Once upon a time I sent out half a dozen emails to labrador breeders looking for a puppy. I had a 2.5 year old pantbeast at the time that didn’t get along with other dogs. The idea was that she would accept a puppy and then they’d grow up together.

The notion was at the very least hairbrained and at the very best ill-advised.

But I was young and full of optimism.

One of my emails was followed by a phone call that lasted more than an hour. That phone call was followed up with a series of emails about the right time to check out a 16 week old puppy. The last email I got before making the drive read:

“call when you leave please.  I will have the coffee ready.   🙂  He has ridden in the front of my pick-up many times. you may want a collar and leash.  I suggest a leather rolled and stitched collar because nylon collars break the hair coat. And a leather leash because it is easier on your hand than a nylon leash.  Although he should not have to take a potty break on the way home.  Its only an hour drive.  For training and walks you will want a slip collar because they wont come off over his head. He cuddled up next to me on the ride home yesterday and looked so sweetly into my eyes.  I hope you like this puppy.  He is really a nice one.”

And that’s the first chapter of Omar. He ate so many things that scared us and destroyed so many more things. At my parent’s house he dug.

He was a really nice puppy. He was a great dog. I could easily forgive every transgression because he gave so much to me– to us. He was my first labrador. The one that made me fall in love. From now on there will be a piece of him in every dog I love.

This week’s story is a tribute to him.

The Last Sunset

Jill N Davies

The dilution gene doesn’t exist in the Labrador line. I would know—not only have I been doing this for 66 years, but I’m also a geneticist. I got my PhD back when cracking the human genome was just talk. Back when clones would be the doom of our future. When I thought we’d ace the cure for cancer.

Tracing Labrador lines was a hobby at first. I figured I might as well, since I was taking up the family business. But passion and obsession run parallel on opposite sides of the same, fine line. It was only a matter of time before I became that expert.

I didn’t know what type of dog was stalking the back forty of our kennels, but it wasn’t a Labrador.

Misty saw him first, about two weeks ago. She was finishing her evening chores just past sunset when she came racing up the back porch, hollering.

My Hannah jumped right up. I was glad she was home because I don’t always understand Misty when she gets going like that.

“I knowit waza boy ‘cause I just come from th’whelpin’ rooms,” Misty said. All the words came out at once, the way they did when she was excited. She was getting lessons for it at school, but those lessons had a way of vanishing after a certain o-clock.

“Mom, don’t! Why don’t you let us go get it?” Hannah scolded when she turned and saw me on my feet.

I already had a leash in hand, not that I thought I’d need it. But it’s better to be ready. Just in case.

“Don’t be foolish. I’m not made of glass,” I said, ignoring her and making my way across the lawn. A loose dog was just interesting enough to make the pain fade.

“Grammy, I don’t think it’s one of ours,” Misty said.

“It’s not a lab?” I asked.

“Looks like one, but. But—but.” She twisted her face in concentration.

“Slow down,” Hannah admonished.

Misty took a deep breath, untwisting her tongue, “He’s the wrong color. He’s silver!”

“That’s no lab, then,” I said, mostly to myself.

“It might be Jack Daniels. He likes to get in the lake. If he’s soaking in the right light there could be a glint,” Hannah offered.

“Maybe,” I said, but went out, ignoring their protests and expecting something else.

It wasn’t Jack. He was rolling in the grass right where he should’ve been. I didn’t spot the dog that night.

Hank saw him next and confirmed that he was, in fact, silver, but didn’t respond to call. He and Fred went out with a raw ribeye, hoping to lure him in. All they got for their efforts was the rear-end view of a running dog, which served them right for making me stay behind in my slippers.

The thick otter tail confirmed there was lab in him, which gave us a good starting point. We searched for anyone that purchased, bred, or otherwise had an association with the so-called silver Labrador, but there weren’t any in our neck of the woods. Our best guess was that he was crossed with a lab (maybe even from our lines). I was sure I’d recognize his cross once I finally spotted him. In the meantime, our main concern was that he stayed off our property and far away from the kennels.

I saw him for the first time three nights ago when I was coming back from the whelping room. Whiskey Sour had just delivered her third and final litter. Eleven pups—6 boys and 5 girls, all black as the night. I wouldn’t admit it to anyone, but I was bone tired and ready to be back to the house. It was well after midnight and the full moon was high in the sky.

