Rogersville by Gayla putnam Battle of the Sprites writing prompt entry |
ROGERSVILLE In Rogersville, every day was sunny, and it rained on schedule every third evening between midnight and three A.M. The grass was mowed each Saturday, and bushes were manicured to appear like horses, ducks, and kittens. Flowers never wilted, and weeds never grew. Lady bugs and honey bees flitted merrily through the yards, but mosquitos or other creepy crawlers were non-existent. Two covered bridges spanned a river full of rainbow trout. Colorful parrots nested in the trees, and hummingbirds sat like jewels on window boxes. The fathers worked at the Rogersville Factory, producing lollipops of every flavor, shape, and color. In the evening, the sweet smell of candy wafted throughout the town. The mothers cleaned their spotless homes and cooked delicious gourmet meals. The children did their homework without being asked and said, “Please and thank you. “Rogersville oozed happiness from every streetlight until one fateful Saturday on All Hallow's Eve. On this particular day, a strange yellow PT Cruiser appeared out of nowhere, gliding through the town. No one could recall seeing it before. A toad in an orange jumpsuit sat at the wheel, his head swiveling 360 degrees, his googly eyes bulging under his hooded-green brow. The backseat was a riot of color, overflowing with pixies, wisps, sprites, and goblins hanging out the windows, chattering in a strange gibberish. They shrieked and plugged their noses as they drove by the lollipop factory. “What is that terrible smell.” The toad immediately threw pond scum out the window to mask the sickly-sweet odor. He drove a block and pulled over at the park. Happy children were playing on swings and slides. The pixies and fairies spilled out of the car. They ran to the children, making scary grimaces as they pinched and poked with their bony fingers. One tangled a little girl's hair and attached her to a tree by her braids. Screams and cries pierced the air. Mothers raced outside. A tear had never been shed in Rogersville. The sprites sprinted toward the women, throwing glittering silver pixie dust in their faces. The mothers stopped. They turned to one another. “I’m sick of slaving in the kitchen. Why can’t we go out to eat,” said a thin woman as she untied her apron and tossed it in the rubbish bin. Another woman threw down her toilet brush. “I despise the smell of Lysol. I want to study Spanish.” They stared at one another in shock. They had never complained in their lives. Could life be more fulfilling than a new recipe book by Wolfgang Puck? The women turned toward the factory. The men heard the commotion and rushed out. Crying children and distraught women stood bunched together. The men stared wide-eyed, wondering what was happening. A loud horn blared and broke the silence as the Yellow PT Cruiser raced through the crowd and disappeared into a cloud of blue smoke. Ten-foot high, blood-red letters streaked across the sky: “TRICK OR TREAT OUR TASK IS NOW COMPLETE. HEE, HEE.”
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Gayla putnam
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