Prompt: Every cloud has a silver lining.

 

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2. Scraped knee and scraped pride

 

It was summer.

Stolen gas station candies filling both his pockets to the brim, little Mason rides his bike like there’s no tomorrow. The sun was shining in his path, and he took the opportunity to go even faster. Maybe it was the universe’s way of telling him to race. His laugh rumbles the empty-streeted town, occasionally stealing glances over his shoulder to see if anyone might be on his tail. The curls of his chocolate hair whip against his forehead, so he can’t clearly make out every face he comes across, but as long as it wasn’t the lanky guy with the gas station uniform, he will be just fine.

Mason cycles on, and on, and on… Through various buildings, his eyes are on the lookout for his house. But again, maybe that wouldn’t be such a great idea. His mother is home, probably still baking casseroles, and she never gave Mason money for snacks or sorts for today. If Mason returns home with his pockets full of unbought candies, his mother would drive him back to the gas station store, make him apologize to the store clerk, and then return the candies.

He laughs, looking over his shoulder again. Still an empty street. Fixing his eyes forward, he couldn’t comprehend what was in front of him until he flew off his bike, landing on the hot tarmac as the sound of plastic wrappings sprinkled to the ground; all the candies made an escapade from Mason’s small pockets.

He yelped, only for a second, Mason thought, even though it was of a scream that lasted for three seconds.

Mason struggles to stand up with all his might, his scratched palms lifting him, although he only manages to stay on all fours. Even with that, his whole body was already shaking. He hissed as soon as his knees made contact with the ground. Looking down, a splotch of dark red is visible on his right knee; the other was a nasty bruise. Albeit the empty street and the fact that nobody was watching, his vision starts to blur as tears build up in his eyes. Mason knows no one saw him fall, but he never falls. It hurt more than the scraped knee, because Mason couldn’t see the wound, but he knew it was there—carving his heart out. He should have been more careful. To keep his eyes on the road, as her mother would always say. He is not some loser who can’t ride a bike.

“Ouch…” a stranger’s voice sent an alert to Mason. He quickly looked up, noticing another boy his age on the ground. He doesn’t seem as injured as Mason, but his bike… “Your knees,” the stranger said, making eye contact with Mason.

Mason took a quick glance at his knees, even though he knew it was already bleeding and swelling. He raised his head again, eyes drawn to the bicycle belonging to the stranger. “Your bike.”

The stranger slowly stands up. Mason can tell from his eyes that he is still processing the minor mishap that just happened. His eyes then went to his bike, split in half. “My dad just bought it for me.”

Mason swallowed a lump. I’m sorry, he thought. But the words didn’t come out.

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.

.

They both stare at each other.

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Another few seconds of stillness.

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.

.

“I know you,” the stranger finally said. “You’re Mason.”

Mason furrows his brows. “How do you know that? Maybe I’m Bill.”

“Bill the blond,” he replied with a shrug, or more like an attempt to shrug without wincing in pain. “You’re Mason like the bison. Bison have brown fur, like your hair.”

The frown on Mason’s face hasn’t ceased. He doesn’t know whether he should be offended or not, because the stranger actually had a good point. No one has associated him with a bison before, but come to think of it, Mason thought it was cool.

The stranger groaned, holding and kneading his purple elbow, as purple as Mason’s left knee. “Can you stand up?”

Mason shook his head. Can’t the guy see he’s bleeding?

“We need to get that fixed before it’s infected.”

Mason shook his head once more. “My house is still far.”

“Mine’s not.”

The stranger approached Mason. He slowly knelt to wrap his uninjured arm around Mason’s shoulder, carrying him up with that same groan.

Mason scowled. He tries to fight off the aid, but instead, his muscles lean against the stranger. “I’m fine- are we leaving our bikes behind?”

“We can get them later. No one is gonna steal broken bicycles.” One step at a time, the stranger holds Mason by his side.

“But mine’s not broken!” Mason whined. He looked behind, only to find his argument to be false. Although his bike didn’t split in half like the stranger’s, one of the handlebars flew off, the saddle is lopsided, and the crankarm with the pedal is nowhere to be found. That was never a good look.

“Stop crying, unless you want people to hear you.”

Mason scoffed off his tears. “I’m not!” he cried.

The blazing sun above them didn’t help at all. Mason’s body was burning, just as his tears burn against his sunburnt cheeks. His head was pounding, and both his knees were throbbing. He couldn’t hear the chirping birds as much as his heavy breaths were all he could pick up on.

“Does it hurt that much?” The stranger’s voice broke off his focus against his heavy breaths.

“No,” Mason breathed out.

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.

.

“You know, every cloud has a silver lining.”

Mason faces the stranger. He blinked. “What does that mean?”

“That there’s always something good behind something bad. My dad always says that.”

“What can possibly be good about this? I can’t walk.”

