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by Rachael Harrington

blaster, blubber, horseplay, injury, exact, nightfall

Rose had never played. Not really. As a child she pushed her pristine china doll on a swing hung from a thick branch of the oak tree in front of her house, but even that was done more out of boredom than anything else. Her parents had brought her to a doctor once, fearing something to be wrong with their child, but the doctor told them it was melancholy and to make sure she got plenty of fresh air. This was before Prozac.

So Rose sat day after day on a rickety old rocking chair on the front porch. When other children ran by she would watch them with her dark eyes and say nothing. She sat with her hands folded in front of her and just went back and forth, back and forth.

As Rose lowered herself into her rocker one fine spring morning, she noted that she had been placing herself in this spot for 78 years now. She had seen a lot happen in that time from this spot. Neighbors moving in and out, babies being born and growing up, people aging and withering away. She had watched it all, never partaking. Just observing. Tucking it all away in the files in her brain.

So, this one fine spring day as Rose thought this all over she noticed way off down the street what looked like a small brown bear galloping towards her with what appeared to be a tree hanging from its mouth. Every few loping paces the bear would thrash its head from side to side, breaking off small chunks of branches and sending them flying like grenades through the air. She could hear the snapping and thumping and panting before she could even clearly make out the face of the approaching beast. She calmly braced herself, telling herself that this is how it ends.

But as the monster approached her gate she released the grip on the wooden arms. She realized it was a dog and not a mythical creature sent from the underworld to take her away. It was actually a charming, dopey dog who entered her front yard and dropped it’s ginormous stick in front of itself and perked its ears. The drooling, four legged animal had a tongue that seemed to be two feet too long for its mouth and it stared expectantly at Rose.

Rose wasn’t sure what to do. No one had ever looked at her so directly before. Her whole life, presumably due to her perceived lack of imagination people either averted their eyes or ignored her completely. Even her parents had given up on her and had eventually gone about their lives almost as if she wasn’t there.

And so here they were, a wrinkled old lady on a porch and a young pup now pawing the ground in front of the stick. Rose kept herself seated. She hadn’t moved for anybody her whole life and she wasn’t about to give up that habit.

The dog barked. Just once at first, and then it got more vocal and more vocal until the barks were almost overlapping themselves. Rose still remained seated. The dog went on and on and nudged the stick closer and closer to Rose until it was flopping around the ground in front of the bottom step to the porch. Annoyed and confused, Rose finally stood up, picked up the rocker, went in the front door and parked the rocker in front of the window, which cut down on the racket less than she hoped it would.