Young Writers Society

Brett stepped out of the car, noting grimly that the descent to the ground was considerably shorter. Why? The left front tire had completely disappeared under the car, that’s why.

“Damn,” Ted said, surveying the damage. "Is there anything we can do?"

Brett got down on his hands and knees and studied the tire. From the stress of the sharp turn, it had dislocated from the rim and slid back under the belly of the truck. Somewhere something metal had broken, too. Because he knew his old truck was probably gone for good, a weight of sadness settled on his chest, like the dread of saying goodbye to an old friend. Or a girlfriend. 

He squinted up at Ted's concerned face. "We can probably replace the tire, but we're gonna have to get the old one out first."

Ted nodded. “I’ll get the tire iron."

Brett traded Ted his keys for the x-shaped tire iron and latched it onto one of the lug nuts of the rim. But when he tried to turn it, it wouldn’t budge. He tried a different nut, and it didn’t work either.

“I’ll try,” Ted offered, dropping the keys nearby.

Brett stood back. Ted stepped on the tire iron to get it turning, but instead of loosening the lug nut he stripped it entirely from the rim. It clattered onto the road, shorn cleanly in half.

“Sorry Boss,” Ted said, wincing. “We’d best call for help.”

Brett fished his phone from his pocket. “I’ll call the house first and let them know we’ll be late.”

He dialed the client’s phone number and while he listened to the ringtone he kicked the broken nut around.

“Hello, Mrs. Mazotti. I’m Brett Crawford from Crawford Carpentry. We’re the ones who… yes, yes, that’s right. Unfortunately, we just had a, uh, an accident on the road. My truck is shot.”

He patted the rusty yellow hood of the pickup affectionately, then wandered toward the creek to see if he could see the white dog. “Yes, everyone is fine. But we won’t be able to go anywhere until we can rent a new truck. I don’t know how long that’ll take. Will you be home all day? That’s good. Can we come any time? Good. I’ll call you back when we’re on our way.”

He couldn’t see the dog anywhere. He hoped it would find its way back home. “You’re welcome, Mrs. Mazotti. See you in a little bit. Goodbye.” He hung up, then tapped on his contact list to see who he could call for help.

He’d decided on his dad when behind him, he heard Ted laugh. “Brett! The dog’s got your keys!”

“What?” He turned around and sure enough, a large, skinny white dog was sitting there with Brett’s Oakland A’s lanyard clamped in its jaws.

“It’s a funky looking thing, isn’t it?” Ted said.

It was. Its ears were large and upright, with tufts of white fluff at the tips. Long, cat-like whiskers framed its face. The eyes were placed up high on its elongated skull, and there wasn’t any definite point where the head stopped and the sharp snout began; the line from the forehead to the nose was flat. Its tail was a like a lion’s, a white paintbrush that flicked back and forth playfully.

It was cute, but odd. And dammit, it had his keys.

"How'd he get my keys?" Brett asked.

"They were left on the ground. He slipped in and grabbed them, right in front of me."

Brett put his phone away. "You've caused me enough trouble already, dog. C'mere, drop the keys.”

“It’s not like you need them anymore, with the state the ol' truck's in.” Ted was thoroughly entertained. It wasn't everyday that his boss was the object of tomfoolery such as this. It was usually the other way around, as long as Brett was in a good mood.

“I believe in the ability of the repair shop, thank-you-very-much." Brett snapped his fingers and pointed at the ground. "Drop it, boy.”

Ted snorted. He couldn't help himself. This was all too funny. “Maybe it’s not listening to you because it’s a girl."

“Can you tell?" He was annoyed but he could see the humor in the situation too and his eyes were twinkling. There was something irresistible about this dog.

“Nope. It's too fluffy. Doesn’t have a collar either.”

Leaning forward, Brett tried unsuccessfully to grab the keys. The dog tossed its head back defiantly. “Help me, Ted, would you?”