“I dunno,” the stranger said, looking over at Mason. “Does your dad give you chores?”

“I don’t have a dad.”

That made the stranger falter for a second before finally coming up with another question: “Does your mom give you chores?”

“Yeah.” But what if Mason didn’t have a mom? What would the stranger ask? That is, whether his guardian gives him chores or not?

“Then you won’t have to worry about that anymore. You have a broken knee.”

Mason hated the fact that he wanted to laugh, at least chuckle for a bit. But he managed to conceal it. “It’s not broken.”

“You can’t walk without me.”

“And who exactly are you?” Mason asked, unsure if his tone was too harsh for the stranger. That’s because he knows every kid in his neighborhood, in the whole town. But he doesn’t seem to even recognize this freckled boy with the unkept orange hair, and he doesn’t know if he should trust this boy who’s walking him to his house. A stranger’s house. Yet Mason’s heart doesn’t tell him otherwise.

“I just moved in,” the stranger said. “I’m Peter.”

 

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Prompt: “Why is this so short?”

 

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1. poof

 

Being born with long legs certainly comes with its perks… And quirks. Although the comments from people asking if I play basketball or “how’s the weather up there?” get dull pretty quickly, there is one specific issue I’ve been dealing with. It’s sometimes hard to overcome, too. Well, not overcome, in a sense. I can’t control my height, unfortunately. But when you’re in a family that has the tradition of giving hand-me-downs instead of going to a store once or twice to buy your son a new pair of pants, jeans, or whatever trousers, they can get small on them pretty quickly. And there’s nothing that I hate more than short pants.

I jump, pulling up and adjusting the waistband of the jersey shorts Peter lent me as I catch sight of my own reflection in the mirror. Just by merely shifting my pupils to the right, I can see the owner of said pants sitting on my bed, slouching, and the palms of his hands resting on a pile of my crumpled clothes that are supposed to be in the laundry hamper.

Peter’s eyes were… Looking tired than usual–eyelids hanging low. But that doesn’t mean he’s exhausted; he’s unimpressed. “Don’t pull it up, you’re just making it even shorter on you-”

“Why is this so short?” I blurt out, initially supposed to be inside thoughts that escaped.

“‘Cause it’s shorts, dumbass. It’s supposed to be short.”

My eyes took one last careful look at the jersey shorts on my legs. The way the fabric hugged my thighs above the knee makes my leg unbreathable, in a way. If I take no more than one step, it will ride up until it reaches my crotch, and I’ve had enough of that embarrassing moment.

“But this is too short,” I said, jumping up and down to test it. The fabric is already racing up to my crotch. “If I knew your shorts were this short, I wouldn’t even ask to borrow yours from the start.”

“Will you just-” Peter took a sharp breath between his gritted teeth. “Can you just put it on for now and like, what, wrap a jacket around or something? We’re getting late.”

He stood up with so much energy, he immediately marched around the room with his head swivelling left to right. He skips over a few comic books I left on the floor, masterfully dodging the controllers a few feet away from the comics, and goes ahead to the corner of my room to dig into my pile of dirty laundry. He is already too familiar with the layout of my room that it has become second nature to him.

When Peter is still determined to get that jacket he mentioned, I quickly remove the jersey shorts before swiftly changing into my sweatpants that were just hanging on the edge of my bed. “Or can we just skip this one game? Just for once?”

Peter finally turned around, not a jacket in his hands in sight. Maybe he gave up, or the thought of cancelling tonight’s game riled him up so bad, he stopped. “Mason.” He tilts his head, followed by an exasperated scoff. “Come on. We never skip one game. You really gonna let our streak die that easily?”

When do I tell him that I’m not as interested in basketball as he is? I know he’s not the type to associate me with “being tall = plays/genuinely adores basketball”, but he has to understand that dragging me into these games every month slowly makes me want to run off into the woods instead. But now’s not the time. Peter was getting antsy as the time passed without us heading into the town’s field. I know it on the top of my head now. He’s tapping his feet like a restless bunny, arms crossed tightly against his chest, and his eyes stare off into the distance into… Godknowswhere.

I sighed. “Right. Let’s just go.”

Peter’s eyes lit up, and in a second, he was already out of my room.

 

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I followed behind, jumping out of my open windows without bothering to close them. I’ll be back in a few hours, anyway. The biting breeze gnaws my skin, reminding me that fall is approaching. The neighborhood is getting quiet, too; it always happens when autumn or winter is near. People don’t get as much out because the sun isn’t there, and it’s too cold to read at the park or walk your dog. Looking forward, Peter is already further away from me. He made it across the backyard and hopped over the high wooden fence. Judging by the sound of his landing, he made it safely.

“Come on, Mason!” he shouted, as the shuffling of his feet against the ground was heard.

