Bag

I've embarked on a new writing project with my dear friend Colin (more on that later), and it got me rooting through some of my old stories. I found this tidbit skulking on my hard drive, and there's something about it that still charms me.

Enjoy.

Bag

Katie was sitting really still, just like she was supposed to, but the car kept bumping and that made her move. She bounced almost right out of her seat when it bumped big, but her seatbelt was on so that helped. Except for the bouncing, she was almost all still, except she kept turning her head. The bag was sitting on top of the cup holes between the seats and it was staring at her.

“What’s in the bag, Mommy?”

Mom looked over really quick. She didn’t have much time to look over because she was driving and that took concentration.

“Nothing.”

She looked back out the front window, and Katie looked out too, but there was nothing fun, just cars and trees. The car rolled over a bump. The bag rattled.

“But why would there be a bag if there’s nothing?”

Bags don’t have nothing. Bags come with stuff. Mom looked away from the road and looked back fast and wiggled the steering wheel.

“It doesn’t have nothing, just nothing important.”

Katie pulled at her bottom lip. The car bumped and the bag rattled and it was still looking at her.

“What’s not important?”

“Don’t worry about it, Katie.”

Rattle rattle.

There were eyes on the side of the bag, big open circle eyes, looking right at Katie. She pulled at her bottom lip and waited. When Mom turned her head to turn the car, Katie reached really sneaky into the bag and her fingers grabbed a plastic and pulled it up far enough to see.

“Don’t touch that!”

She pulled back her hand and started to cry. It was just medicine, vitamins like Katie chewed in the morning with her cereal, nothing important.

“Katie, honey, just sit still, alright?”

Katie was sitting really still.