I always think the long grass looks silver in that kind of light—like part of an old, black and white photo.

He walked right out of the tree-line—as if from a vision. I could tell his coat was supposed to be black. The thick fur had the look, but it shone as silver as the grass, iridescent. When he saw me he stopped in his tracks. We stared at each other for a long time, him glowing in the moonlight and me searching for a logical explanation.

He was a lab, alright. No hint of mix to him. He had perfect structure—from his blocky head and thick bones all the way to his double coat and broad rudder of tail. But he was silver.

He opened his mouth, tongue lolling out in a friendly pant, smiling. I recognized him.

“King?”

His tail hung low, swishing back and forth over tall tendrils of grass.

Well, come on over here! The words hung up in the back of my throat. I was too afraid to say them out loud and have him dissolve into a dream.

King watched me like he was thinking the same thing. It was a moonlit standoff. If the back door hadn’t slammed when Hank came out looking for me, I’m not sure what would have happened. King turned and trotted off. I was sure it was him then.

The moon isn’t as bright, and it’s lower tonight, just above the horizon. But nobody’s going to slam the door and shoo him off this time. I’m waiting at the edge of the yard, where the tall grass meets the trees—where we always met and ran off to explore. Before I went off to college. Before I met Hank and had Hannah. Before I took over the Kennels and became Granny. Before the cancer…

It doesn’t hurt so bad tonight.

King walks over to me as if he’d always been there and I just hadn’t noticed. My hand sinks down into the silvery fur, both real and not real. I rub behind his ears and he huffs with satisfaction.

Together, we walk out into the woods.

The End

You can listen to the story on IGTV. Make sure to follow my author account for more stories and dog pictures

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I have kids.

Sometimes that concept is just sinking in… I have kids. They came from me. They’re made up of me… but they’re their own little people, separate from me in every possible way.

Charlie has been busy finding her own personage. She’s brilliant, clever and insanely introspective.

She’s also a huge handful.

The other day, after an impossibly long series of challenges I told her I promised I’d send her to bed without a bath if she [I honestly can’t remember exactly what she was doing anymore, but it was SOMETHING].

Daddy asked “Do you know what a promise is?”

and Charlie said “Yup. A promise comes.”

I don’t know if I could have defined promise more succinctly. Utter brilliance.

So that’s where this story comes from. That and a few dozen other things that are ever-present in my life these days.

I hope you enjoy!!

Promise

Jill N Davies

“The sun will be back. I promise.”

That’s what Sondra said to Ola, her three-year-old daughter. It seemed like the most practical and logical thing to say to her. Wisdom passed on from generation to generation, fortified by decades of personal experience. That’s what the sun did—it set in the evenings and rose again the next morning. Sondra had never considered the possibility that this simple truth might at any point in time not be.

But that was three days ago.

They’d been soaking up the last of the mid-spring warmth soaked into the ground from the brilliantly radiating body in the sky. Mosquitos were starting to buzz at Ola’s bare arms and Sondra’s ankles were already beginning to itch, but the evening was too damnably pleasant to call it quits just yet. Ola’s hair spread out like a halo of glowing auburn around her radiant face as she basked in the sort of pure joy only accessible to children. Sondra was doing the next best thing and absorbing some of it for herself—somehow able to remain completely in the moment while simultaneously channeling her own youth.

“When the sun goes down it will be night time,” Ola said authoritatively.

“That’s right. And we’ll have go to bed with it,” Sondra agreed.

“Cozy in our beds, with pajamas and stories and a glass of warm milk,” Ola said. In the last several months she’d really gotten into rehearsing—things that had already happened, expectations for the future… and especially her best fantasies, which largely included such fantastical creatures as unicorns, dinosaurs and (of course) Disneyland.

Sondra closed her eyes, shutting out the blur of gold-lined clouds against the dimming horizon. She wrapped an arm around Ola’s bare shoulder to pull her in, wrapping her in a warm embrace. She smelled like grass and sunshine—of smashed dandelions and sticky watermelon residue not washed from sticky hands—like the softness and innocence of a fresh baby.

Ola hugged her back with the ferocity of unbridled emotion. Her arms were like tiny steel bars wrapping around Sondra’s soft middle.

