Button Tricks

"Button Tricks" is my latest submission to NPR's three minute fiction series. Unlike last round, which used a picture as inspirational point of focus, this round requires the use of four words within the story.

Those words are Button, plant, trick and fly. The other requirement was that it be held in length to no more than six hundred words.

Here is my submission.
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Salt crusted mangrove leaves sparkled and danced with reflections of the ripples below. It wasn’t a large mound as middens go, at twenty-seven feet above the river that opened below. But, in the expansive flatness spread before him this promontory allowed an amazing panorama of faraway horizons wherever a break in the thick underbrush allowed.

The old Indian had been very reluctant, only after months of visits to the old, stilted shack listening, learning, debating and warnings had he agreed. Hidden in the heart of a cypress bay, he’d discovered the hideaway and its occupant quite by accident, while kayaking a tributary of the St. John’s looking for that connection afforded by the small, brief solitude of a natural world that seemed more dream and distant everyday.

Crimson, orange, gold and scarlet flashed on the river. The sun sank below a line of black, gray, and green that crackled in the distance with heat baked from the day. It’s anvil shape reaching almost to the scimitar of moon brightening in the growing dusk above. Cool air spilled from this boiling wall, stirring leaves and creating strange patterns on the face of the lagoon.

A low echoing rumble competed with the sounds of surf breaking to the east. A strong smell of cedar and salt filled his senses, his skin began to tingle, as the four gnarled guardians of the mound began to sway, their limbs creaking and lush green crowns dancing wildly in the cold downdraft.

It was time. Facing East he lifted his hands and recited the prayer he’d memorized then put the first button in his mouth and began to chew. Earthy, metallic assaulted his pallet. Thoughts of spoiled blood flitted at the edges of awareness as small leaves and shell dust began to dance at his feet.

Swallowing the first button he turned south. As instructed, he knelt on both knees to plant the seeds and sacrifice for his return. Firming the earth he stood, arms raised and chanted the prayer to the south wind, then ate the second button. Facing north, he raised his arms and began the slow chant that was the prayer to the north wind. Finishing as he’d been taught, he slowly chewed the third button.

Turning west, arms raised to the last of the setting sun he began the low, sing song chant of his last prayer. Words lost in the rising gale, he slowly sat cross legged, taste of the fourth and last button still on his tongue. His mind raced, but his body was still. Doubts swept over him and he choked back the fears rising from below.

He uncorked the bottle of rain water he’d collected as instructed and pulled long on its contents, as though water could dilute his doubts and wash the fear from his throat.

What if it was all a cruel trick?

Lying back, struggling for control of his racing thoughts and emotions he focused on his breathing. Slow and deep, inhale, hold it, slowly purge, hold it, repeat. Feeling much better by the third cycle, he opened his eyes and forgot his fears.

Lightness came over him as he felt the first fat cold drops falling through him. Turning west he looked down to see his body, but felt no fear or pain only thrill and exhilaration at the sight of sparkling coast and the lights of Orlando on a curved and starry horizon broken by glowing storm clouds. The old Indian was right. He could fly.