by Jake Christie

PUDDLE.
a story.

The puddle was Lake Erie. The puddle was the Red Sea. The puddle was the Blob.

The puddle was massive.

She squeaked from one bright yellow boot to the other. The rain had nearly stopped but still danced on the surface of the water, growing into small fountains or blades of grass or mushroom clouds. She imagined the whole thing happening in reverse, the puddle pushing up these tiny spires, sucking them in, then firing them up into the sky. One drop after another, like artillery fire, until the reserves were spent and the munitions were starved and the, oh, forty, fifty, maybe seventy bricks were bare and grey and dry.

She took five steps back, looked, and then took three more. She thought of the runners in the Olympics. She stretched. She limbered. She stepped backwards and thought in reverse.

The rain stopped. Her hair stuck to her face. She ran to the edge of the puddle and jumped.


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