“Dear Mom, Your Story Sucks.”

“Dear Mom, Your Story Sucks.”  

It was a dark and stormy night and the children were screaming. 

It was Friday—both John and I had Fridays off. Tonight, we expected pizza-stained cheeks, cuddles, and Harry Potter—not blood-curdling screaming and crying. 

While John continued snoring, I dragged myself out of the guest bedroom, down the hall, and into the kids’ joint bedroom. 

When I entered, eight-year-old Marvin and five-year-old Jane were sitting cross-legged in Marvin’s twin bed, red-eyed and terrified. 

“Why don’t I tell you a little story?” I softly asked them. 

In the dim light of the desk lamp, they nodded. 

“A long, long time ago . . . “ 

***

There was a man named Tim Sherrwood. 

Ever since he learned to chew as a baby, he’s eaten peanut butter and jam sandwiches for lunch. That’s the type of person he was—a stickler for continuity. Tim never stepped a toe out of line. 

Most days, he sat at home and typed on his computer, which earned him $120,000 a year. Despite the 8,000 square feet mansion he had in the hills and the millions of dollars worth of Gucci suits and Rolexes, Tim was stuck in a mid-life crisis. 

He was too boring and too serious; every woman he dated said so. 

He stayed home too much and only partied once in a blue moon. Tim had no friends—no friends interested in him for anything other than money anyways. Nor any social media accounts. 

But, he had a dog. 

“Had” being the key word. 

A little over a week ago, Spots disappeared. Tim came home from the White House—

“Why was he at the White House?” Marvin demanded. He leaned so close to me that I feared he would fall off the bed. Gently, I corrected his stance, secretly glad that he was so immersed in the tale. 

“Hang in there, you’ll find out,” I assured him. 

Tim came home from the White House late at night and immediately knew something was wrong. 

His door was already open, though he was positive he locked it before leaving that morning. 

Spots didn’t run up to the door and attack him with licks and barks as usual. 

Muddy footprints the size of saucepans dotted his porcelain kitchen floor. 

Fluffy golden hair speckled the backyard porch—somewhere the labrador only goes when Tim is home. 

Tim’s heart ached as he pieced together what conspired while he was gone. 

Someone, a man by the looks of the footprints, broke into his house. 

Spots, thinking it was Tim, hurried to the door. 

The mysterious man attacked Spots with his bare hands, but the lab viciously fought back, hence the hairs. 

Either the man killed Spots or kidnapped him, then escaped through the back door. 

Tim hurried to the kitchen and opened his liquor cabinet. He downed a shot of vodka. 

The next day, he posted missing posters all throughout town, reported Spots' disappearance to rescue centres, and even searched for the labrador himself. All to no avail. 

Jane sniffled. “This is not good story. Make me cwry.” 

My heart melted. I hugged them as another strike of lightning hit. “It’s OK. It’s just a story.”

But that’s not all. 

Just a day after Spots’ disappearance, an envelope was slid under his front door. 

“What?” Marvin exclaimed. “Someone’s trying to blackmail Tim!”

How does a seven year old even know what blackmail is? I make a metal note to myself not to let Marvin watch too much Fortnite. 

“We have your dog. Stop and we’ll let him go,” the message read. 

Tim already knew that he’d never stop, though. The restoration of the world was in his hands. If he stopped, everything would go up in flames, the whole nine yards. 

Tim sighed and flipped open his computer. He pulled up a folder labeled TC94 (MMAs.) 

“I don’t understand. What's MMA?” Marvin asked. “Is it for blackmail?” 

“It’s not blackmail, baby. MMA stands for a money market account.”

I wondered if this was too complicated of a story for children their age—the plot was only going to thicken from there. And, the story seemed to be doing the opposite of what I wanted: Marvin and Jane looked more energized rather than sleepy. “I’ll clarify any parts that are confusing, OK? You just enjoy the story.” 

Lightning struck again as I continued. 