“That sounds pretty wonderful to me,” Sondra said, still basking.

Ola’s grip shifted. She became still—unnaturally still for such a young and energetic being. Alerted, Sondra opened her eyes and focused.

Everything was as it should be. Golden edges were fading to silvers that would turn grey. The last of the immediately available heat was dissipating from the ground and air, beckoning the chill of night. There were more mosquitos now and Sondra knew it was time to get Ola’s prediction underway, but she paused.

“What’s the matter?” She asked.

“The night can make me sad,” Ola said, still clinging to Sondra’s middle.

Though Ola had never shown any signs of distress or fear of the dark before, Sondra wasn’t terribly concerned. It wasn’t uncommon for kids her age to go through phases.

“It’s okay. I’ll turn on the nightlight. And I’ll be right there in the other room, sleeping in my bed. You can come get me if you need to,” She said.

Ola paused, as if considering the merit of this proposition, then nodded slowly—likely imitating a gesture she’d seen Sondra make.

“And the sun will come back in the morning?” Ola asked.

And Sondra had promised.

Now, facing the fourth consecutive day without the sun’s warming light, Sondra was growing increasingly worried.

It wasn’t until the most natural thing in the universe ceased to be that she realized the inadequacies of all the manmade conveniences. Sure, she appreciated the yellow-white glow of artificial light that ushered her down the long hallway to the bedrooms. She was grateful for the warm water spurting from the showerhead and faucets—she and everyone else. With each passing sunless day it grew colder. In fact, Sondra was beginning to suspect that she missed the warmth radiating from the sky even more than she missed the light. If not, it was at least close.

No one could explain why the sun didn’t rise. This concerned Sondra more than anything else. It was as though the sun had just packed its bags in the darkness of night and taken off. The fact that scientists could confirm the sun’s location in space, relative to the Earth, did nothing to assuage her mounting anxiety.

But more than anything Sondra was mad. The sun had made a liar out of her. There was a lot that Sondra got wrong about being a mother, but she prided herself on being honest to Ola. The sun was messing that up.

She was stewing on that fact when Ola, who had given up sleeping in her own bed on the first night, crept into the room and buried herself under the pile of blankets at Sondra’s side. She nestled herself into the crook of Sondra’s arm and let out a heavy sigh.

“Are you cold?” Sondra asked, knowing that she had to be.

“Yup,” Ola agreed.

“I’m sorry. I’ll turn the heater up again tonight,” Sondra said.

Ola was quiet.

“Are you worried?” Sondra asked, trying her best to interpret Ola’s silence. Surly she had to be worried. Sondra was an adult, complete with a wealth of coping mechanisms and her confidence in the situation had only wanned through the experience.

“No,” Ola said, matter of factly.

“Well, that’s good,” Sondra said, masking her surprise with a firm kiss on the top of Ola’s head. “How come?”

 Ola shifted in the bed so that she was facing her mom. She rested her pixie chin on a small hand, gazing up in the lamplight at Sondra’s face.

“Because the sun will come back,” Ola said.

“How do you know?” Sondra asked. She was both bemused and furiously curious.

“Because you promised, and a promise comes,” Ola said.

Sondra didn’t respond. She didn’t know how to. All she wanted was to make it true. She fell asleep fixated, willing the sun to rise.

The next day, it did.

The End

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Want something with` a bit more meat on the bones? I write short stories for reedsy. You can check out my:

Hungry for more?

I’ve been published in a winter anthology. Check out my short story Shipwrecked Santa in Angry Eagle’s winter anthology, Apocalyptic Winter- Book 2. You can get your copy on Amazon today

If you’ve got an idea for a flash fiction story send it to me at author@jillndavies.com

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Imagine my surprise when I realized I was going to post a flash fiction piece on a Saturday instead of a Friday!!

I suppose I had the option of skipping the week entirely and banking this one for next week, but I wanted to get it up.

You see, the reason for my tardiness and the inspiration for the story were one in the same– Yesterday was Drew’s Birthday.

Drew and I share all sorts of joys. We love the outdoors. We love running and hiking and fishing and boating and camping and traveling…. and we love our little girls so very much.

