creative-writing – Crystal Lynn Writing

The Purple Bike (Fiction)

Suzy threw her backpack on the floor and flopped on her bed with a sigh. She looked up at all the books that neatly lined her bookshelf, but nothing drew her to picking up a good book and sitting snuggly in her bed as her pup sat beside her. Not even a good mystery would solve the ache she felt in her chest. All she wanted to do was lay there and stare up at the white ceiling in silence. Lately, it felt as if a shadow followed her everywhere. She kept on thinking, “Tomorrow will be a better day.” But it never was. Each day the thoughts she had in her head kept spinning. She forgot things. She interrupted her friends when she didn’t mean to (which always annoyed them). She was either too much or too little, and she was always either late or way too early. She could be right in the middle of a large group of friends and feel like she just never fit in just right. Something was wrong with her. She decided she must be broken.

Today’s words kept repeating in her head, “Wow, is EVERYTHING about you?” Beth said as she rolled her eyes at the lunch table. Henry had mentioned that his grandpa was in the hospital. Suzy had known how that had felt. Since last year her grandpa passed away. And even though she hoped that Henry’s grandpa would get better and go home as soon as possible, she knew he was feeling the fear of losing someone he deeply loved. She was just trying to share her experience in hopes that it would comfort Henry. But Beth assumed she was just trying to take the attention away from Henry. At that moment, she felt like she missed a memo, or everyone had gotten the same life instructions in life except. She hated being this way. The way she was. Whatever that was. She couldn’t lay there forever. So she decided that maybe taking a walk to the local bike shop would make her feel better. Most days of the week, Suzy would visit Mr. George at his bike shop. They would play checkers or just sit and tell stories when business was slow. He always knew how to make her feel better. So she grabbed her sneakers and a coat and headed out the door but not before leaving a note for her mom, in case she came home from work early.

The door chimed as Suzy pushed the door open to Mr. George’s Bike Shop. As soon as she entered, she noticed a light purple banana seat bike with a wicker basket. Her eyes widened.

“Pretty neat, eh? Just got that one in,” Mr. George said behind the counter. He had a pencil in his hand as he looked down and wrote in scribbled penmanship on a notepad. Suzy took a seat next to the counter and exhaled.

“You okay?” Mr. George asked, looking up with a furrowed brow.

“Yeah . . . Just a tough day at school.”

Mr. George had a twinkle in his eye. “Well, I have a story for you that might make you feel better.”

Suzy looked up and smiled. She loved Mr. George’s stories. She hoped it was a spooky one since the leaves had started to fall.

“First, how about some hot apple cider? I was just making some and hoped you’d stop by.” He smiled and made his way to the back of the store.

“You read my mind,” Suzy said with her eyes twinkling.

Mr. George placed two cups of hot apple cider on the counter and sat down on a wooden stool behind the counter. “Have you ever heard the legend of pickle arm?”

Suzy’s eyes grew large as she shook her head and settled in to hear the story.

“Long ago in a factory town lived an ordinary man. He left his house every day at 6:00 a.m. for the pickle factory and came back every night at 6:00 p.m. Most days were boring and spent placing the tops on pickle jars for hours so that the machine could seal the jars. It was normally quiet, and most people sat in silence and did their job. However, one day he got promoted to a new job, a job that made sure there were enough pickles in each jar. He thought that each jar should have four pickles in the jar, but his coworker thought there should be five. They bickered back and forth, and when he wasn’t paying attention to the machine next to him—THUD.”

“What!” Suzy said with wide eyes.

“His arm was gone, and to save his life, he had to use a pickle for an arm. Hence the name. Pickle Arm. Legend says that he still haunts the woods trying to find a new arm to replace his pickle arm.” Mr. George finished his story with a smile.

Suzy laughed. “What a silly story.”

“I know, but did it make you feel better?”

“Yes . . . I guess so,” Suzy said she with a smile.

“Sometimes just taking your mind off a bad day helps you feel just a little better,” Mr. George said as he gathered their empty glasses of cider and brought them to the back.

Suzy looked down at her watch. “I probably should get back home and start my homework.”

“Do you have a little more time?”

“I mean. I guess I have a little bit. Why?”

“Want to take that for a spin?” He pointed at the purple bike with a twinkle in his eye.

“Really? For real? That’s okay?”

