48 Hour Short Story Contest

Staircases and Girth Straps
I looked out into the soft glow of a night lit by a full moon while I sat on the front porch. Its light conjured many memories of my past as always. On this particular night, I heard the rhythmic thump of crutches approach from in the house as my son approached from inside. When he sat beside me on the porch swing, my thoughts gravitated toward a particular ski vacation I had taken as a high school junior.

“Whatcha thinkin’ about, Mom,” James asked as he rested his crutches against the armrest of the swing. He’d only been on them for about a week and got around pretty well. While out riding, the girth strap had broken and he’d the misfortune of hitting his right leg on a rock. Watching the Kentucky Derby as a youngster had given him dreams of being a jockey. This six foot six junior had given jockeying up for basketball, but the accident had ended his season. He looked particularly forlorn at the moment.

“Everything … and nothing.” I noted that an artistic student had drawn a picture of a bucking horse on his cast. Over its upraised back, she had signed her name. Other names included his basketball coach and the team. “Have you been telling your friends that Silkwinds bucked you?”

James laughed half-heartedly. “No, I just said I fell. Trisha’s got an imagination … and a body.” At this admission, he blushed profusely.

I couldn’t resist the tease. “So when do I get to meet her?”

This brought on a belly laugh. When James got control of his mirth he responded, “Not while she’s on the arm of the defensive lineman she’s dating. Not that I wouldn’t jump at the chance. Chem lab gets hard with her as a partner, though.”

“Is it the assignment that’s hard or something else?”

A disgusted tone entered James’ voice as he replied, “Mom, act your age! You sound like my teammates! Man, I’m gonna hate missing this season.”

After a moment’s pause I asked, “So what’s the moon look like to you?”

“The moon? Like a full moon, why?” James sounded confused. As well he should.

“Wait here a sec, I’ll be right back.” I went into the house looking for a story I’d written as a college freshman. It was for a creative writing course that I’d taken when I was still leaning towards journalism as a career.

As I found it, I recalled old Professor Twomey as he stumped around the front of the room on his cane. “Not all creative writing is fiction. Take, for instance, the memoir.” He’d gone on to speak about the elements of creative writing and how they were used to make the memoir style a good read. “So write me a memoir over the weekend. Just to be clear, I don’t want your entire life story. But it does need to be an event that was significant event to you though it may appear to be a nothing to anyone else who reads it.”

Most of the class groaned at the idea of laying their lives bare to the professor, but I had already decided what event I would write about. It had been years since I’d thought to share this story, probably because the situation was never right.
Returning to the porch, I handed the paper to James. “Read that,” I said.

James shrugged and began, “A pale, cold full moon cast a sickly, baleful light through the window which reflected off my new cast.” He continued silently, his blue eyes tracing back and forth across the page.

My mind drifted back to that time. My family had arrived at the lodge for a much-awaited ski trip the previous evening. We had checked in, too tired to even think about hitting the slopes at that moment. Even if we’d had the energy for skiing, the slopes would close soon.

On waking the next morning, we dressed and got set to eat breakfast. Halfway down the stairs, I managed to trip over my own feet. From there, I went ass over teakettle to the bottom of the stairs and landed in a crumpled heap. In a disoriented enthusiasm only youth can manage, I tried to rise only to find that my left leg collapsed under my own weight.

A circle of concerned faces gathered around me. I felt as if I were on display for the crowds at a carnival. The image seemed so complete that I heard the barker screaming, “Hurry! Hurry! Hurry!” In the ER I learned that the barker had been the lodge owner calling for and ambulance. The poor man had been just short of panic himself.

Hours later, I found myself back at the lodge staring at the moon and the cast. I had to come up with a story to tell my friends at school so I wouldn’t be laughed at and branded a klutz. They knew what I could do on the slopes and what I’d never tried. I thought it poor strategy to claim that it had happened while attempting a different type of run; they might just call me stupid for that. Eventually, I resigned myself to the probability of becoming a laughing stock. Looking back, I knew that the issue had been controlling why I was laughed at.

Finally, I finished crafting the perfect story, simple enough to recite over and over without changing too much in the retelling. I went to sleep, satisfied with that small accomplishment.

When I woke the next morning, I wasn’t surprised to find Mom and Dad had already hit the slopes. On the nightstand, I found a to go container with a breakfast inside. After eating, I slowly hobbled my way out of the room. At the stairs, I looked on the new obstacle with a form of confusion I’d never before experienced.

“Can I give you a hand down?” a male voice asked. A man the age of my father who had dark hair and a receding hairline sat alone in the large reception area. He looked up at me from a game of solitaire he had laid out.

I didn’t recognize him; he wasn’t there the night before. “Thank you, I’d appreciate that,” I replied. It surprised me how tired I sounded. I had thought that crutches would be like using ski poles. That’s what I got for thinking.

The slender man stood and mounted the steps. He turned out to be much taller than I expected. Looking down on people made them seem shorter. “Put your left arm over my shoulders,” he instructed. I did so and we descended the steps together. He settled me in a chair and he retrieved my crutches from above. That done, he settled behind his card game again.

“Why aren’t you out with everyone else?” I asked as I propped my leg on an ottoman.

The man chuckled. “I don’t ski a lick; my wife and son are out having the time of their lives.”

For the first time, I noted that the lodge owner wasn’t in the room. A conspicuous scraping noise came from outside. Moments later, the owner came in fully decked in cold weather gear. He leaned a snow shovel next to the door and closed it. “How are you?” he asked.

“As well as I can be, since I’ve robbed myself of a week’s skiing,” I responded.

He smiled warmly and said, “The mountains aren’t going anywhere. There’ll be other ski trips. In the meantime, may I be the first to sign your cast?”

I hadn’t even thought of that aspect of my injury yet. “Of course, sign away!”

He pulled out a felt tipped pen and knelt to write. When he rose, it read ‘Sorry about the stairs. A.J.’

I almost screamed. The story about falling on the slopes was useless.

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“You were going to lie to your friends? Mother!”

James’ mock chide brought me back to the present. “I lie to lots of people. What do you think a novel is but a pack of lies? And doncha think I do it well?”

“You must, or I wouldn’t have Silkwinds at all. That reminds me, you haven’t signed it yet.”

He was right. With a felt tip of my own I wrote, ‘Keep on riding, Mom.’

Words=1391

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