Fatrat and the Insidiously Noisy Summer Camp by Suzanne de Montigny

This month we are beginning a new feature on the Lightning Quick Reads blog-A Guest Author. Each month a guest author will stop by and share their take on the monthly theme. Have an author you'd like to see? Drop us a note in the comments and we'll do our best to bring them in for a visit!

Now, it's my pleasure to welcome this month's guest author, Suzanne de Montigny and her camp themed short story. Suzanne is the author of award-winning The Shadow of the Unicorn series available from Barnes and Noble, Chapter Indigo, Amazon, and all other major book venues.

***

What can a rat do when his home is invaded by noisy kids?

Fatrat poked his nose from his hidey-hole underneath the bunkhouse and glared at the intruders with his black, beady eyes.

“They’re back! How I hate those dirty, runny-nosed kids who come every summer. They holler and scream and run around like they’re having the time of their lives, leaving smelly socks and wet swimsuits lying around, laughing up a storm like there’s something funny. Argh! Can’t sleep when they’re doing all that. I mean, who stays awake during the day? Daytime’s meant for sleeping. Darn kids!”

Letting out a super-charged huff, Fatrat twisted around and darted back into his hidey-hole, digging deeper into the earth to escape the racket. Cool and comfortable, he reminisced about the quiet days before the arrival of the annoying humans—in the hayloft, snacking on grain and hay, or feeding on the eggs of birds foolish enough to nest there. He sniggered. Little had those twittering pests known. Then there was the human woman who sometimes left the root cellar opened, allowing Fatrat to wander in and explore when she wasn’t looking. Once she trapped him by accident, slamming the door shut a little too soon before he had the chance to get out. What a feast it had been! Crunchy apples, sweet pears, tasty tomatoes! Fatrat had grown fatter and fatter. But when she came back a few days later and came face to face with him, she screeched loud enough to wake the dead. After that, she took care to close the door behind her with a sharp thud. Fatrat sighed.

But it was a good life, really, the life of a rat. And despite the arrival of the irritating miniature guests, even summer had its good points with its abundance of berries ripening on the bush, and apples falling from the trees, tomatoes growing in the garden. He loved the corn when it yellowed on the stalks, and the green beans that dangled from vines. But the kids! How he abhorred their very presence!

“Except for,” thought Fatrat, licking black, slimy lips, “the scraps--the crumbs and crusts, bits of lettuce they discard or drop by accident, sticky stuff in candy wrappers…”

‘Twas truly a feast to be had by night when the ruckus stopped. Then Fatrat would creep out of his hidey-hole, clamber up the inside of the wall, and slip through the crack that led to the bunkhouse to wander about, poking his nose under beds, and tables, careful not to wake the the boisterous creatures. His favourite leftover was the crust of peanut butter sandwiches.

“I love peanut butter—nothing more delectable!” It was the main reason he hung about the camp, tolerating the presence of the short, ape-like creatures. Only problem was, peanut butter sandwiches didn’t grow on bushes, nor did they exist in the cellar. “Children leave them behind.” Fatrat sighed. “At least they’re good for something.”

On the second night, after a particularly noisy afternoon when the little thugs played some useless game called baseball, Fatrat left his hidey-hole, climbed the inside of the wall and slipped through the crack that led into the bunkhouse, his nose wiggling to and fro, searching, smelling, sampling until he hit the mother load—an entire peanut butter sandwich that had dropped on the floor!

With glee, Fatrat scuttled to the plate. He stood on his hind legs and picked up the piece in his sharp claws. It was heavy, but smelled heavenly at the same time. He ate slowly at first, taking delicate nibbles and bites, but was soon drunk with pleasure from the flavour, devouring it in chunks and gulps.

“Oh, how delicious!” he squeaked, a little too loud. “How juicy, yet sticky at the same time… and gooey!” His voice crescendoed. “It’s magnificent, it’s delightful, it’s…”

Something clunked. His heart thumping, Fatrat wheeled about to see a large foot almost the same size as his entire body slide across the floor, and then stop. A dirty face lowered down to his level. Its eyes widened for a moment, and then its mouth opened up and let out the most hair-raising scream.