“Of course, it’s the floor model, so as long as it comes back in one piece, we’re good. Just make sure you’re not gone too long. I wouldn’t want your mom to get worried if you missed dinner.”

“I’ll be quick. Thank you!” Suzy said as she took the helmet from Mr. George’s hand and wheeled the bike out—gently but quickly.

Mr. George’s Bike Shop was hidden in a neighborhood where most people biked instead of driving, so it was easy to find an empty parking lot and a few good sidewalks to test out the bike. First, she started in an empty church parking lot next to the bike store. Just so she could get the feel of the bike. The more she rode in circles, the more it felt right, so she decided to take it to the sidewalks. Even though this moment felt like a dream, all she could think of was the words, “Is EVERYTHING about you?” She just couldn’t shake it out of her mind. Why was she so stupid? She was just trying to help, but instead, she had messed everything up. Just like she always did.

Suzy felt like her head was spinning, and the more she thought about that moment, the more her head spun. The wind was hitting her cheeks and making them cold and rosy. She also noticed something odd. The faster she rode, the more her bike shook. But it wasn’t because she was going faster, it was because her bike was slowly lifting off the ground. Her stomach did somersaults, and before she knew it, she was floating above the stop signs and streetlights. But it didn’t stop there, she was now above the powerlines floating next to birds who sat perched on top of the wooden pole. She floated over Betsy’s Bakery, and the smell of baked apple pies hit her nose. Her favorite. She wondered if anyone below could see her floating so high above. Maybe they just thought she was just another bird in the sky. She liked that thought.

As she floated, she noticed one thing, she didn’t care about those words anymore. Why did Beth get to tell her things about herself. Not anymore. She knew that she cared about other people, she just did it in a different way. The bike wobbled sideways, and Suzy gripped the handlebars tighter. She was now high enough that all her neighbors looked like little ants. The cars looked like toy cars, and the buildings looked like she could scoop them up and put them in her pocket. She should have been scared, but she wasn’t. She felt free. The shadow was gone, and she felt lighter. Up here, she liked herself. Her love for stories, her compassion for her friends, and her silly sense of humor.

Her thoughts were interrupted by a giant tree that she was barreling toward. Before it was too late, she swerved out of the way and realized she was now descending. She hadn’t thought about what would happen as she fell, but it was almost like a cloud was under her. Slowly, she continued to float all the way down until she hit the concrete with a gentle bump. She had found herself in front of Mr. George’s Bike Store. She unclipped her helmet and wondered how she would explain this to Mr. George. Or if he would even believe her.

Maybe I won’t. She thought to herself. Maybe this will just be between me and the clouds. She smiled. She liked that thought. Because today turned into a good day. Finally. And she didn’t want to lose that.

The next day at school she decided to not sit with Beth and the other kids at her normal table. Maybe she would sit by herself or—who was that? she thought to herself. A girl with bright red hair, tucked back in a large braid, sat reading a book and munching on carrots. She was sitting alone, and Suzy thought maybe she would give this whole friend’s thing another try. Give herself another chance.

“Hello, do you mind if I sit here?”

“Not at all.” The girl looked up and smiled.

“Anne of Green Gables. I love that book!” Suzy said with a smile.

“Me too!”

“I’m Kate. I’m new here.”

“Suzy. I was new last year. It’s not fun at first, but it does get better.”

“Really? That makes me feel better.” Kate smiled.

Suzy and Kate ate their sandwiches as they talked about how many times they both read Anne of Green Gables, what their favorite chapter was, and which movie adaption of the book was their favorite. 1985 Canadian version of course.

“I was thinking about checking out the library. Want to come with me?” Kate said hopeful.

“I never would miss a chance to be among the books. Plus, I can give you a tour with my eyes closed.” Both Kate and Suzy laughed.

As Kate and Suzy both made their way to the library, Suzy thought that maybe it wasn’t about trying to change yourself to make people understand you, but it’s finding people who already understand you just the way you are. Suzy smiled as she opened the wooden door to the library. Today was going to be a good day. Finally.

