Sneezes and Sundrops

                Sneezes and Sundrops

                 Greg sneezed 106 times the day Becca realized the freckles on his back were a map to something wonderful. He had terrible allergies, but 106 was a record beyond promise. That night as he lay sniffling in bed, Becca traced the brown dots with her pinkie finger. She had found constellations there, at the base of his neck, the backs of his shoulder caps. But the rest was something different.

                “Geographical landmarks,” she whispered, lips parted in the dark.

                “Mut?” Greg inquired groggily—he’d taken a fair share of Nyquil.

                “Do you know what this means?” her eyes widening with excitement, fingernails digging absently into the precious skin.

                “Hey-stop it! What are you going on about now?”

                “Treasure.”

                Greg sneezed 104 times the day Becca killed him.

                “Bec, can’t we do this next week?” Greg snuf-grumbled, briefly pulling the white surgeon’s mask off his nose to sneeze before replacing it. “The pollen count is off the charts.”

                “Nah-uh.” She rolled her gumball around from one side of her mouth to the other, letting it skate across her teeth before tucking it between her molars like an old-time cigar. She walked a few steps forward, one hand hipped against her side, the other shielding her eyes. As she took each step she kicked up yellow particles like gumdrops behind her revealing the green grass below.

                Greg, trying to follow despite his mostly swollen shut eyes, slipped off the back step of the porch and knocked into her.

                “Steady on!” she scolded, grabbing onto his wrist. “We need your back alive.”

                “Very funny,” he mumbled.

                 The streets were deserted and yellow. lemondrops light as cotton balls drifted through the air, but when Becca stuck out her tongue to catch one, she wrinkled up her face with distaste.

                “Bleh.”

                “Well what did you think it’d taste like?” Greg snogged.

                “Honey, I suppose,” she said thoughtfully.

                Greg tried to laugh at that, but it only sent him choking.

                They walked down the center of the road, leaving their grey footprints behind. They passed large boulders of yellow which lined the road like parked cars. Houses became hilltops.

                “It’s like the sun is shedding all its leaves,” Becca wondered, staring up into the powdery sky.

                “The sun doesn’t have leaves,” Greg said.

                “Course it does, ‘n that means winter is coming,” she said.

                “Winter for the sun.”

                Becca shut up after that. Setting her stride, she set off across the old high school athletics’ field.

                “See,” she said, throwing up Greg’s shirt—despite his muffled protestations—and fingering the marks there. “I always thought it was a sling shot. And this little cluster-fuck here, that’s the trees.”

                “We’re not supposed to go in there,” Greg protested.

                “I can’t believe this,” muttered Greg.

                “Well are you gonna go first or sneeze on me the whole way?” Becca laughed.

                Greg glared at her past his bag of pocket Kleenex.

                 “Me first it is.”

                 The hole was small, a tight fit for Greg’s wide—if boney—shoulders. But it was surprisingly smooth, and pleasantly pollen free. Which was good, seeing as every time Greg sneezed he knocked his head against the roof. Still, Becca made short work of the tunnel, and was quickly leaving Greg behind.

                 He tried to call out to her, but his throat was caught up and his head was beginning to ache from how many times he’d banged it against the ceiling. The air was filling with dust knocked loose.

                 Becca pulled herself out of the tunnel. Her feet sank warm and deep to her ankles, her shoes filled with the golden sand that surrounded her. The sky was dim but the land bright, as though it were being lit from below instead of above, and the air was sweet and tangy. Above her the trees hung with leaves red as cherry sours.

                 What approached her in this space, what opened a hole in its face and spoke to her, was yellow. The most terrible shade of yellow. It dripped and flaked and the sweet smell was coming from it. It was somehow strangely beautiful. And Becca knew that she had come to the end of the map.

                 “I want the treasure,” she said. Above her, the dark grey sky did not sparkle with stars. The ground was so golden that she had to shield her eyes from the bottom to see. In the distance there were strange shapes, the skeletons of hills and mountains.

                 The thing spoke, but she could not hear it.

                 “I found the map. I found my way here. It’s my right to have the treasure.”

                 The thing, if it is possible to say, smiled, a hollow decaying sweet thing that sent a sugar rush up her spine.

                 “It’s mine. I deserve it,” she said, her voice faltering.

                 In the distance she could just make out withering frame of a football goal post.

                 The thing closed its mouth and nodded.

                 When Becca opened her eyes she was half-laying in the creek and the hole underneath the rock was gone. Greg was nowhere to be seen.

                 A cave in, she thought, and began digging, tearing at the clotted dirt with her fingers.

                 “Greg,” she screamed, “Greg!” Her fingers were bloody.

                 She turned and ran through the yellow dust, coughing as it kicked up into her lungs. “Help!” she called. “He’s trapped.”

                 When the men dug the boy’s body out from under the rock, only a few feet deep, they found his head bashed in and a shovel. The surgical mask was splattered red from the inside with blood.

                 Becca was not with them. She had been taken home, made a cup of tea—it would all be taken care of. She laid in bed for a long time staring at the gathering pollen. Finally she sat up, rubbed at her swollen eyes, popped in a gobstopper. She let it skate over her teeth as she unlaced her shoes, watched the sand pour out onto the floor, glittering like specs of gold.