“A rat!” shouted the boy, jumping up on the bed and dancing a wild dance.

Within seconds, the other human brats leapt up, pushing up covers, and shrieking.

Fatrat made a dash for it. Pushing a claw into the bread of the sandwich, he tried to drag it away, but it was no use. It was far too heavy.

He looked back in time to see a tall human with a deep voice, the one they called Counsellor, race toward him, a baseball bat in his hands.

“Where, where?” the tall one shouted.

“Over there!” squealed several children at once.

The counsellor lifted the bat over his head, took aim, and slammed it against the floor. He barely missed Fatrat.

Fatrat dropped the sandwich and flew, slipping through the crack, down the inside of the wall, and right into his hidey-hole...

“That was close!” he said, his breath heaving. “I nearly got killed.”

He cowered in the dark, trembling, for a few hours. But after a time, his stomach began growling. Remembering the gooey texture of the peanut butter on the mushy bread, his thoughts grew bolder.

“Perhaps I was a bit too noisy and awoke them. They’re probably all asleep by now. Maybe I can go back, nibble more slowly and quietly, and then bring the rest of it back down here for later.”

He reflected on his plan, deeming it feasible, and then crept from his hidey-hole, back up the inside of the wall and through the crack the led to the bunkhouse where he listened with pricked ears to be sure no one walked about or tossed on their beds. When he knew the coast was clear, he scuttled to where the sandwich had been, but discovered…it was gone.

“How can that be?” thought Fatrat. “I can smell it.” He wandered about, his nose wiggling to and fro, searching, and sniffing, and following the scent until it led him to a small garbage can. His beady, black eyes searching the darkness, he gaged its height. It was tall, but if he stretched high enough, he could dig his claws in and hoist himself right inside to where the prized peanut butter sandwich lay.

He reached up, dug his claws in the plastic, and pulled himself up. The garbage wobbled to and fro, and then tipped over and landed with a loud bang. Fatrat’s heart raced as he listened for the deep voice of the counsellor. Someone rolled over, someone else stopped snoring for a second…and then resumed. But no one got up. Fatrat gave a devilish grin of triumph, then pushed his way into the garbage can and began his feast again.

“So delicious! So slimy, so sticky. Mmmm-grft-grft,” he squeaked, forgetting his plan to stay quiet. “Oh, so good.” His voice crescendoed again.

Something moved! Fatrat froze, listening intently, but when nothing happened, he continued his gluttony, tearing, chewing, munching, smacking, only this time more quietly. When he’d devoured most of the sandwich, he dragged the rest back down the crack that led to the bunkhouse, down the inside of the wall, and into his hidey-hole.

After a brief nap, he took the remainder of the sandwich in his claws and noted that most of the peanut butter was missing. “Could it have rubbed off on the floor?” he grumbled. Feeling cheated, he stored the rest away, and planned his next move.

The next day, the children’s screams and holler woke Fatrat yet once again. Fatrat stuck his nose out and eyed the small humans, a deep frown creasing his forehead. They were wearing old potato sacks and racing across the lawn of the camp! Fatrat fumed, ate the remainder of the sandwich, and then drifted off to sleep again.

When he awoke, it was dusk. Springs creaked as the small humans climbed into their beds and the counsellor called out in his deep voice, “Lights out.”

Fatrat waited until he was certain all were asleep and then crept from his hidey-hole, up the inside of the wall and through the crack that led into the bunkhouse. Wet bathing suits dripped on the floor, and sweaty clothes made his nose wrinkle. But there was something else too—peanut butter!

Fatrat crept forward. His nose wiggled to and fro, searching, and smelling in the dark until he came to a small bowl of just peanut butter! A whole bowl, and a rat-sized one at that! Overjoyed, Fatrat leapt onto the dish, sticking his long tongue out before he got there. For a split second, he saw a shadow, and then…

Snap!

