U.F.O.

Today's muse: I'm taking a Short Story Writing Class, taught by Richard Scarsbrook. Our first assignment is to write a 'Postcard' Story (250 words).

Just a little too keen, I've already written what I think I'll submit. Then again, it's not due until February 16, so I may write another one--or two. Not to mention, I took something posted previously on this blog and editted it. That's also a contender.

(I'm such a geek.)

* * *


U.F.O. (Unidentified Foreign Object)

“Where d’you s’pose it came from?”

Two tussled heads—one dark, one light—gazed down at the item in question. It lay just beneath the surface of the French River, wedged in a fault in the Canadian Shield that served as a shoreline, in lieu of sand.

The other shrugged. “Dunno.”

Justin and Conner stood shoulder-to-shoulder. Grimy, skinned knees were the only indication that the bronze sticks protruding from baggy swim trunks were, in fact, legs. In unison, they bent over for a closer look.

“It’s from an alien ship,” Conner decided. He said this with such conviction, that it didn’t occur to Justin to argue. Of course it was.

“It must have come off when they tried to enter the Earth’s atmosphere,” Conner explained, with the confidence of an aerospace engineer. Justin nodded in agreement.

As a shadow cast across the water, the boys turned to see who had interrupted their analysis of the spaceship. Conner’s older brother stared down at them with a condescending smirk. Trevor was fifteen—practically a grownup.

He rolled his eyes. “It’s a beer top, you morons.” And Trevor walked away, muttering something about stupid kid brothers.

Conner stared after his brother. Why did he do that? They were only messin' around. Of course they knew it was just a beer top. Duh! What made adults forget to use their imagination? How to play? It was a shame, was all Conner could think.

“I am never gonna grow up,” he vowed.

“Nope.”