Our kiddos are a big part of what’s kept us from getting out like we used to, but only in the way that anyone would expect, and in the best way of course.

As Charlotte gets older it’s been a joy to see her get into the things we care about. Specifically, this year she’s been very interested in fishing. She and her Daddy make up a lot of stories about fishing. That’s what inspired this piece. I hope you enjoy it

Runs in the Family

Jill N Davies

It was about three hours before the sun rose. It was still inky black nigh when my alarm went off the first time…

I hit snooze twice, even though I meant to get up right away—I promised myself I would, but my mind was stuck in that pleasant hazy twilight of semi-sleep. My body was certain it needed sleep.

At 3:45 I finally pressed stop instead of snooze and started my day—The best day of my life. The sun would reach over the horizon to dawn on a perfect spring day, giving the clouds a silver kiss and bringing color to the gray that blanketed the trees. But I had plans to already be out on the lake by then.

After starting the Mr. Coffee and grabbing my lunch from the fridge I put on my lucky shirt. You know, the green flannel? Threadbare with two missing buttons on top? I wouldn’t dare go fishing without it. I headed out the door with a toasted bagel and coffee with too much sugar in it and drove the Dodge on the windy road up the hill to Emmigrant Pass.

Just like I planned, I was launching out onto the still, glass surface of the lake as the sun peaked over the horizon. (The mountains gave me a few minutes since I snoozed.) The stroke of my paddle broke the water’s surface as I headed out to the perfect spot. The only sound for a dozen miles was the splash of water against the boat and the waking songs of sparrows. In other words, it was the perfect environment to catch a fish.

I scanned the lake’s smooth surface until I found the small disturbances of lighting insects and pointed my pole in that direction. The whizz of my line gave me that certain satisfaction—it was a good cast. The only cast I needed.

No sooner did the bait hit the water did the fish take it. He didn’t give it a tentative tap-a-tap-tap. He grabbed the bait and dove!

He went deep into the lake, pulling all the drag out of my line faster than I could adjust it. All I could do was hang on for one hell of a ride!

That darn fish drug me all across the lake, nearly capsizing me on the rocks that line the east shore. I reeled so hard I thought my arm was going to fall off, but I wasn’t about to let that sucker go. I could tell he was a big fella and I was intent on getting him into the boat. All I had to do was outlast him. The only problem was that it wasn’t looking like this was the sort of fish that would tire out.

The sun was high in the sky the first time he took a break. My arms were on fire from hanging on and the mayo on my sandwich was probably completely warmed over by then.

When he took that break, I reeled like hell, keeping my pole level with the water and cranking like my life depended on it. I probably made a bit of ground on him then, but as soon as he figured out what I was doing he took off again. We did that song and dance three more times before I knew one of us better think of something different.

It was him that decided what would be different. Instead of stopping to rest he dove down deep. I could tell he was really going because the front of my boat was dipping down low—so low that I was worried I’d take on water!

But just when I thought I was going to have to do something about it the downward plunge stopped and the fish turned tail. He was headed up!

As soon as I figured that out he broke the surface. He sailed so high I could see all of him as he sailed over the boat. He was a beautiful, golden brown trout, glistening in the sunlight. His dark spots stood out like a streak of polka dots in the brilliant sky. My jaw dropped at the sight of it. I was so taken by his magnificence that I nearly didn’t act.

Lucky I did though or I wouldn’t be telling you this story today.

I reached behind and grabbed the net, thrusting it out in the path of his arc so that he landed straight in it!

I hauled him onto the boat and brought him home for dinner. Best trout I’ve ever eaten!

“That’s grandpa’s story!” Alma cried in protest.

Sherman shook his head, unable to hide the mischievous twinkle in his eye as he pulled the covers up to her chin.

“Who told you that was grandpa’s story?”

“Grandpa did! He told it to me first!” Alma said.

Sherman contorted his face to something between hurt and ponderous. “That wretched thief!”

Alma giggled with glee.

“Betrayed by my own father!” Sherman waxed on, causing her to erupt into fits of laughter. He smiled at her spectacle of joy.

“Alright. Enough,” he said, giving her a quick kiss on the forehead. “It’s bedtime.”

He rose from the bedside and turned to flip the light switch. Before he did Alma spoke up, blond hair and big eyes peaking out from the covers.