***

Award winning author, Suzanne de Montigny, wrote her first novella when she was twelve. Years later, she discovered it in an old box in the basement, thus reigniting her love affair with writing. A teacher for twenty years, she enjoys creating fantasy and paranormal for tweens and teens. She lives in Burnaby, B.C., Canada with the four loves of her life – her husband, two boys, and Buddy the dog.

***

The Last Time by Crystal Collier

June hadn’t punched out yet, wouldn’t punch out yet. She ogled the ID in her mittened fingers like it had more answers than the Bible, but was unable to find a single one.

The camp office behind her was quiet, all lights turned off except for the one over the door, throwing an eerie light across the time-card machine. Her exit. Out of this world and on to the next.

Two weeks ago Camp Thistle had been buzzing, more kids running around than Disney on a holiday. Too many eyes. Tomorrow the manager, Don, would come and close the place down for the winter. Tomorrow condemned this wonderland to silence and doomed her chances forever.

She placed her ID on top of the machine and turned to the brightened doors. June grazed past aisles of never-expiring treats and wood-whittled souvenirs. She’d purchased a few and sent them to her nieces and nephew. Only nineteen, she hoped to have kids one day—but not until she finished school. Which she’d put off this semester after she discovered it…

A bell above the door tinkled as she pushed through and stepped into the snowy night. Stars glimmered above, casting their mysterious light on twelve white-capped cabins and the bordering trees.

Legend said the camp was built next to an Indian burial ground. It was just a story. June had been here six months and never seen any ghosts. Don’s grandson (who had worked here every summer since he was ten,) said he’d heard drum beats while taking hikers through the canyon. He’d discovered a cave there, but didn't actually enter.

He was a wuss.

June rounded the building. Her cloudy breaths were the only disturbance in the evening as she passed the mess hall windows. She stopped at the cellar door that led below the kitchen. Don never let anyone down there for supplies, not even the cook. It had been a sore point during the busiest times when June had to run around the camp to find him so they could start dinner. She’d requested the keys several times. Don refused.

But tonight, with the camp cleared out, she would discover what he was hiding. She lifted the electric screwdriver from below her coat and kneeled in the snow before the door hinges. Her tool whined to action.

Anyone who was deterred by locks hadn’t grown up with her brother. Not that he’d ever been slapped with petty theft, but Mom hadn’t been able to keep him out of the candy closet for sure. Of course, this was a little heavier than the candy closet. She appreciated the criminal implications of her actions, and that’s why she’d waited. When Don needed supplies from town to lock up, she’d volunteered to close things down for him. She’d been nothing but trustworthy all summer. He couldn’t possibly suspect, and now she had the camp to herself.

No witnesses.

Still, she couldn’t help feeling that the old man was standing right behind her, tapping a toe as he waited for her to notice.

She paused and turned. Tree tops, silhouetted by moonlight stared down at her, wind whistling between dark cabins and skimming the back of her neck. She shivered and shrunk into her coat. Winter came to these mountains far too early.

The tool buzzed back to life, shaking her bones and warming her hands. Three screws down, five more to go.

June was not looking forward to putting them back—especially with the wood splintering as the bolts came free. They would never sit right again. She wished she’d considered that. A story around camp said that a kid had snuck down there back in the fifties. He wanted to impress a girl and make her a picnic in forbidden territory—or at least that’s the story the girl told everyone after he went missing. A hundred endings had sprung up for the story: a monster in the basement, being murdered by the owner and served up to the other kids, that he’d been turned into a slave and lived down there still… It had been a scandal, something the local newspapers raved about, but Don had worked hard to make the story go away. Now only a few people knew it. June had made it her business to learn everything she could about the ordeal.

That boy was her grandma's brother.

She slid the last screw out of place and tucked the screwdriver into her pocket. She expected she’d find a normal cellar lined with supplies and labeled boxes of non-perishable food. It was a shame, really. She wanted there to be more to it, but if she let herself believe there was, she’d psych herself out of the next step.

No. Never. She’d come too far, worked the whole summer. This was it.