Rushing over through the backyard, I arrived before the wooden fence, immediately jumping up to grip the edge, hopping over. Thump. It was a lengthy landing, but a safe one. Hopping over the fence for years to sneak out and eat burgers with Peter has made me accustomed to the high landing; it’s all muscle memory. Even Peter has it on muscle memory, too.

The town’s basketball field is no more than one block away from ours, so Peter is already dragging his ass as fast as he can to get there before the game starts. I took some time in my strides, looking left and right to see that the houses looked less colored than I remembered. Is it just because the cold season is around the corner? Although the houses don’t look as bright as it was in the summer, warm lights are visible through their windows. In some houses, I can see their shadows or the silhouette of their figures. Passing by Mrs. Grossman’s house, a swift of chocolate chip cookies passes by as I see her slouched figure carrying a tray from her closed curtains. Skipping faster, to catch up to Peter, a pizza delivery guy just dropped a box in front of Bill’s door; his father’s silhouette is sitting on the couch, probably watching TV. It’s impressive how you can witness the routines of individual lives just by peeking through their closed curtains.

And just like that, the sound of cheering gradually grew clear… We are near.

I speed up my pace until I can see the field.

The crowd soars. Every seat in the bleachers was littered with people shouting and jumping. It was weird to see such a small field filled with townspeople I would come across any other day. There’s Todd in the far corner, but he’s not driving his daughter to school. There’s McKenzie in the bottom seat, but she’s not doing random cartwheels in the street while her nanny watches (and worries). There’s also Suzie in the middle, but she’s surprisingly not knitting her half-finished sweater now. Then there’s… An empty seat. Two empty seats.

“Let’s go, buddy-o.” Peter clawed my arm, pulling my feet off my glued position as he took me to our now designated seats.

 

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The game was fine, to say the least. It always has been. There’s nothing much to say about it. People just love to see their friends or their children running around in a field, passing a ball to each other, and trying to throw it in a ring. At least Peter didn’t get any more antsy, even though we were a tad late. But I’ll get what I can have.

People rise from their seats, some coming down to hype or congratulate the players, while others immediately walk home. Peter and I stayed in our seats for a while to let the crowd thin out.

Silence stretches between us, a rare occasion for us chatterboxes. Usually, Peter would be the one to initiate the conversation, but he was being awfully quiet tonight. It was weird, considering he was just cheering and jumping throughout the whole game.

“Good game, huh?” Peter finally spoke up. Although judging from his tone, it doesn’t radiate so much of Peter-energy.

I face his direction, reading his face. Yeah, this is only small talk. “Yeah. Good game.”

Another few seconds of stillness.

“Is there something you wanna tell me?” I asked.

His face contorts. “No.” Liar.

I kept quiet for a moment, letting him contemplate his thoughts. “Pete?…”

A gentle scoff. “Fine. You wanna go grab a bite? I’m starving.”

My brows meet together out of habit; they always do whenever Peter says something too obvious or borderline stupid. “Why didn’t you just say so earlier?”

“‘Cuz I know I already ruined your mood by dragging you into this game. I know you just wanna crash in your bed now.”

I blinked. “You’re not wrong,” I said. “Fine. What about tomorrow?”

“Sure. We can have breakfast.”

“No, I’m totally sleeping in. Brunch?”

Peter scoffed again, almost too dramatically now. “Who are we, Mrs. Grossman and her friends? Let’s just get lunch.”

“Asshole. Being Mrs. Grossman’s friend and having brunch with her doesn’t sound so bad, y’know.”

 

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The walk back to our houses is now more composed and collected, but there was still a rush that goes into it, at least for Peter. Or maybe he’s just a fast walker overall; I always seem to get behind.

“So…” I skipped forward until I was walking alongside him. I swear to God, if he leaves me for another second, I might as well get kidnapped, and he won’t even notice. “Lunch, tomorrow?”

“Yeah. The usual place.” He didn’t even look me straight in the eye.

“Got it.”

The loud breeze made it seem that the town was whispering us secrets, or maybe warnings. But Peter didn’t take it seriously; he walked even further from me, trying to get away from me. What’s with this dude?

He finally stopped, and he went quiet for a moment. “Text me when you get back.”

Huh? “We live one block away.”

“Doesn’t hurt,” he said. “And thanks for coming to the game with me.”

And just like that, he walked off to his street… Leaving me standing there in the middle of the sidewalk, mouth agape.

 

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Icky petey

 

Today

 

Home already

Delivered

 

Beat you to it

Delivered

 

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Icky petey

 

Yesterday

 

Home already

Delivered

 

Beat you to it

Delivered

 

Today

 

          Pete?

          Delivered

 

If you’re not gonna text back in the next 10 minutes, i’m gonna go get food with Mrs. Grossman and her friends

Delivered

 

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“What the hell?” I mumbled to my phone screen, rubbing the exhaustion out of my eyes, attempting to sit up.