“Did grandpa really steal that story from you, Daddy?”

Sherman cocked his head, giving her a knowing smirk.

“You bet he did. But don’t worry, someday I’ll steal it from you too, so we’ll all be even.”

The End

You can watch me read this story on IGTV! Make sure to follow my author account

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Want something with` a bit more meat on the bones? I write short stories for reedsy. You can check out my:

Hungry for more?

I’ve been published in a winter anthology. Check out my short story Shipwrecked Santa in Angry Eagle’s winter anthology, Apocalyptic Winter- Book 2. You can get your copy on Amazon today

If you’ve got an idea for a flash fiction story send it to me at author@jillndavies.com

Tune in next week for more Flash Fiction.

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It’s springtime in the California valley.

The sun is out, everything is in bloom and allergies abound.

The allergies have hit me on and off this year. when they’re on they are ON. When they’re off, I probably just am too busy to think about them.

A lot has changed for me this spring and (for the most part,because someone out there is a superlative police) all of it has been good.

We’ve been doing major overhauls in our yards to create dog and kid friendly spaces that I’m excited to hang out in.

Juniper is on the cusp of standing without support.

Charlotte is blossoming into the most amazing kid (from the bud of toddlerhood).

I even cleaned my house. (Let’s not get too crazy here, I clean my house to a tolerable amount most of time, but this time I went a little cleaner still.

We also brought home our newest family member, Miles the black lab puppy. There’s a whole story behind him that I’ll tell, but in the meantime, it’s sort of important and completely obvious that he’s the inspiration behind a lot of my writing right now.

So I hope you enjoy this week’s piece:

Bloom

Jill N Davies

The cotton bolls shouldn’t be blooming in the springtime.

That was the primary thought dancing around in Marvin’s head as he took his evening stroll down Mulberry street to where the dogwoods gave way to open fields.

Tiny flowers transformed the landscape into a vision of snowy-white and peachy-pinks. It was the sort of evening that begged for a long walk into the sunset, or a casual gathering next to a fire pit. He imagined himself sipping red wine and losing himself in deep conversation.

Marvin missed those sorts of gatherings. The last year had been hard for a lot of reasons, but that was one of the hardest for him. That was the secondary thought behind the one about the cotton bolls. It was a much bigger thought, that filled most of the space inside of him.

Neither thought could explain the tiny fluff of cotton that wafted on the breeze and lit on the shoulder of his shirt, clinging to the fabric as if the molecules recognized their kin in another form.

Marvin raised a casual hand to brush it off. His eyes were set on the brilliant pink and gold of the sinking sun. Light broke through the clouds in brilliant spectacles of diffraction. It was incredible that all those colors came from the same source, so far away, scattered and diffracted by microscopic particles in the atmosphere.

He wasn’t thinking about the bloom of the cotton boll or his loneliness when his hand brushed the boll into the air, where it caught a breeze and let out a high-pitched yowl.

Aaiiiyee

Marvin jumped back. Though he knew the sound came from the boll, he scanned his surroundings, looking for a more likely source.

Dogwoods rustled in the breeze as birds chirped and sang in the distance. Mosquitos buzzed at his exposed skin. Through it all, there was the unmistakable sound of the crying boll.

Aaiiiyee!

Marvin lurched forward to catch the boll before it hit the pavement. In doing so he lost his own footing. His knees scraped against the sidewalk, tearing away fabric. The Teflon of his almost new jacket ripped, exposing the bare skin of his elbow. He tumbled sideways, hand wrapping around the boll, protecting it.

It was over as instantly as it started, leaving him in a heap on the thick green grass adjacent to the sidewalk. Glasses askew, he opened his eyes to a blur of blossoms dancing in the brilliance of a still blue sky. He lay there, stunned, until the wiggle of something against the palm of his hand reminded him of the reason for the tumble. Though muffled, he could still hear the little thing’s cry.

Aaiiiyee!

He righted himself, straightening his glasses and tucking his legs. Fat blades of grass scratched at the back of his supporting hand while he brought the other level with his nose, curling his fingers away from the squirming boll.

The Boll slumped unremarkably, settling in his now open palm. It was just a boll. An early blossom drifting on the breeze. What was he thinking?