Back Acres (Flash Fiction)

I look out the window as pine trees and mailboxes quickly pass by. My dad behind the wheel as I sit in the passenger’s seat. The truck’s seats smelling of firewood and gasoline. I listen to the tires hit the gravel as I read the green wooden sign, Back Acres. I focus my eyes on trees that line the driveway and the sheds made from weathered wood. My dad parks the truck, and I jump out and stretch my legs. I smell the fresh forest air and notice the tall, towering trees next to the little cabin and my grandpa’s vegetable garden—cucumbers, tomatoes, green beans, and green carrot tops poking through the dirt.

On the other side of the cabin, apple trees tower over my small stature. My grandpa, grey-haired and wrinkled smile, stands holding a plastic ice cream pail, collecting the fallen apples. Green and red, some with holes from worms searching for a home, others bruised from the fall. I slip my sandals off and allow my toes to mingle with the overgrown green grass. I watch the trees as the wind moves through the branches, my grandpa walking over to me, greeting me with a warm hug and smile, “Apples are ready to pick.” I grin and search for the perfect apple. I bend down and pick up an apple. Green with red spots, no holes, and no bruises. I bring it up to my mouth and take a bite, sourness flowing from cheeks to lips puckering. I notice the apples hanging from the trees and the tiny ants that climb up toward the top. I wonder what it would be like to sit on the tops of those trees and what it looks like past the miles of trees that surround us. I feel myself exhale, and it is as if time has stopped for just a moment.

I continue to eat the apple as I rush to follow my dad and grandpa. We enter the woods, shaded from the sun, and follow the dirt path. I walk over broken sticks and wet leaves. We pass wood piles and squirrels and continue until we stop at a green bridge. I imagine that the bridge leads to a castle or continues until you reach a magical forest. I pick up stones and toss them into the flowing river and watch leaves float as they race each other downstream.

I listen to the tires hit the gravel and watch the pine trees rush past as my husband and I drive down the narrow treelined driveway. I find my dad near the garden, picking green beans and placing them in a plastic ice cream pail. I join and throw off my sandals next to a large, towering tree. I let my feet mingle with the dirt and pick the cherry tomatoes from the green vines. The tomatoes leave the vine, but instead of placing them in the pail, I quickly savor them. After the pails are full of tomatoes, cucumbers, carrots, and potatoes, I enjoy staring at the row of large sunflowers that line the back of the garden. I leave the garden and make my way toward the cluster of apple trees on the other side of the cabin.

An empty wooden pail sits beneath one of the apple trees. I sit next to the pail under the tree and take in the fresh summer air. Between the cluster of apple trees, I let the warmth of the sun touch my skin as I remember the past soft voices of my dad and grandpa talking about the carrots and the cucumbers. I can almost taste the sour apples that made my lips pucker and hear my grandpa’s soft voice as he tells me, “Apples are ready to pick.”

When Skies Are Gray (You Are My Sunshine)—Flash Fiction

I jump out of the car and race my siblings to see who can ring the doorbell first. We hear a “come in” that slips under the crack of the door and another “hello” that echoes from the kitchen. We walk up the stairs into the mudroom, and my eyes notice the wooden coat rack that holds my grandpa’s hats on each knob. Hats for running errands, hats for birthday parties, hats for other special occasions, and hats for everyday wear. There are family pictures hanging on the wall and a small electric organ hiding quaintly in the corner. We take off our coats and place our shoes next to the pile of shoes that fill the entryway.

We open the door that leads to the kitchen, and my grandma welcomes us with a hug and a kiss on each cheek. I can smell the scent of her lotion—baby powder and fresh laundry. The smell of bold coffee lingers under my nose from the fresh pot of coffee sitting next to the kitchen sink. My eyes peer at the angels that are displayed as magnets on the refrigerator, as wall décor, and on towels.

I pass the kitchen into the living room with green shag carpet and see my grandpa sitting in his wooden framed chair—a blue trucker hat with the writing AAMCO Transmission hides his dark wavy hair, and a toothpick pokes out of the corner of his mouth. He stands up and gives a handshake that turns into a hug with a “Merry Christmas.”

“Merry Christmas, Grandpa!”

“Now do you remember what I got when I was little?”

“Yes, Grandpa,” we say chuckling.

“A popcorn ball and a toy truck,” we all say together.

“And by the end of the day, my popcorn ball would be eaten, and my toy truck was broken.” He sits back down in his recliner.

“The basement is ready; I turned the heater on, so it should be warm,” he says, and we rush down to the basement.