She pulled the wood away from its frame. It clung to the cement exterior a moment before popping free—like a frog being pulled from its perch.

Five steps descended into the new space. Darkness waited below. But no, not darkness. A sliver of light cut through the murk, the split between two black curtains.

June pulled out her cell phone and cued up the camera. There was no reception up here, but she would take evidence of what she’d seen with her. She owned that much to Grandma Rodriguez.

She placed one boot noiselessly on the first step and hit record, straining her ears toward the light. She ducked into the cavity and took another step. The wind’s warning died, and she descended another stair.

Air stirred from her own breathing, the sound far too loud.

Her boot scraped across debris on the fourth step. She cringed and stopped.

The drapes before her remained still, pitch black as the devil’s eyes. She swallowed and stepped down. Her gloved fingers grazed across the material—as heavy and velvety as a stage curtain. She pulled it back.

Light hit her in the eyes. She squinted.

Shelves lined the walls, stacked full of cans and boxes. The space was about ten feet wide, but as long as the building above. A hallway. The light emanated around a doorway straight ahead and its haunting blue lit the metal frames of the shelves like ice.

Her phone chirped. She swore and hugged it to her chest.

The hall waited, silent.

June turned the face of her phone up. Low battery. No! She was certain she’d charged it this afternoon. All the more reason to get this over with quickly. She hurried forward.

The door handle chilled her fingers through the gloves. She twisted it and pulled.

Light bloomed into the cellar and her jaw dropped.

A giant TV glowed, the final frame of The Princess Bride flashing across the screen. The back of an office chair faced her, two deer-like horns protruding above it. Metal in the corner reflected the movie like second screen: a dented aluminum egg as tall as she was with fold-down stairs ascending into a dark interior. It looked like a spaceship from a seventies movie.

She lifted her phone, but it was dead in her hand.

Someone sniffled and a paw the size of a tennis ball reached for a coke on a side table next to the chair.

“Holly frapaziod!” She jumped back.

The chair whirled around. June bumped into the wall behind her.

A giant rabbit sat in the chair, antlers sticking out of its brow, eyes like back golf balls. He tore earbuds free and his mouth opened.

June grabbed for the screwdriver, trembling. This was it. She’d broken into the cellar only to be eaten by an antlered, movie-watching bunny. But she wouldn’t go down without taking one of its eyes.

The thing hopped out of its seat, standing as tall as her waist. “I have a funny feeling you’re not supposed to be down here.” He sounded like an infomercial narrator. “Did Don leave the cellar door open again? I keep telling him he can’t do that.”

A talking, antlered bunny. Her screwdriver dipped along with her dangling jaw. “You’re a, you’re a—”

“An alien.” The creature winked. “That’s right. Just get it out. I’m Jack, actually.” He extended a paw. “And who might you be?”

Her fingers loosened around the tool. “I’m June.”

“Nice to meet you, June. You know, you’re handling this better than the last guy. We had to ship him off to the funny bin. Poor bloke. But where are my manners?” He waved a paw at the side table. “Would you like a coke?”

She swallowed, feeling dizzy. “The last guy?”

“Oh June, you’re looking a little woozy. Why don’t you have a seat?” He pushed the chair toward her. She collapsed into it. “So nice to have company, by the way. It gets so lonely down here, waiting for Don to round up all the spare parts to repair my ship. Guess that’s why I tried to keep Jeffry here, but as I said, he ended up a bit loony. Must have been the gamma radiation.” He glanced at his Easter-egg spaceship. “Do you know I’ve been waiting sixty years for technology to advance enough for the ship parts I need? We’ve got at least another thirty before someone invents the spacial displacement unit that will get me home, but at least I patched up the radiation leak. As exciting as that is, I like it here on Earth. Funny looking people, but a beautiful planet.”

June’s mouth flapped open but she couldn’t get anything to come out. Jeffry was the name of Grandma’s missing brother. She dropped her dead cell phone.