He dipped his hand to drop it to the ground. Right before it tipped, the boll yowled.

This time he saw it. He stilled his hand, keeping his eyes on the tiny tuft.

To his amazement there appeared a tiny mouth, red tongue lolling as it opened to a dark space. Above the gaping hole two tiny eyes blinked into existence and stared at Marvin’s unbelieving face. The shrieking stopped and the gaping maw was replaced by a meek smile.

“Mama,” it said.

“Hey there, little guy!” Marvin cooed.

The boll blinked.

“Are you real?” Marvin asked, studying the little cotton boll in the fading light.

A rustling breeze seemed to whisper back at him, not a chance. But the babbling persisted, as did the blinking eyes that stared at him with innocent wonder.

“Where did you come from?” Marvin asked, petting the top of the bolls fluffy top.

He was so lost in amazement that he hadn’t heard Gale from down the street walk up behind him, trusty beagles in tow.

“Are you talking to cotton?” she asked, stopping to let the dogs give the grass a thorough sniff.

“Hi Gale,” Marvin started. He stood and turned to her, cupping the cotton boll in his hands. He offered it for her viewing.

Gale looked at the boll with earnest curiosity. The dogs sniffed at Marvin’s shoes and the fresh tears his grass-stained jeans, tails wagging gaily.

“Pretty strange to see cotton bloom in spring, right?” Gale said, concluding her investigation.

“It got stuck on my shirt. It screamed at me…” He stopped himself, right before saying it called me mama.

“Screamed, huh?” Gale said, giving Marvin a curious look.

Marvin’s cheeks reddened. He looked at the boll. The little slash of a mouth had vanished along with the oversized blinking eyes.

“It’s been a hard year,” he said, by way of both an explanation and a change of subject.

Gale nodded. Letting the strangeness of his statement waft away with the boll on the evening breeze.

“I’ve got a litter at home. Not all spoken for yet, maybe you’d like to come have a look?” she offered.

Marvin nodded, head moving slowly.

“That sounds nice,” he said.

She held out one of the leather leads in his direction, ignoring the tear in his jacket, “Why don’t you give it a test drive on the way over?”

He took the leash, the beagle on the other end following the weight of the leather with amicable ease.

They headed down Cottonwood street. Marvin sat in a pile of wiggling white pups with brown and black as Gale looked on approvingly. The light faded as their conversation grew to fill the twilight. Marvin selected the one with brown feet and a white head.

“Do you have a name?” Gale asked.

“I think I’ll call her Cotton,” Marvin said.

The End

Here it is on IGTV!

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Want something with` a bit more meat on the bones? I write short stories for reedsy. You can check out my:

Hungry for more?

I’ve been published in a winter anthology. Check out my short story Shipwrecked Santa in Angry Eagle’s winter anthology, Apocalyptic Winter- Book 2. You can get your copy on Amazon today

If you’ve got an idea for a flash fiction story send it to me at author@jillndavies.com

Tune in next week for more Flash Fiction.

Get your copy of Due North Today!

Amazon

Kobo Books

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Nook Books

https://www.barnesandnoble.com/w?ean=2940162951827

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Easter is one of those holidays that hasn’t spoken to me since I was a very young kid.

Sure, I have good memories of it– some of them even decently recent…

Like the time when my melodramatic older sister wrote words in crayon on her dyed eggs for the younger kids to find and my Aunt was somewhere between confused and offended by the green-grey egg that said “MELANCHOLY”

As a parent things have come full-circle. I’m back to delighting in the simple pleasure of watching little hands get horribly stained with vinegary dyes as eggs change from basic white into colorful things of wonder.

I’m excited for easter.

I waffled quite a bit on what to write this week. I didn’t know if I wanted to go with something Spring-y for the weather, holiday to mark the weekend, or completely generic.

But watching my daughter stare in wonder at colorful eggs (then promptly crush one of those eggs in the red dye) I knew exactly what I wanted to write.

Thus was born this weeks piece:

Egg-Straveganza at Highlakes Park

Jill N Davies

Martin had meant to find eggs during the West County Egg-Straveganza Easter egg hunt at Highlakes Park. A whole lot of them, in fact. He was a good boy, and he wasn’t looking for trouble. Unfortunately, he found both.