It was already late in the afternoon, judging by how the sun was judging me through my open windows. Although the UV ray kills, the cold breeze also penetrates through my body. What a time to be alive… And awake.

My texts remain delivered.

“Asshole,” I mumbled again, clicking the call icon beside Peter’s name.

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.

.

No response? No voicemail?

Do I have to come up to his place again just because he overslept? No. I’m done carrying his ass over when he’s always the one making plans in the beginning. I walked more than ten times to his house that summer, always ending up drenched in sweat with an awful stench. It’s freezing now, and I’d rather stay inside and lather my skin in lotion than end up dry and cracked outside.

I call him again.

This time, I was finally greeted by a voicemail that I can’t exaggerate enough on how many times it makes me wanna throw my phone out the window. I think I memorized his whole voicemail script more than The Declaration of Independence.

“… so, yeah, answer after the beep-”

“I’m in your walls, dude, get your lazy ass out of bed!” Silence. I sighed. “Look, I can tolerate your, uh, this little sleep issue of yours in the beginning, but I’ve had too much now. I’m not walking over there to wake you up myself first for the 100th time.” Deep breaths. “I’m waiting until you call back.”

I throw my phone away. Gently. Not out to the windows, but to the pillows beside me.

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Huh. Feels weird when you finally stand up against the thing that bothered you the most these past few weeks… But then, again… There’s nothing to do right now.

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With a long sigh, I got out of bed to head outside.

The aroma of fresh-baked casseroles greets me first, and the sight of my mom standing by the oven to get the tray out can’t be missed. But I walked over her to grab my jacket from the coat rack.

“Where are you going, sweetie?” she asked as the sound of the oven being opened and the steaming noise of the casseroles accompanied her voice.

Slipping into my jacket, I replied shortly, “Peter’s. We’re grabbing lunch.”

I turned around and stopped to study her reaction. Sometimes, it’s a hit or miss. She’ll only let me eat out if she wasn’t already cooking, but she’s holding a tray of casserole in her hands right now. Then again, I can’t tell what her face is trying to say.

“Didn’t you hear, sweetie?” she said, her tone awfully… Bizarre than usual. I can’t point out why exactly, but it’s unusual.

My brows meet hesitantly. “Hear what?…” I asked quietly, stepping back from her as she approached me. “Are you okay?”

Mom placed the tray on the kitchen island. “His father just called. Peter isn’t with us anymore.”

What? …

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.

.

“What?” I murmured. It was barely words and more air. “Mom?” my tone raised, voice already shaking. “What do you mean he’s not with us?”

She smiled sympathetically? I don’t fucking know. “Mason, listen—”

“Mom, what the fuck! Why are you smiling?” I threw my body away, further stepping back until my head hit the door frame above me. Thump! “Fuck! Why is this so short?” I swore out of habit. Mom would usually stop me by now, telling me to insert spare change in the Swear Jar, or probably a dollar, since I swore twice. Yet she remained calm and steady.

“Mason, sweetie—”

“I’m going to Peter’s.”

I turned around, rushed back to my room, stepped over the comic books on my floor carelessly, and went ahead to my open window.

 

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I jumped out. That same biting breeze came to gnaw my skin despite the thick layer of my jacket. Everything was bright. Too bright. I can now see every little microscopic being in this town, going about their day. The red trees dancing, birds flying above, ladybugs in my backyard, Terry drinking coffee by the balcony—waving his hand over me… But the one that caught my eye the most was what’s beyond my fence… The woods.

Last night, it was black and invisible, like a secret location in a game you haven’t unlocked yet. Now, it’s all I can see past my backyard.

People are crowding, black attire engulfing their frames. Some carry a handkerchief beside their cheeks, some hiding their faces against someone else’s shoulder…

Right, the old graveyard in the woods.

It’s been years since anyone has been buried back there, mostly because the graveyard itself was left abandoned… At least I thought it was, because why would anyone wanna be buried back there?

Shit.

It can’t be Peter, right?

No fucking way.

I ran across the backyard to approach the fence, my curiosity already begging me to check the graveyard.

I hopped over.

Thump thump.

“Shit!” I gripped the edge of the fence before I fell into my demise.

I could hear my own heartbeat in my head.

I just skidded. My feet skidded against the ground, and my body lost balance for a second. I never skid when I jump over the fence, never since it’s so tall. Most people would find themselves struggling to jump over high surfaces, but I always land perfectly because I can calculate how I would land.

I turn around to touch the fence. It’s lower than my face… Now as tall as my chest. Why is this so short?

No, Mason, stop! There’s a more important matter at hand.

I fixed my eyes back to the woods, and people in the graveyard are staring back, eyes wide and blank. There’s barely life behind those eyes.

Not barely, none at all.

 

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