Creative Writing: The Cyclops And The Ostrich Egg

CHAPTER ELEVEN

The Cyclops and the Ostrich Egg

I spent the night wrestling with the mummy wrap, which was bad, since the linen was itchy. But worse was the confined space. It made me nuts.

“Aiden, stand still.” Mason grabbed the end of the gauze between my shoulder blades and spinning me around like a top. “Better?”

“Yeah, thanks dude.” I pushed him out of the room. I was so looking forward to a real breakfast that I slip down the banister railing instead of using the stairs.

By the time we arrived in the kitchen, Mom was already seated at the table cutting a grapefruit into quarters, her lips pursed with a razor like focus. She looked up and smiled as we sat down.

“Feeling better, Aiden?”

I nodded.

She put a quarter of unsweetened

fruit in a bowl. Then floated next to the table, placing plates in front of each of us. She set a platter stacked with bacon and sausage beside the eggs and splashed some apple cider into our cups.
“Boys I have to run some errors.” Mom hugged me, squeezing tight enough to make my sides groan. It happened so fast I didn’t see it coming. She let go, grabbed my face in both hands and kissed my nose. “Please be careful.” Then she left the room, slamming the door behind her, not because she was mad. Mom always slammed doors to make sure they were closed.
Under normal circumstances, her kiss would've embarrassed me, but my friend was here. “"Um, sorry. I guess she cares.”
Mason shrugged. “Hey, dude. Let’s go for a swim.”
“Naw. Not in mood."
“Come on." He grabbed my wrist and dragged me outside.

We followed a footpath that had been trodden out by a herd of slow chewing cows that were, let’s say a lot messy. It wandered along in turns and easy angles, twisting off and up to the top of a small knoll, rambled down again between fringes of bee-hung clover that gleamed in the morning dew, then it cut sidewise across a meadow. Here its edges blurred. It widened and seemed to pause, suggesting a scenic summit and then it went on again and came at last to the wood. But after reaching the shadow of the first pine, it veered sharply in a wide arc as if, for the first time, it knew where it was headed, and past around a creek which had been dammed up to form a swimming

hole.
I stripped down to my underwear, climbed up onto a small overhanging dock, stretched out my arms and dove deep into the cool water. I amused myself for some time swimming laps and floating on my back.
Mason cut through the swells, like a silver mermaid, using only his hips to generate motion. Then he came ashore near a ratty green towel.
We lazed under a shade tree until late afternoon then marched on sopping wet, slippery sandals up to the house.
Inside at the table I asked Mason if he was ready to kick some goblin rear end. “We need to just wipe him off the map. I mean as long he doesn’t kill us first.”
Mason rolled up his sandwich and started munching—not a guy to let impending doom stand in the way of a hearty meal. “What the heck.”
My mom walked into the kitchen her heels tick-tick-ticked across the tile floor and set a grocery sack on the counter. “Hey, boys. Whatcha been up to?”
“Not much.” I pushed my chair in. “Where’s Dad?”
“He’s in the garage tinkering with his Chevy.”
My dad taught microbiology at The University of Pixie Dust and he loved science, but his true passion was cars—anything older than him. In fact, the ‘55 Bel Air was his pride and joy.
“Thanks for lunch, Mrs. Greene.” Mason blasted toward the front door.
“Anytime, dear.”
Dad poked his head inside the house and winked. “Have fun.”
I winked back.

A fifteen minutes later, we were literally stumbling around a winter wonderland. Light, silvery snowflakes floated down from the sky and frost crept across tree branches.
Squatting on the hard-packed bluish-white snow was a fifteen-foot-three Cyclops with a one large, yellow eye that looked like a giant broken ostrich egg, right in the middle of his forehead. He had sharp yellow teeth, long chimp-like arms, and feet as big as my whole body. Despite the cold, he wore a green tank top that read: “Cuddling is good. But nuzzling is even better.” A teeny tiny pink loincloth, mismatched socks, and orange Nike snickers.
We took off running as fast as we could toward a spindly tree—“GREENE!”
My flip-flops squeaked to a halt and I turned around.

The monster beckoned us back and boomed, “What are you doing here?”

“Uh . . . err . . . um,” Mason forced a pathetic giggle. “Nothing.”

I figured the only way to survive the Cyclops encounter was to make myself appear big. I raised my arms up above my head, spread my legs wide and yelled, “You want some of this Minster?”

He cowered behind a tree and covered his eye. “Chill, Legend Greene’s grandson. The boy who wrestles with goblins.”

That’s when I knew. Even before he said it. He was the Cyclops who had slid the two peaks apart so Grandpa could plant his apple orchard.

“I am Argos. Son of Ouranus.” He pointed to a willowy fairy with gleaming wings attempting to hide behind spindly twigs poking up through the snow. Argos explained that he’d come across Cyrailia in the woods and they’d struck up a conversation. She had run away from the goblin’s castle and didn’t want to go back so he took her in and they have lived together ever since. “She’s sort of bashful, but she’s a magical

creature.”
In the distance, a hairy little imp with enormous feet popped out of a snow covered bush. He wore half a dozen gold bangle bracelets on each wrist and a silver tiara. The imp gave us a wide, toothless grin and waved as if I were a long-lost friend.
I didn't know what else to do. I waved back.
"Don't encourage him," Cyrailia warned. “Sir Fartsalot is a terrible flirt."
“Ah.” I trembling as a bitter icy wind, swept across the snow rifling through my swimming trunks and flip-flops. Mason stood beside me coated with frost like a powdered sugar doughnut frozen into place.
Then the sky shifted, revealing blue stripes and a kaleidoscope of colored light as fireworks exploded to life over our heads. The temperature rose and suddenly we were snaking down a maze of curled waterslide tubes and pipes, crash landing beside the tree flat on our back in the grass. Mason lay there dazed and drained.
“Dude,” I chided. “Stop messing around.”
“But—”
“Grab a jacket and meet me back here in ten.” I ran inside and dressed for the weather: three pairs of long johns, jeans, a turtleneck, sweatshirt, two ski jackets, a knit cap with matching mittens, a scarf, two pairs of winter socks, and boots lined with fur.