Martin had only found 8 eggs before he found THE egg. He was taking his time, weaving back and forth through the long grasses next to the old oaks while the younger kids flew wild through the field. Then, suddenly, there it was.

Bigger than all the other eggs, the egg wasn’t painted in bright, colors or whispy pastels. But it wasn’t plain white either. It was bluish, with dark speckles, dirty from having spent what Martin had to assume was some number of days tucked away in the crude nest.

He knew the instant he found it that this egg wasn’t part of the hunt. Even though he knew it, he couldn’t just leave it there. It was a big egg. Whatever laid it hadn’t been back to take care of it, or even check on it for that matter. In that instant, as Martin stared down at the egg, pondering the heat that radiated outward from the shell, the egg began to wiggle. It was then that he realized that whatever was inside the egg was getting ready to come out. Martin was compelled by an exuberant compassion to make certain the egg was kept under his protection.

Martin’s mother balked when he said he was done with the egg hunt and handed her his basket with the paltry 8 eggs in it. She looked with wide eyes at the bright blues and greens and sparkly pinks hiding in the nest of fake green grass, forsaken by her son. When she asked why, Martin shrugged and said, “I guess I got bored,” which probably she knew was a lie.

But she didn’t ask about it when they drove home, even though Martin didn’t take off his stiff Easter jacket in the hot car. Nor did she call after him when he raced up the stairs without any of the candy the Easter Bunny had left him that morning.

Up the stairs and around the bend in the hall Martin took time to ensure his door was shut securely and the little metal lock was set so that he’d at least have some warning before either of his parents burst through the door. Then, with all the caution and care an eleven-year-old could muster, Martin extracted the egg from beneath his shirt and laid it on his bed.

He stooped down so that his eyes were level with the mattress, considering this miraculous thing he’d found. The egg had wiggled and twitched the whole way home, vibrating against his bare skin and making him feel like a brooding hen. For now, the egg was still.

The main thing Martin worried about was keeping the egg and whatever was inside of it warm. The egg was practically baking in the early-spring sun and that seemed to suit it just fine given all the wiggling and trying to get outside. Martin’s room was in the back of the house, shaded by a row of Osage trees. He didn’t have a heat source like the sun to help the egg hatch…

But he did know where his mom’s heating pad was. That would have to do.

Since getting found out by his parents was a secondary concern, Martin had no choice but to leave his door unlocked as he searched for the heat pad. As he rummaged and pilfered through neatly stacked rows of towels and rags, de-neat-ifying them, his mom called from downstairs.

“Do you want some lunch?”

“No thanks!” Martin said, wrapping a victorious hand around the cord.

“A snack then? I sliced some strawberries,” she baited. Martin could tell she was trying to lure him down to the kitchen.

“My stomach hurts. I ate too much chocolate this morning,” He called back, thinking quickly of something that might give her reason to leave him be for a bit. “I’m gonna take a nap!”

That ought to do it.

“Alright. Let me know if you need anything,” she said. Then her footsteps went off in the other direction.

Satisfied, Martin raced back into his room with the heat pad, slamming the door behind him.

It took him a minute to figure out what he was seeing. In the short time that he was gone, the egg had disappeared from his bed. Its absence filled him with a dread panic. He had to blink a few times before his mind was clear enough to understand the rest of what he was seeing.

The egg wasn’t gone. It was broken in half, and one of the halves was further broken into dozens of pieces. The other half tottered at the edge of the bed before toppling over and hitting the ground with a muted crunch. In its place sat a small creature with shimmering scales and enormous, searching eyes.

Though the shock hadn’t quite passed yet, Martin sprung into action. He plugged in the heat pad and used a combination of the pad, pillows, and blankets to fashion a sort of nest for the hatchling, who immediately snuggled against the electronic warmth emanating from the pad.

Martin marveled at it. It was covered head to tail in metallic scales that managed to take what little light was in his room and make it glow in a rainbow of colors. A ridge of hard silver spikes ran from the base of its skull down the length of its ample tail. It had wings. Beautiful, black and silver wings that looked like moonlight when it stretched them out.

There was no doubt in Martin’s mind of what it was. It was wonderful, and awesome and unbelievable. And it was all his.

The only problem was that Martin had no idea what to do with a baby dragon…

The End

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