An Exercise in Self-Indulgence

An abandoned barn holds the promise of great things for two boys one summer.

The boys picked through the overgrowth on their way to the old and broken barn-ish building. It was a barn once. Probably.

One of those boys walked confidently, striding down an unmarked path that he was obviously familiar with through the brush. The other was striking his way through the autumn-dried grasses, snapping and cracking through with a long stick in his hand, batting his own path through it, and singing under his breath.

"My uncle has a country place…"

"No."

"That no one knows about…"

"Stop it."

"He says it used to be a farm, before the Motor Law…"

"D****t, Krieger!"

"What?"

"Stop singing that."

"Why? 'Red Barchetta' through a ten-gigawat pre-amp-- Wait… Please--"

The confident boy turned on his heel, and made his way into his friend's personal space, including a pointed finger just inches from the other's chin, and cut off any further comment for the moment.

Backing up a step, his friend was realizing that he was playing the joke too long, and was perhaps taking it too far to be funny anymore. That realization didn't stop the lecture, though.

"No. No, I am not. I tell you that every time. I am NOT into Rush. And there is no ancient sports car down here. There are no gleaming alloy airfares. And it's pronounced bar-KET-ta, not bar-CHET-ta. Even the BAND admits that."

Swinging his stick up over his shoulders, and hanging his arms off it in rest, the second one stops to chew on the thought a little too long before returning a proper comeback, and gets a sound rebuking from his friend.

"So, are you done? Sounds like you're done. No more singing. At all."

"No! And you know what? Your uncle has all but forgotten this place is even on his property. And you, uh, know what? I claim that old debris as mine. It's mine. It's… It's Fort Kickass, and your authority isn't recognized in here! So there!"

"Tell you what, chief," said the nephew, as he turned away from facing his friend, and beginning to walk back to the weathered building. "You can claim it as Fort Kickass as soon as you've mastered Y-Y-Zeeeeeeee."

Silence hung in the air. It was a moment that just stuck, waiting for the proper time to end, and the proper time for everything to return again. It was a moment that was just the length of a breath, a beat. It left something in the fall air standing between them: all was forgiven.

"It's Zed! And, no. Neil Peart stands alone."

Wide grins spread across both of the boys' faces, as they march up to the wooden structure's broken, and permanently-open door, to peer inside the shadows and dust motes that hung in the air.

"Why are we actually here? If it's not a forgotten antique car that will make us rich, or popular, what is hidden out there that could possibly be worth the trip?"

"My uncle's vintage porn stash."

"Sploosh."

"Vintage sploosh."

"Indeed."

Author's Note

Originally submitted to a flash fiction contest (defined as 500 - 1,500 words) back in September 2014 with an image prompt (attached above).

Word count is 500.

Photo Credit: Sarah Price
Title: "Hidden"
Copyright: 2006

The entry was submitted under one of my pseudonyms, Jaime Mooreland.