Balloon Intervention

Yesterday the newest issue of my college's literary magazine came out, and who's short story was on page two? This girl's! However, I realized that the draft of the story that made it into the magazine wasn't my final, revised copy that I had turned into my creative writing class. So I thought you platypus readers might like to see the finished piece. Hope you enjoy! Let me know what you think in the comments! And if you like it, follow me, because there will be more short stories to come!

Balloon Intervention

“We need to talk.”

            I dreaded those words more than a llama dreads a haircut. It was never a good sign when the wife walked into the room with her arms crossed over her chest. And those words always meant I had done something wrong that the wife thought needed an intervention. Like when I brought home a stray dog I found for the boy, and it buried the wife’s best shoes in the flower garden. Or the time I decided to take up origami and left paper cranes in every inch of the house. Or that time I heard Classical music was good for the mind, so I blared it all hours of the day and night trying to cure my writer’s block. No, those words were never a good sign.

            “Howard,” the wife said, sitting down across the table from where I was putting the finishing touches on a balloon giraffe.

            “Yes, Honey?” I asked innocently. It was always good to butter the wife up before these kinds of talks.

            “Howard, we need to talk about these balloon animals of yours. They’re getting out of hand.”

            For the past three weeks or so, I had been perfecting my skill at making balloon animals. I had writer’s block again, so I was trying to get into the mind of my main character. The character just happened to be a friendly clown that gets kidnapped by aliens somewhere around page 42.

“But, Sweetie,” I replied, forcing a smile that I’m sure looked more like a bad case of indigestion, “It’s for my character. I’m trying to understand Bucky better by learning his craft.” I put my hand on top of the wife’s, but she pulled hers away and placed them in her lap.

“Then tell Bucky he can have all these balloons. Howard, this is worse than the paper crane incident! There are balloon animals everywhere! I can’t even take a shower without a stupid balloon poodle watching me from the back of the toilet! Sammy could get lost in this mess!”

“Oh, the boy loves all the animals! Haven’t you seen him playing with them?”

That was the wrong thing to say. The wife glared. “What have I told you about calling him, ‘the boy?’ Our son has a name. And in case you hadn’t noticed, Sammy hasn’t been playing with the balloon animals; he has been devising numerous ways to destroy them. I believe his next plan involves a blueprint for a spaceship and a map to Mars. He definitely got his creativity from you.”

Now I really did smile. “Yes, but he got his good looks from you.”

The wife sighed and smiled, rolling her eyes. “You always know what to say to get your way, don’t you?” I just winked, and she laughed. “Fine,” she said, getting up from the table, “But I expect these balloons gone by morning.”

“Of course, Beautiful,” I answered, “How far along is the boy in building that spaceship?”