“Did I drain your battery?” The rabbit asked. “So sorry. My gravinator is being wonky, syphoning energy off everything. Poor Don went through six generators this summer. Can you imagine how terrible I feel? He’s such a nice guy.”

She squinted, fuzzing her eyes and opening them wide again. Yup. Still a giant bunny with horns.

“Say, I’m going to need a new guardian in a couple years,” Jack said. “What do you say? Sound like an entertaining position?”

She blinked at him. He couldn’t be serious. “Do you pay?”

“Sure thing.” He flung a fist at a bag in the corner, a potato sack overflowing with gold nuggets. “I can’t take these worthless rocks with me when I leave anyway. Don seems to like them.”

Why not? Who said she had to go off to college and have babies anyway? June offered a hand. “I think we have a deal.”

“That’s just swell. Why don’t you join me for the next movie—Who Framed Roger Rabbit?”

Crystal Collier may spend too many late nights munching cheese and thinking up bizarre story twists, but she does so to appease the scientists locked in her Floridian basement. *wink wink* (Who else is going to finish building her teleportation device?) She figured she might as well make a dime on all that effort and became an author who pens everything from dark fantasy, historical, and romance tales, to inspirational stories and comedy. She has lived from coast to coast and now occupies the land of sunshine with her creative husband, four littles, and “friend” (a.k.a. the zombie locked in her closet). Secretly, she dreams of world domination and a bottomless supply of cheese. 

Check out more of her midnight meanderings HERE.

One Last Camping Trip by Mary Waibel

A final camping trip before college holds changes for Ainsley and Jesse.

***

Sparks flew as the fire snapped and crackled. Orange flames twisted and twirled around each other, climbing higher and higher until they faded away to nothing in the pitch darkness. I picked a flame and followed it from the orange tip, past the yellow layers, to the blue flame that flickered over the blackened log. Rectangles etched across the surface glowed an orangey-red, pulsing to an unheard beat, as if the wood had a heartbeat.

My parents had abandoned the fire half an hour ago, tired out from the hike we’d taken earlier today. While I’d enjoyed walking along the gorge and being sprinkled by the cool water from the cascades, something was missing. No, not something, someone.

Jesse.

Every year our families camped together at Watkins Glen State Park the first week of August. A tradition we started thirteen years ago. We’d hike the gorge, swim in the park pool, and roast marshmallows over the fire. My favorite part was sitting by the fire and falling into the hypnotic stare that came from staring at dancing flames. Like now, except it felt different tonight. Lonelier.

God, I couldn’t even last a day without him. How would I make it an entire semester? I should have applied to schools closer to home, or where Jesse had. Heck, he’d gone with me for tours of schools he had no interest in. No, his heart was set on Harvard and nothing would sway him. Just like nothing would sway me from Cornell.

When I saw the package from Harvard sitting on his kitchen table the week of graduation, the first stirrings of pain swept through me. The thick package meant only one thing. The MBA program at his dream school had accepted him. When I’d asked him about it, he’d shrugged and said he hadn’t decided yet. I’d rolled my eyes and snorted. Harvard was his thing.

But it wasn’t mine. I hadn’t even applied there. Instead, I’d put all my eggs into the Cornell basket and, thanks to my grades, I’d landed in my program of choice—Veterinary Medicine.

Everything was perfect, and yet not. Something was off kilter—missing. All my friends were excited about graduating and going off to college. But I dreaded the day I’d pack up my things and leave because I wouldn’t see Jesse until our first break, which would be months away. We’d never been apart for longer than a day. A week apart would devastate me, and a semester would probably kill me. Phone calls and Skype would help, but they weren’t the same as just being with him. I should have given this more thought before I signed the acceptance letter.

The log shifted and sparks flew in the air. I scooted back, the air cool on my overheated face. Behind me, twigs snapped as something moved through the woods. Probably someone from the site behind us looking for wood to add to their fire.

The cracking grew louder until it sounded like it came from right behind my chair. I jumped and turned, scanning the tree line, my eyes slow to adjust to the utter blackness behind me. Something— no someone—moved toward me.

