Make Reality (A Short-Short Story)

I am Dr. Travis Stork, Chief of Medicine and neurosurgeon at St. Peter’s Hospital. My most challenging case lies before me on the operating table: an elderly man suffering from dementia has developed a malignant tumor on his left occipital lobe. I was born for moments like this. Focusing my 27 years of operating experience, I turn to my assistant.

            “Scalpel.”

            “No.”

            “Cameron, hand me the scalpel.”

            “No, I don’t want to be doctors anymore. We only have a little bit longer ‘til Daddy’s done watching the news, and this is boring.”

            “Oh, so you just want to let Mr. Frumpkins die on our operating table do you?” I hold up the stuffed bear and glare at my little sister with seething accusation. “Where is your sense of humanity?”

            “Stop it. We’ve saved Mr. Frumpkins three times already.”

            “Ok, well what do you want to be?”

            “I want to be one of those famous people that dance. In the competitions, you know?” She proceeds to grab Mr. Frumpkins from my hand and spin him around the room, dancing what I believe is a ballroom waltz.

            I am Bruno Tonioli, world-renown dancer and famously charismatic critic. “No, no. Your sashays need to be much more graceful and your lines more elegant. Keep your chin up, darling. Up, up, up.” I clap my hands to the beat.

            Cameron makes a few laps around the room, my critiques following her every step. She finally trips over the beanbag we keep in the far corner and falls into it. She and Mr. Frumpkins enjoy a nice laugh. I listen to the sound coming from the other room: the seven-day forecast. We don’t have much longer.

            Shaking my head, I approach the dancers sprawled out in the corner. With my arms folded behind my back, I say what I must. “I know you have both trained very hard to be where you are today, and from the first day, you have both made great strides in both your abilities and confidence. However, only one of you will be moving on to the finals in our competition.” The obligatory pause permeates the room. Only the muffed voices of Channel 5’s #1 news anchor team interrupts the tension through the door. “And the contestant moving on to the finals is…Signore Frumpkins!” The crowd goes wild; I snatch Mr. Frumpkins away and hoist him up on my shoulder, taking a victory lap around the room. Cameron stuffs her face into the beanbag.

            The TV clicks off.

            I stop and look at Cameron’s wide eyes. “It’s ok, I’ll go,” I say, tossing Mr. Frumpkins back to her. I’m already at the door when our father starts shouting one of his usual tirades. Who would be my opponent tonight? The formidable Jack Daniels? The ever scrappy Captain Morgan? Or perhaps the foreign heavyweight, Comrade Smirnoff? I bounce in place, warming up.

            I am Johnny Hendricks, relatively unknown but hopeful title contender. The crowd roars as I enter the ring.