Young Writers Society

Paul and a waterfall

It was a long time before we actually started going back. We had reached the ‘bowl,’ which was already filled up so high with water that I couldn’t see the doors on the houses anymore.

We floated serenely over the water that was infested with people pronouncing that it was the end of the world and that you should repent of your sins. We had been floating for quite a while looking for any oars, as if we could possibly row up the steep waterfallish hill. When a motor that I had been blocking out came unbearably close. Then it turned off. I glanced to my right.

Next to us was a man with a motorboat, looking right at us.

“What are two children and a dog doing out at night in a used-to-be-car unsupervised?” He asked. He smiled, a warm smile to show he meant no ill will.

Amy put on her ‘pitiful little child face.’ “Oh sir, we don’t know what happened! Suddenly the car we were waiting in turned all wooden and uncomfortable. Our mom is in the grocery store. And-” here she broke into fake, gut-wrenching sobs, “I just wanna go ho-ome!” her voice catching and breaking on the last syllable. You whimpered for effect. It was a much better pity show than I could put on.

“Poor children,” the man whispered, “But I’m forgetting my manners. I’m Paul. This here boat used to be a motorcycle. I can give you a ride, if you’d like.”

“Yes, we would very much like a ride.” I introduced our little group I told him your name was Such. It was! You were occupying Such’s body, therefore, you were Such. Don’t think I lied.

We had a little trouble getting from boat to boat, and I felt a little bad just leaving ours there, but I hoped someone who needed it, found it.

We slowly wove our way through the sea of sailboats, canoes and even water skiers who looked like they would rather be anywhere else but where they were. Finally we reached the waterfall-hill, remember? The water cascaded down it, filling up the valley. All I could see of most of the buildings were the roofs. We began to ascend.

The motor was deafening combined with the rushing of the waterfall, but I didn’t care: I was feeling a rush of my own. I had secretly always wanted to go on an adventure like the ones I read about in books so often. I was on my own adventure now. I told Paul to go to 167th street. Luckily, he knew where it was.

I sat back and relaxed as much as I could riding in a small motor boat. We would be all right. Somehow, I thought, everything was going to work out once we got to your house.

That’s when things started to go wrong.

You had been staring at the water for a while, remember? You were watching the random floating objects whizz by. You leaned too close to the water. I should have seen it coming. Your paws slipped, and you fell in to the water. You were swept away.

“My dog!” I screamed, bawling. “Paul! Turn the boat around, I have to save Such!”

“I’m sorry, kid, but your doggie is long gone.” He had the look of true, deep sorrow and sympathy about his face. You were gone. You were gone forever, and deep down, I knew you would never return.

I turned my face back towards our goal, tears streaming down my face for the first time in years.

I never cry. But I cried for you.

I cried for you.

I would save the world.

I would save the world for you, and only you.

When we got to 167th street, I showed Paul your house. He whistled at the color, obviously impressed. The rest of the boat ride had been silent, If you could ever have silence riding in a motor boat.

The street rivers at the top of ‘the bowl’ were just as deep as elsewhere, but no water lapped over the curb. The street had appeared to have grown ‘deeper.’ Paul let us out right onto the grass of your yard. I stumbled at first, but then I caught myself. We were ready to go in, when I remembered something.

“Paul!” I called, turning around, about to warn him not to touch electrical equipment or he would turn into a frog.

Then my eyes focused, and sitting right where Paul had been, was a rotund bullfrog.

The boat was already drifting away, and I knew I couldn’t save him. He must have been touching the electric motor. Why didn’t I see it? I could have prevented it! So stupid. Another tear rolled down my face before I faced the hose, my teeth gritted.

Before we entered, I waved goodbye to the frog, knowing deep down that if I didn’t act soon, more people would end up just like Paul or worse. I found the spare key, and with Amy following right beside me, I pushed into your house for the second time that day. We quietly crept upstairs, where the room was exactly as we had left it. I realized I had no idea what to do.

I had no plan, I had no Paul, and I had no you, dog-shaped or otherwise.