MISSING: Girl Scout Troop 1059
They should’ve stayed by the trail sign
Scout had been walking in silence for over an hour.
She was the caboose, the last in a line of twelve insufferable brats in her insufferable Girl Scout troop. And since they all hated her, she’d been tasked with the unglamorous job of “sniffing the ground” for adult-sized boot prints, or Fig Newton crumbs, or any signs of their Troop Leader, Ms. Holloway.
Their leading theory was she’d veered off trail for one of her very long bathroom breaks—the ones that smelled like Scout’s mother’s hookah and not like a #2.
But at this point, Ms. Holloway had been missing since lunchtime. And now the sun was setting, and there was still no sign of her, and all Scout had uncovered was owl scat and some patches of fur. The girls were getting uneasy.
“She’s totally pranking us,” Winnie called out from the front of the line. Winnie was the tallest and loudest and most annoying girl in the world.
“Okay, Ms. Holloway! You can come out now! I’m sorry we made fun of your tooth!” Winnie yelled into the tangle of woods. Her voice was like a train trying to stop on dry, rusty rails.
“We should’ve stayed by the trail sign. She’ll never find us now,” Francis said.
She had brown curls and a rat tail that would’ve been cool if she wasn’t such a cry baby. Scout planned to cut it off with her pocket knife one of these nights.
Some of the girls were sniffling or moaning right where they stood, with their hiking packs hanging lopsided off their backs. Then someone wailed.
“I’m doneeeeee. I can’t take another step.”
It was Madison. Scout called her Fatison in her mind, for obvious reasons. Fatison unclipped her pack and slung it into a patch of ferns.
“It’s okay, Madi.” Amrit slung an arm over her shoulders. “We can set up camp right here on trail.”
Amrit wasn’t so bad. And she was on scholarship too, like Scout.
“Scowl!” Winnie came stomping down the line towards Scout. “Scowl, I haven’t seen you crawling around in the mud. Did you forget your job?”
It was a nickname Scout had not asked for, but she secretly didn’t mind it. It was only a coincidence that Scout was named Scout anyways. It would’ve made more sense for someone like Amrit or Sara to have that name, or any of the girls who’d been Daisies since they were 4-years-old and had about 10,000 merit badges for learning how to tie their shoes and wipe their asses.
The real story was Scout’s good-for-nothing train-hopping father had named her after his first dog. It sounded innocent enough. But he always conveniently left out the part where he’d ditched the pup at a rail yard in Elko, Nevada. He was good at abandoning things. The poor thing probably starved or got run over or something.
Winnie kicked Scout’s boot. “Helloooo? You find anything? Pick up any deer shit?”
Scout glared up at her.
“Yeah, I found something.” She locked eyes with Winnie. “You’re gonna want to see this, boss.”
The other girls scurried closer. Everyone except Fatison, who was crouched down and drinking the syrup from a can of mandarin oranges.
Scout reached into her pocket and emerged with her fist clenched tightly around something. She held it out, trembling, and the girls gathered closer. Even Winnie leaned in, her ginger brows furrowed.
“I knew she’d leave a clue for us,” Amrit said, giddy. “Show us! What is it?”
“Don’t be stupid, Scowl. Open your hand.” Winnie reached to pry Scout’s fingers open but she jerked her fist away.
Someone in the cluster of girls clicked their headlamp on. In the dusky light, it shone a spotlight on Scout’s outstretched fist. Slowly, she unfurled her fingers. The troop looked on, rapt with curiosity, and a glimmer of hope.
Finally, when she felt the group could not hold their breaths any longer, Scout snapped her hand open. Her white palm illuminated in the lamplight.
“I don’t see anything,” someone muttered.
“What the hell is this?” Winnie gripped Scout’s wrist.
“It’s your intellect.” Scout yanked her arm away.
And then Winnie was clawing at Scout, ripping her black hair out in chunks. And Scout was screaming and clawing at her cargo pockets for her knife. And Amrit was pleading with them in a half-cry.
“Please stop, please no, we’ll lose our Sisterhood Badges! Stop!”
And then a shriek cut through it all. It was distant, desperate, agonized, muffled by the woods.
The girls went silent.
A tin can rolled and made a dink sound against Francis’ boot.
Amrit scanned her headlamp along the path.
Where Fatison was perched moments before, slurping on mandarin wedges, there was now a drag of upturned soil and shredded ferns. The trail of debris led into the dark of the woods, and strips of birch bark decorated the ground like peels of skin. She must have tried grabbing hold of their papery trunks.
And on the canvas of her pack, still laying peacefully amongst the ferns, lay one shiny golden tooth.
A freewrite inspired by Fantasy Prompt #9
Time: 100 minutes
Song of the day: Lost in Broceliande
Okay, let’s write together.
Find a comfortable space
Set your timer for 20 minutes
Sink into your imagination
Remember: It is safe to write from the depths of your soul
Share your creations in the comments or DMs, if it pleases you
Optional: light a candle or put a little totem beside you.
Fantasy Prompt #10
An endangered species of demi-humans have sequestered themselves in a special place to stay hidden, protect their traditions, and guard themselves from outsiders who may have sinister intentions. What do they do when a stranger stumbles across their outpost?
Hello Campers!
I’m so glad you’re here.
This week, I made a moth costume. I also made the rookie mistake of buying white synthetic fur and then cutting it inside my house. And if you have experience with faux fur, you are clutching your faux pearls right now.
WHY, you ask? I’ve been pulling poly-blend fibers out of my nose, eyes, tongue, and teeth for days. Faux fur might be single-handedly responsible for the plastic in our bloodstreams and also the Great Pacific Garbage Patch. And also mental illness in all forms. If there was no faux fur, we would all be living in perfect union with our Great Creator.
Let that sink in.
I hate faux fur. But I love moths. I love moths so much I have one tattooed on my left hand, and I’ve even been writing about one in my book. Here, have a sneak peek 👀
I clung to ████’s powder-pink hairs as we rose up over the ███ Sea. I tucked my feet against her hindwings. I could not breathe. I could not comprehend the rush of wind or the feeling in my belly as we lifted up and up into the night sky.
Her movements were not like the moths that fluttered in the lantern light of ████. Those were frenzied and mindless, darting around the flames in a flurry of wings. Instead, she beat her spotted wings gently and powerfully. Her warm body tensed and softened beneath me. She soared into the quiet night, so sure of her course.
Listen, I know the whole redacted text thing is dramatic. But I’ve always wanted to try it. And I’ll do it again. It feels so good, actually. You should try it too.
I love you! I can’t believe you’re here! Camp is the best!
Madeleine
