Hello! This is the first installment in the Ekphrasis Project. For each of these stories, I will find one piece of art, write one story set within that piece of art, and write the story in one hour. Enjoy!
Alex woke up first.
“Let’s practice fencing.”
We started a quiet game of fencing on the stairs. I am getting very good at taking the high ground from Alex. He took a tumble in the first round, but he’s so nimble, you could barely hear it. In the second round, I tripped on some shoes (Sara and Lizzie keep leaving theirs everywhere) and, while not nearly as light as Alex, still managed to land at the foot of the stairs with nary a thump. 1-1. Alex met me halfway and we began again, our rapiers clashing as we began again.
“Boys! Stop that right now!” A voice growled. A ghost glared at us from the second floor landing, clad in anger and an awful white nightgown with ruffles. Oh.
“Grams, we’re practicing our fencing,” I explained.
“No. Outside. Both of you.” We started down the stairs. “And those broomsticks are not for fencing with. Put them back in the closet.”
A half hour later, we returned for breakfast: bacon, sausages, eggs, biscuits, and little trays of fruit. Alex and I were having a passionate discussion of the merits of slingshot stone sizes, large vs. small and round vs. flat. I really felt that I was getting through to him about flat stones and used a bit of bacon to make my point about shape. He replied that shape did not matter unless you had a good deal more heft and proceeded to demonstrate his point with a sausage.
“Silence!” Grams again. Sara and Lizzie paused mid-biscuit. “We do not raise our voices at the table and we do not throw sausages at each other.”
“But, Grams, slingshots-
“No. Outside. Both of you.” She waved a long, white hand like a wing, brushing us out the door.
While the ladies finished breakfast, we completed our argument with demonstrations on an obliging tree. This took up some time, given that whenever one of us wanted to go and find the rock he had originally used, the other would pelt him with theirs as a way to demonstrate their argument’s effectiveness. We both had several bruises by the time we called truce.
“Betcha can’t ride Fat Martha,” Alex said.
“Anyone can ride Fat Martha,” I said.
“Across the entire yard and back?”
This brought me up short. Fat Martha was old and greying. She never lifted her head except for food.
“Of course I can,” I said, not to be deterred. Alex was all talk. Not me.
We checked to see if Grams was watching from one of the many windows. All clear. We crossed the yard to Fat Martha’s pen and I dangled an apple to get her attention. As she wrapped her thick lips around it, I clambered aboard.
“See? Told ya!”
“You’re not riding. You sitting. Across the yard and back, remember? ”
“I just have to get her moving.” I began coaxing Fat Martha the best I knew how: insults. She was fatter than the moon, or one of those big blocks of cheese from Switzerland. She was so huge, she blocked out the sun. Then I tried compliments, comparing her white derriere to the softest of marshmallows. She snorted.
“Try kicking her,” Alex said. So I did. And while I kicked, the girls came around the house, yelling about something, and Alex slipped inside the pen to give Fat Martha a slap on the rump.
“Alex!”
What they don’t tell you about fat ponies is that they have quite a bit of energy stored up. Fat Martha took me across the back yard and back, and then across and back, and then across and back again, zigzagging like a crazy bee. Alex and the girls came after us, trying to catch her while I tried not to fall off. finally, she stopped and I went flying over her head to land in a heap.
I looked up. The ghost of this morning was a veritable harpy now, all red-faced and enraged. Grams glared at me before jerking a finger.
“Tree house. Now. Both of you.”
Alex and I both went off to the front of the house sulking. The tree was a patch of stacked lumber up in a big tree that was supposed to be a beautiful house to play in, at least if Dad ever got around to building it. Grams sent us there whenever she couldn’t put up with us.
I could see her now, looking across from her window. Her face was tight and grim, an old owl in her own big tree house.
“Do you think she’s really mad?” Alex asked.
“Maybe.”
“Do you think Mom and Dad are coming back?”
“Yeah.” Although I wasn’t sure.
“You looked ridiculous on Fat Martha.”
“Shut up, Alex.”
All Things: 