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Luke
Cucciolo, I was saying. Cucciolo. But I was lying down and there were three suns and my mouth was made of rubber. Frankie wouldn’t turn. I needed him to turn around because they were shooting at us. We had ducked behind the jeep and they were shooting. Rooster was on the ground.
The shooting wasn’t bullets but beeps. Beeping.
But then for some reason we were back at my dad’s garage. Why were they shooting? Get them out of my dad’s garage. It was lunchtime. It wasn’t time for people to shoot at my dad and my brother. I had to get up from this bed. I had to protect them.
Rooster was taking a nap under the jeep on a red pillow. How can he sleep right now?
I couldn’t get up because the bottom half of me was a tree, a trunk where my legs should be. It was growing, cracking my skin, bark made of knives, stabbing.
I screamed because it hurt. Someone cut this tree off! I screamed.
Three suns were so bright. People were talking funny. I was, too. Cucciolo. No one was listening.
They put a piece of rubber on my face.
Blue and white and blue and white.
The tree grew again. I screamed.
“Goot, goot,” they were saying. “Ess weird goot sign.”
“Not goot,” I said, but the rubber got in the way. “Frankie.”
Frankie. Not good. Someone cut this tree off.
Frankie.