Ted stepped forward and the dog bounced to its feet, its long tail flitting back and forth madly. Then it dashed around Brett towards the creek, but just in time he stuck out his hand and snatched the end of the lanyard. The dog was stronger than it looked, however, and nearly yanked Brett off his feet, who barely kept his ground but couldn’t quite hang on. The keys slipped free and the dog bounded toward the creek, its tail waving like a taunting white flag. 

“I’ll be back," Brett said, setting his phone on the hood of the truck. "Call my dad to get a tow here, would you?” Then he hurried down the slope, stumbling after the dog as it pranced along the stream, leaping gracefully over and among the rocks.

Brett stopped short when he saw someone a little ways down, strolling by the creek, cloaked in a dark purple shawl. He supposed it was an old woman, but her face was heavily shadowed and he couldn’t be certain. Nonetheless, she was certainly the dog’s owner; it greeted her gleefully and dropped the keys at her feet.

She bent down to pick them up. Her hand was delicate, pale, and wrinkled.

“Thank you, ma'am,” Brett called out. "Those are mine.”

She glanced up, but he still couldn’t see her eyes, just the sharp line of her jaw. Then she looked back down at the dog, and gave it back the keys.

“Hey, hey! Wait!" He jogged toward the woman. Perhaps she couldn't hear him very well. "Those are my keys," he said, accentuating his words clearly and indicating himself with a hand on his chest.

She nodded toward the dog, who was already galloping downstream. “Go get them, then,” she said, matter-of-factly.

“Ma’am?”

“You heard me.”

Brett opened his mouth and then closed it slowly. The dog looked back at him, waiting. 

"Ma'am, I don't think he'll let me..."

"She," the woman corrected, pulling her shawl tighter over her face. "She's a girl." 

Brett cleared his throat. "Right. She. I don't think she'll let me have my keys back."

The woman shrugged and continued on her way.

"I'll have you know," Brett said, "she ran across the street just now and I almost hit her. I ruined my truck trying to swerve away."

The woman didn't answer, so Brett, grumbling, turned to the dog.

“Hey! Girl. Come here.” The dog lept from rock to rock, ignoring him. Then she jumped into the shallow water, generously splashing his jeans.

He clenched his jaw. He was getting angry.

The dog turned around, as if she was waiting for him to catch up. Brett dashed into the water and lunged for his keys, and he surprised himself when again he actually succeeded in grabbing the lanyard. But as the dog’s tail only whipped faster when they engaged a tug of war, he realized that this was exactly what she wanted. To play.

“I’m. Not. Letting. Go,” Brett growled. The dog was still stronger, and as she backed up they took their game to the opposite shore.

Brett cast a desperate glance back at the woman. She was kneeling in the undergrowth, and her back was turned. She had a... lighter? She appeared to be trying to start a fire. A pang of alarm went through him. She didn’t look like the type to go camping.

He was with a crazy lady. Brett wished Ted would come to his aid. He considered calling out to him, but then the dog pulled viciously and Brett lurched forward. He almost fell but he let one hand go and caught himself on the rocks. It was the same palm that he had scraped earlier. Now it was bleeding.

He glared down at his hand and the dog pulled one last time. Brett was too angry to notice what was happening, but before he could react, the dog ripped him from Earth.

He and the dog were suddenly squeezed together; he felt the fluffy, feathery fur and the warm body pressed against his, and he saw a flash of her eye, still glinting playfully; a cool wind whipped around them, first green and gray, the colors of the Oregon creek, and then yellow and orange and brown; he shut his eyes because the striated colors were increasingly brighter and the wind warmer. Then there was a great flash and gradually, everything stilled.

In a matter of seconds, the window between realms had swallowed them up, and the stream, the forest, the crazy lady, the Crawford Carpentry truck, and Ted, were no more.

The first thing Brett did in Ordadus was to stand up and pick up the tattered green lanyard with his bloody hand. Then he stared at the orange Ordadian sun, and felt very confused.