By Ronnell Kay Gibson
Vills climbed onto the bottom rung of the wooden fence and peered into the pen. “Willy, can you really understand what he’s sayin’?”
His older brother squatted, staring into the eyes of their piglet, Charleston. “Shhh. I gotta concentrate.”
Charleston snorted, squealed, and danced around in a circle.
Vills leaned his shoulders over the top of the fence. “That don’t sound like people talk, Willy.”
“’Cause it ain’t people talk. It’s pig talk.” Willy bowed in close to the pig’s snout, nodding and humming.
Vills inspected the rocks in his pockets, fixed the twisted buckles on his overalls, and scratched at the bug bites on his arm. The prickles that Mama called the impatients were making him itchy. “Well?”
Willy stood slowly and rubbed his chin. “He said we’ll need the extra wood from the back of the barn and some muslin from Mama’s fabric pile.”
“Muslin?” Vills scrunched his eyebrows. “We ain’t making no dress. I think you heard Charleston wrong.”
Willy stomped over to the fence and poked his finger in his brother’s chest. “You callin’ me a fibber?”
The jab stung like bee. Vills rubbed at the pain. “Ow. That hurt.”
“Good. Serves you right for not trustin’ your own flesh and blood. And Charleston, the bestest friend and teacher we ever did have. He showed us right where Mama hid the marmalade cookies, didn’t he?”
Vills nodded. “Yeah.”
“And he helped you with your arithmetic.” Willy turned toward the pig. “Charleston, what’s one plus one?”
The pig twirled around once. Then twice.
Willy clapped. “Good boy, Charleston.” He tickled underneath the pig’s chin.
Vills frowned. It just weren’t fair that Willy could understand pig talk and Vills couldn’t.
Charleston trotted over and stuck his head through the fence. Vills bent down to pet him, and the pig licked his face. Vills grinned. Willy was right; Charleston was special. No arguing that. He’d got them out of bunches of different scrapes—caused a lot of them too.
Vills scratched the pig’s ears. “You really gonna be able to help us?”
The pig oinked.
“You sure this is gonna work?”
Charleston snorted, blowing pig snot onto Vills pants.
“Okay, okay. I believe you, boy.”
For a week, Vills followed all of Willy’s instructions—or rather, Charleston’s instructions—and kept thinking positive thoughts. No more negative Nelly. Vills did most of the fetching of supplies while Willy did most of the hammering and building. They kept their creation out in the clearing beyond the woods so Pa wouldn’t see what they were up to before the big unveiling. Charleston said they had to wait for just the right conditions—sunshine and a strong autumn breeze.
“Vills, wake up!”
When Vills opened his eyes, Willy’s big smile hung over him.
“Today’s the day.”
Tickles like raindrops raced up Vills’s shoulders. He tossed off the covers and grabbed the box underneath his bed. “I gotta surprise for Charleston.”
Box in hand, Vills raced his brother down to the clearing and helped him drag their contraption back toward the house. By the time they’d arrived at the barn and hoisted it up to the hayloft, the sun shone high above the treetops, and sweat dripped down the back of Vills’s neck.
Willy opened Charleston’s pen, and the pig pranced out. They both raced up the barn’s ladder and out toward the contraption. Without hesitation, Charleston jumped into the lone seat.
“Wait,” Vills cried. He opened his box and pulled out an old pair of goggles. “Every good pilot needs these.”
“Good call, Vills. Where’d ya find them?”
“Rummaging through Pa’s old boxes.”
Charleston lifted his head as Vills slipped the goggles over his eyes.
Charleston squealed again, and Vills could’ve sworn he heard, “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.” Vills saluted. “Enjoy your flight.”
Willy opened the doors to the hay loft. “Hang on tight.”
The brothers grabbed the sides of the machine.
“Three. Two. One. Liftoff!” they shouted in unison, then tossed the flyer out the barn door. It caught a breeze and floated up into the cloudless sky.
“Ma! Pa! Come quick!” Vills hollered as loud as he could.
Ma came scrambling out of the house. She peered up at the flyer and shrieked. Pa dashed even faster from the outhouse, fixing his pants as he ran. “What in the world?”
Vills leaned out of the hayloft door, pointing toward the glider. “Look at Charleston!”
The family pig sat in the pilot’s seat, one of his front feet using a lever to steer. With the other foot he waved at the people and animals below.
The glider buzzed above the grown-ups, blowing Ma’s bonnet and Pa’s chore hat clean off their heads.
As the craft sailed out over the cornfield, Vills tingles returned, but these were the good kind. We did it!
He yelled down to Pa. “Now can we get a rifle for Christmas?”
Their pa picked up his hat, shook the dust off, and secured it back on his head. Putting his hands on his hips, he took one more look at the flyer—its silhouette now fading into the horizon—then shouted up at the boys. “Orville and Wilbur, that’s not what I had in mind when I said, ‘When pigs fly…’”
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
That was spectacular!!
I wondered where all this was leading… LOL
Thank you, Rose! (I didn’t where it was leading when I first started writing!)
Hilarious! Great historical connection, too. Fun story!
Thanks, Arlan!
Thanks, Arlan!
Ronnell is the master of flash fiction! I love this story and the surprise twist!
i sure hope charleston comes back, there’s a ton of intel yet to be had…
fun story!
Ha! That twist was great!