The Reassuring Safety of Plastic Lego Houses
Oh no! Here we go again! I thought, as me and Candy, my little sister, ran home from school at break-neck speed, scared out of our wits, on top of a road of Hershey's chocolate bricks. White Nike shoelaces, with their familiar swoosh logo, growing alongside the road bobbed and waved as we raced past them. Normally, I'd stop to smell their plastic-cum-cotton aroma, but I had to make an exception in this case. We were trying to make it to the farmhouse before the Twizzler gobbled us.
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Fiction by Zachary Houle
Originally published on papmag.net in a slightly different form.
It was the season's second Twizzler, which was a long red licorice stick extending from the dark cotton ball sky with a bird-like beak that opened and closed at one end. The first storm of the year hadn't been as close a call as this one. That had happened last week, during the Month of the Jelly Belly. While I was sweating with a scythe in my hands, mowing down shoelaces as part of my evening chores, I glanced up and saw a small Twizzler drop out of the sky on the horizon without warning. I was able to get to the storm cellar just before the storm veered off in a path perpendicular to the farmhouse. This Twizzler, however, was a bit more aggressive, if not clever. It came out of the clouds just moments after me and Candy stepped off the Tonka school bus, and made a direct beeline for the two of us. I'd say it was a class three on the Taste Explosion Scale (TM) -- pretty dangerous stuff.