I can feel the cold cement rush through my white socks, but my cheeks are warm from the heat that dances in the air. As soon as our feet touch the cement floor of my grandpa’s workshop, we call dibs on the 1960s exercise bike, and my cousin turns on the small boxed TV with the click of the dial. Since I didn’t call dibs first, I sit on the army green rug that blankets the cold cement floor. As we watch television and take turns pedaling on the stationary bike, I look around at all the tools that my grandpa has labeled, most I have no clue what they were called, but he did. Each tool assigned a coffee can, a bucket, or a spot hanging on the wall—label included with masking tape and black permanent marker penmanship.

My grandpa’s workshop is a magical haven for us kids, a place the adults dare not enter. Unless they are summoning us for dinner or after dinner ice cream and pie. There is an invisible magical Do Not Enter sign placed on the white wooden door, and the only sign of adult life is the faint echo of voices that float down the stairs from the kitchen.

In the far corner of the room is a small closet. It’s heavy wooden door with metal hinges creak when we open it. It smells like moth balls and spider webs, and we are surrounded by wooden shelves lined with boxes of knick-knacks—picture frames, spools of yarn, plastic jars. The closet is small but just big enough for us to fit.

There are wooden slats on the floor; I look down and slowly place my trinkets safely in my jeans pocket—I imagine the spiders and magical Borrowers who live in the shadows beneath the wooden slats of the floor. We pretend we are hiding in the basement of a pirate ship. I can feel the waves taking us back and forth as I stare out the small window; a weeping willow stares back at me. But in the land of pirates, it is a giant ocean that roars back with waves that toss the boat to and fro.

After dinner, my grandpa arrives back at the kitchen table from the laundry room with a large brown cardboard box with permanent marker penmanship. He gently places it on the table, and we all sit and listen to him as he tells us stories from the war (WWII) and his childhood. He pulls out a yellow manila envelope that is filled with pictures, newspaper clippings, and trinkets from places that he once visited. With each object, he tells a story.

“We had no radio, no telephone, no nothing, all you had is your family, so someone could come there and start telling you stories, that was really entertaining, and they would tell you some of the spookiest stories you ever have heard. In them days they would keep you up at night, because you had nothing else, so you believe them.”

Later that evening, after a cardboard box full of stories, we dance around the kitchen table, the lights dim, and my grandma claps to the beat. The silver harmonica that my grandpa holds in his weathered hands glimmers as it hums, and my grandpa inhales and then exhales the melodies.

“You are my sunshine, my only sunshine, you make me happy when skies are gray . . .”

Once the melodies stop, and my grandma turns on the light, my grandpa leaves but then quickly returns with three cigar boxes—each cover reading King Edward Invincible Deluxe—with a harmonica in each. He sits down and taps the harmonica firmly on his leg.

“Now with this mouth organ all you gotta do is tap it real firm.” We sit down and echo his movements. He picks up his harmonica and starts playing a familiar song that I remember him humming from time to time.

“I woke up one morning
I looked up on the wall
The Cooties and the Bedbugs
Were having a game of ball.
The score was six to nothing.
The Cooties were ahead,
I got so darned excited that I fell right out of bed.
I went down stairs to breakfast
The coffee was so stale
It tasted like tobacco juice right out of the county jail.”

This song made me afraid of bedbugs and wonder if cooties were real. But I’d rather not find out.

I curl up under my Muppet Babies comforter and stare up at my bedroom ceiling. Bright glow-in-the-dark stars shine back at me. I close my eyes, and stories and melodies fill my dreams as I drift off to sleep.

The Fortress (Flash Fiction)

Our hearts jump with excitement as our eyes focus on a large tree that has fallen over in my parents’ backwoods from the rainstorm the night before. Our imaginations spin as we brainstorm. Jungle gym, pirates plank, “TREE FORT.” We rush toward the green ferns and broken twigs blanketing the forest ground. Sticks scratch against our small arms, leaving red lines that slowly fade. Green ferns and leaves spill over our dirty arms as we walk back to the broken tree and gently place our supplies on the ground—we are ready to build our fortress. We slowly cover the broken limbs with green ferns and leaves. The ferns transform into window shades, and the leaves are sprinkled to create a roof, leaving an opening for the entrance to our fortress. The sun sets and the fort is completed, smiles rest on each of our faces as we clasp our dirty hands together with a sigh of satisfaction—our kingdom is complete.