My body poised for flight and a scream hovered in my throat. Before I released it, a hand slapped over my mouth. An arm wrapped around my waist, trapping me against a hard, warm body. I grabbed at the fingers covering my mouth, trying to tear them away, ignoring the words being whispered in my ear. The person’s grip gentled but didn’t release me.

“Ainsley,” a familiar voice whispered in my ear.

All my bones turned to jelly. “Jesse?”

His breath tickled my ear as he asked, “If I let you go now are you going to scream?”

I shook my head, not wanting him to mistake my muffled answer. His hand drifted away from my mouth, but his arm remained banded around my waist, anchoring me to him. I leaned against him, taking a moment to enjoy the rightness of being in his arms.

“I can’t believe you’re here. Pinch me.”

“What?” He chuckled, the sound rumbling through me, bringing goose bumps to life on my arms. “Why would I do that?”

“So I know I’m not dreaming.”

He spun me around, scooped me into his arms, and sat down in my chair with me on his lap. “You’re not dreaming.”

“But…” I frowned and shook my head. “You said your family wasn’t coming this year.”

“They aren’t. Mom and dad are in Pittsburgh. Dad has mandatory training.”

“Oh, so, why didn’t you go with them?”

He smiled and tugged on a lock of my hair. “Because I had to work. But, it’s the weekend, and I’m off now. You didn’t think I’d miss out on our yearly trip, did you?”

I settled against him and sighed. “Maybe, but I’m glad you came. Nothing’s the same without you.”

His entire body tensed at my words. “Ains, if you can’t make it through a weekend camping trip without me, how are you going to make it through a semester of college?”

Tears burned my eyes as he forced me to face reality. “I don’t know. I guess I’ll be forced to find someone else to hang with.” Not that it would help. No one could replace Jesse. “I don’t want to talk about it now. We have two more weeks until we leave. Let me worry about it then.”

He rubbed his hand up my back and threaded his fingers into my hair, using light pressure to twist my head until my face lifted. His green eyes stared down at me, looming closer as he pressed his forehead to mine.

“Or, we could talk about it now.”

I rolled my eyes. “Right because talking will change the future. You’re going to Harvard and I’m going to Cornell.”

His lips quirked up on the side as if he was fighting a smile. “I never said I was going to Harvard.” He leaned back and tapped my nose with his finger. “You assumed it when you saw the packet from them.”

“You’re going to Harvard. It’s your dream school.”

He shrugged, the movement shifting his hands in my hair, releasing me from his hold. “Not anymore.”

I hopped off his lap and paced toward the fire, needing its warmth to replace the sudden chill in my bones.

“Wh-why isn’t it your dream school?”

He stepped up behind me and wrapped his arms around me. Secure in his embrace, he leaned down, his lips brushing my ear as he whispered, “Because you’re not there.”

I turned in his arms, his hands still on my waist. His gaze drifted over my face, lingering on my lips. “So, where are you going to college?”

He leaned in and brushed his lips over mine so light, so quick, I wasn’t sure it had happened. “Where do you think?”

I slid my hands up his neck, twining my fingers into the hair at the nape of his neck, tugging him closer. This time, when our lips brushed, I felt the touch all the way to my tiptoes. I wanted it to last forever, but he pulled away much too soon.

“Please tell me you’re going to Cornell.”

“Yes.”

He swallowed my squeal of happiness with his lips, and this time, he didn’t pull away too soon.

***

This story is most like The Boyfriend Project, the first in a series of YA romantic comedy novellas releasing at the end of June. For more information, sign up for my newsletter at marywaibel.blogspot.com

Twisting tales one story at a time. 

YA author Mary Waibel’s love for fairytales and happy-ever fill the pages of her works. Whether penning stories in a medieval setting or a modern day school, magic and romance weave their way inside every tale. Strong female characters use both brain and brawn to save the day and win the heart of their men. Mary enjoys connecting with her readers through her website: marywaibel.blogspot.com

***

Lessons from Graffiti Camp by Kai Strand

A person's motivation isn't always apparent.