Inside the folder were other federal documents and PDFs which Tim had been analyzing for months. He yawned, rubbing his eyes. There was so much to do, but so little time. He’d just take a little nap . . . 

DING DONG. 

Tim startled. The sky was pinkish-orange and birds were chirping outside. The last time he checked, it was just 10:00 PM. He couldn’t have been asleep for so long, could he? 

He staggered to the door where a big, chunky cardboard box was waiting. 

He stiffened. Boxes containing anything from bombs to barbies required looking before leaping.  

Tim slipped on his barrier laminate gloves, hazmat suit (which blocked hydrazine and potassium chromate), and AGV Sportmodular helmet. 

(“Where he get that stuff?” Jane added.)

Carefully, Tim cut open the box and peered inside. 

Black Ivory Coffee. 

He let his hair down. It was just coffee—hundreds of bags in fact. He had forgotten that he purchased it. 

Tim shook himself. Just coffee. 

He had just hauled it inside when a strange noise made him pause. 

Tick. Tick. Tick. 

He laid his head on the coffee box, but no, it wasn’t coming from there. 

Tim scaled the kitchen, certain the noise was coming from one of the appliances. Soon, as he walked closer to the microwave, the noise became as loud as a bullhorn. 

He swung the microwave open and there it was. 

A black time bomb. 

“A bomb?” Marvin exclaimed. “This doesn't make any sense! What was the coffee and kidnapping for, then?” 

Jane nodded along with her brother. 

“Is it that hard to wrap your head around? I loved this story as a kid.” I scrunched up my eyebrows. Kids these days are really that hard to impress. 

“Yeah, the plot makes no sense. You’re just adding more and more to confuse us!”

“Well, just you wait. The best is yet to come.” 

There was less than fifteen seconds left on the timer. 

Tim went straight into concentration mode. Dismantling a bomb wasn’t rocket science, you just needed to hit the nail on the head—the head being the wire. 

From the drawer under the microwave, he grabbed a pair of pliers. 

Tim’s eyes scurried around the wires until they landed on a neon green one. Holding his breath, he clipped the wire. 

The ticking came to a halt. 

Tim understood then that someone was after him. Someone power-hungry and desperate. 

For now, though, Tim just buckled down and ate the PB and J sandwich he’d prepared that morning. 

The end. 

“That’s it?” Marvin asked, his young face twisted in indignace. “That’s it? But what was Tim’s job?” 

“An FBI agent. That’s why he worked at the White House. I thought that was clear as day.” 

“It wasn’t, really. And what was the TC94 thing about?” 

“It was the federal document he was investigating. So, when Tim got too close to some vital information, somebody started threatening him—that’s how it all ties together. It got better in the end, right?” 

“No,” Marvin bleated, raining on my parade. “You’re supposed to have a beginning, middle, and end. Ms.Iverson said so.” 

Jane nodded, though I suspected she didn’t understand plot structure at all. 

“Well, cut me some slack. It’s hard to write a story.” I defended. 

“Your story was a wild goose chase.” 

“Marvin! You can’t just say that to people,” I admonished. “It’s rude.” 

“But it’s true.” Jane piped in. “Story not very good.”

I abruptly changed the subject. “Well, it’s time to hit the hay. That story was supposed to help you fall asleep . . .” 

“No,” Marvin grinned. “I’m not tired! Let me tell my story!” 

I quickly shut down that idea and tucked my grand-babies into bed. “Good night, Marvin. Good night, Jane. Try to get some sleep.”

Their little heads bobbed in the dark. 

Another strike of lightning booms outside the window, but they don’t scream or cry this time. 

I wrapped my robe around my waist and headed back into the guest bedroom where John had stopped snoring. 

“You told them the FBI story?” he asked when I climbed under the sheets. 

“Yeah,” I sighed, nestling against my husband. “They didn’t quite understand it.” 

John chuckled. 

“When do you think they’ll realize that I’m Tim?” 

“When they see you eating your PB & J tomorrow morning.” I joked. 

Our laughter carries into the midnight sky, drowning out the sounds of thunder. 

The End.