connor,” said Mario, in an attempt to change the topic, “have you decided what you’re going to major in?”

Connor paused for a moment to consider this. “I haven’t even been thinking about it,” he responded. “I know it’ll be in the computer science area, but I’m still torn between programming and engineering. I’m taking enough classes next quarter to really…”

Connor suddenly felt something cold on his feet. He looked down, and there was water all over the ground.

“Crap!” he exclaimed.

Connor turned off the water and went to get rags from the shed. As he stooped down to wipe up the water, Horace suddenly chimed in.

“Con Man! Con Man!” he shouted.

Connor snapped his head towards the offending parrot. Before Mario could stop him, Connor shouted:

“I’ve had it! I’ve had it with you, you damn featherbrain!”

Horace glared before swooping down toward Connor. Connor ducked, avoiding Horace. Unfortunately for Horace, Connor was standing right in front of the fountain. Horace bonked right into the side, falling right on the floor.

“Horace!” Connor shouted.

Mario ran over to examine the bird.

“What was I thinking?” Connor continued. “I know better than this. I’ve been taking care of these birds for a month! How could I be so-”

Mario put his finger on Connor’s lips.

“Panicking won’t help. Look, it wasn’t that hard of a hit. He’s still breathing. Get a blanket, wrap him up, and get in the car.”

***

9:51 AM

Connor sat nervously outside the lab. The zoo didn’t open for their winter light show for another eight hours, so the entire place was eerily empty. This made Connor more nervous. What if he had killed Horace? Never mind the inheritance. Connor would not be able to live with that amount of guilt. Horace was a favorite of Henry’s. Horace was the first bird born in his aviary. Henry raised him into the large, beautiful scarlet macaw he was today.

‘God,’ thought Connor. ‘What if I killed him?’

He turned his head as soon as he heard the door open.

“He’s okay,” said Mario. “Minor head trauma. He should rest for a few days, maybe outside the aviary, and I have medicine for him.”

“Can I see him?” asked Connor.

Mario nodded and held the door open for Connor. In the lab, Connor saw Horace in a cage, shivering and scared. This was new to Connor. Horace had always been menacing, brutish, and almost as much of a bully as Burt. But now, he was vulnerable and nervous, just as Connor had been the first time he was in the aviary. Like Connor was every first day of school, or when he had to meet new people.

Connor walked up to the shaking macaw and reached out his hand. Horace flinched at first, not knowing what was happening- whether or not Connor was going to hit him.

“It’s okay, Horace,” Connor cooed. “I’m not going to hurt you. Let me stroke you.”

Horace stepped towards Connor’s hand, and Connor started stroking him. After some time, Horace eventually calmed down and nuzzled up to Connor. Connor was starting to tear up.

“Are you okay?” Mario asked.

“I am,” he said.

Horace cooed as Connor continued stroking him. They had finally started to understand each other.

***

4:20 PM, December 25th, 2014

Mrs. D’Angelo, Henry’s lawyer, watched as Connor released Horace from the cage and let him fly back onto his favorite perch. Horace stayed in a cage in Connor’s room, so he and Mario could keep an eye on him. Now, Horace was playing around like he was a little chick again.

“I’m impressed,” said Mrs. D’Angelo. “You’ve done an excellent job with these birds.”

Connor smiled. “Thank you, Mrs. D’Angelo. I can’t say it was easy.”

“I’d say I believe you. Fifty birds is a lot.”

Connor lead Mrs. D’Angelo out of the aviary, closing the door behind them.

“Connor,” Mrs. D’Angelo continued, “You’ve definitely earned your share of the estate.”

“Oh, thank you, Mrs. D’Angelo,” he said gratefully. “I promise to put Henry’s money to good use.”

Connor tried not to get ahead of himself, but his thoughts immediately went to buying Mario’s engagement ring.

“Well,” said Mrs. D’Angelo, “come by with Isabel, Timothy, and Samantha on the 5th, and we’ll get the details worked out.” She started to leave.

“Wait,” said Connor, “what about Burt?”

“Unfortunately, he didn’t finish the cars, so he didn’t earn his share. But that means you and the others get larger shares. Now go, rejoin your family in the TV room. Merry Christmas.”

However, after she left, Connor didn’t go to the TV room. He headed to the car collection. He opened the door and saw Burt sitting on the stool, face in his palms.

Burt looked up when he saw Connor. His face was red from tears.

“What do you want?” he said.

Connor hesitated for a second before he said:

“I heard.”

“Go away. You’re just here to rub it in my face.”

Connor looked over at the cars. They looked better than they did when Uncle Henry died, but they still had a long way to go.

“One month wasn’t enough, was it?” he said.

“Piss off!”

Burt slammed his hand down onto the worktable as he shouted, rattling every tool hanging above. Connor came into the garage. He shut the door.

“I’m not here to make you feel bad,” he stated.

“Why not?!” Burt said. “I deserve it! I had it coming! I’ve been an asshole for years, and now I’m paying for it! I was going to use that money to go back to school! Now I’m not going anywhere! I’m going to be stuck…”

Connor suddenly stepped forward and hugged his cousin. Burt, initially surprised by the hug, hugged back and started crying into Connor’s shoulder.

“I’m sorry,” said Burt. “I’m such a jerk, and I failed Uncle Henry.”

Connor stayed silent. As much as he hated hugging Burt, he continued comforting his cousin.

Based on the prompt “Write about someone who is given a bird for the holidays but doesn’t know how to take care of it,” from the 73rd Weekly Reedsy Prompts contest.