***

Photo Credit

“You don’t have enough contrast. And your shadows are off. Where is the source of light? Come on, Poppy! This is Art 101 stuff. You’ve got to determine the source of light.”

I gritted my teeth and shook the can of spray-paint slowly up and down, up and down, while biting my tongue. Log’s abrasive teaching style always made my concentration scatter like autumn leaves. “The fricking source of light is moving,” I growled. “Like the train.”

Log rolled his eyes and waved a dismissive hand at my picture. “Doesn’t matter man. It’s your job to imagine the constant. That’s a mess. Fix it.”

As he walked away I imagined fixing his face. I’d tell him the source of light is my fist just before slamming it into his gaunt cheek. Ah, who am I kidding? I’m two-thirds his height and less than half his weight. He’s got years of street experience. And I’ve got none. He’d see my weak handed throw coming before I started to throw it. And who’s he calling “man” anyway?

“Hey, Poppy. Why you frowning?”

My stomach swooped like it was on a carnival ride as soon as I heard the low rumble of Axiom’s voice. My gaze devoured his lean frame and I knew by the time I was staring doe-eyed at him, all signs of my anger had evaporated.

I shrugged. And though I wanted to glare at our camp host’s retreating back, I smirked instead because my mind filled with memories of Axiom and I sneaking away from the campfire and the feel of his calloused fingers skimming over the swell of my hips. How the tangy smell of paint from the day mixed with the earthy smell of the woods around us.

Ax chuckled. He leaned forward until our foreheads almost touched. His voice growled lower and gruffer than before as he whispered in my ear. He trailed a knuckle down my bare upper arm. “Hey, Poppy. Why you grinning?”

Goosebumps erupted. A shiver ran through me. Should I admit I hoped we could sneak away again? He shifted closer and the warmth of his body radiated against me. I ached to touch him. He held a can of paint, but his fingers were clean and no telltale scent enveloped me. I considered wrapping my fingers with his, but mine were stained with paint. When my gaze met his startling blues—heavy lidded like a contented cat—I forgot everything but sneaking to the woods.

Ax parted his lips like he was going to speak, but then turned to scan my art. When he cocked his head and frowned, my heart skipped a beat. He didn’t like it anymore than Log. Then his eyes rested on my signature flower and his face relaxed into a mixture of pleasure and – what, longing?

“Of course your poppy is fabulous. I love how it’s half crushed under the kid’s boot. Really powerful image for those who follow your work.”

His gaze zigzagged across the mural. His brow furrowed. An eyebrow arched. My stomach clenched as it waited for his verdict. I turned my attention back to my art and finally saw it from Ax’s and Log’s perspective. Gah! It was crap! The kid’s shadow loomed in front of him, while the shadow of his nemesis reached toward the kid. What was I thinking? Shadows can’t be facing each other.

Wait. What was I thinking?

I stepped back, drawing Ax’s attention. He stepped with me, an amused expression on his face, as if he couldn’t wait to hear how I would attempt to explain this hot mess of art. He mirrored another step backward with me.

It was from that vantage point that I saw it all. The shadows of all the living things in the mural; the people, the plants, the pets – all stretched inward toward a center point.

I felt the presence of other campers as they gathered around. Maybe it was my serious reflection that drew them. Maybe Log quietly urged them over, hoping to make a ginormous fool of me. Since the first day I arrived, he’d been playing a two-faced game with me, trying to humiliate me all while he smiled and played nice. Was it because I paid my own way instead of getting in on scholarships like the gang member kids did? Was it because my mailing address was The Acres instead of down in the barrio?

I reached over and grabbed a can of deep purple paint in my right hand and a can of silver in my left. Shaking them aggressively, I stepped toward the mural.

“In the immortal words of William Shakespeare; all the world’s a stage,” I spoke loud enough for everyone to hear. “And all the men and women merely players.”

I started to spray. The cans moved with fluid flourish, creating flowing script. The right hand did the heavy lifting and the left swept in to add highlights and a sense of “pop” to the graceful cursive. I stepped back and smiled.

Each of us lives in our own spotlight.

Ax snaked an arm around me and kissed the side of my head. “Brilliant, babe.” I ignored the tension in his embrace. With one final squeeze, he walked over to Log, while dozens of campers crowded around me asking questions about the symbolism I’d only just identified.

But the surrounding voices were only drones. My mind was elsewhere. See, we all have our secrets. Including us rich kids. From the tender age of five, in order to give me a leg up in the office politics of my future, my privileged parents had me trained by an ex-KGB agent, in the fine art of reading lips. I was his prized pupil until he dropped dead of old age eight years later. Even though Ax and Log both stood mostly in profile to me I could see their conversation and my blood thrummed in my ears and my temper rose.

They were both disappointed I’d pulled off another piece of work my fellow campers considered a masterpiece. Ax had been sure I’d be too distracted by my raging hormones to pull it all together in the end. Log growled that Ax had promised he’d be able to discredit me, but now they were even more threatened by my work.

That made me pause. Why would they feel threatened? Log was a camp counselor at an underground camp for graffiti artists and Ax was a fellow stude…oh no.

I pushed my way through the crowd of students still firing questions at me, even though I wasn’t responding. I marched up to a surprised Ax and grabbed the hem of his shirt while doing the same to Log. I yanked upward. A line of X’s snaked across each of their ribcages as if erasing the rib that lay beneath.

“You’re both part of The Missing Rib?” I snarled. “Is this camp just a ploy?”

Log’s smile curled with malice. “The Missing Rib is everywhere. We infiltrate all aspects of life. Ax and I are doing exactly what’s intended of us. Rooting out the females intent on moving into positions hirer than is appropriate.”

I’d heard the mission statement of The Missing Rib before, about how women should be beholden to men for the sacrifice they made for their creation. But I’d never heard someone who so thoroughly believed it. It was graffiti camp, for crying out loud. I mean, seriously, are female graffiti artists threatening to take over the world?

My stomach soured. Then I remembered Ax’s part in the deception and my breath caught. I swung my accusing gaze on him. “This is what you believe too? Women don’t belong in graffiti?”

“There are only two places women belong.” Ax held up a finger with each point. “In the kitchen and in the bedroom.”

My head felt like it was going to explode from the anger building inside me. Ax’s stare was devoid of emotion and I knew the night before had been a complete ruse. A part in a play.

A play.

I spun and looked at my mural. The artwork that so threatened their – what – machismo, manhood, artistry?

Just then a whistle blew and the train car my mural decorated lurched forward.

Log leaped toward it, flailing his hands. “No! We need to destroy it. Don’t let it get away!”

But nobody moved. Not even Ax, who still held a can of paint in his hand. The campers watched the train gain momentum and the mural roll south to points unknown. I shook the can of purple paint still clutched in my hand and imagined the mural I could paint on Log. How I could make him look like the coward he was, a man who hid behind a big scary organization and deception. I wondered if I could get some of the campers to hold him down for five minutes.

When the train car was out of site, the campers turned toward Log and Ax, whose eyes widened with fear. I smiled and set the paint can down. I wouldn’t need it.

As I walked away, I chuckled at the irony of events. I’d joined the camp in rebellion of the skirt and blazer life my parents wanted for me. Yet instead of learning how to improve my art, I learned the most effective way to beat people like Log and Ax is through the legal system. Looks like I’ll by donning that blazer after all and some day prosecuting members of groups like The Missing Rib.

Those boys had better watch their backs. After all, graffiti is a crime.

 About the author:

When her children were young and the electricity winked out, Kai Strand gathered her family around the fireplace and they told stories, one sentence at a time. Her boys were rather fond of the ending, “And then everybody died. The end.” Now an award winning children’s author, Kai crafts fiction for kids and teens to provide an escape hatch from their reality. With a selection of novels for young adult and middle grade readers and short stories for the younger ones, Kai entertains children of all ages, and their adults. Learn more about Kai and her books on her website, www.kaistrand.com.

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