The title was temporary, but then I never changed it. Crazy how that happens.
~800 words

I heard somewhere that writing based on your lived experiences is a good way to practice, so I decided I'd about this small event that happened with some friends a while ago now, and it definitely felt like it. Still can't believe those tickets were so expensive, honestly criminal.

Was also a nice break from my larger, less happy project (which probably won't be done for months :( ).

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That’s a Lot of Canoes
By: Cheese

As the sun burned down on an uncharacteristically nice early-spring noon, a small village sat atop a hill, split right down the middle by a two-lane highway. Cars drove past above the speed-limit, disregarding the residents within. At the crest of the hill against the highway was a park, surrounded on two sides by a library, and the last side to the left was a street intersecting the highway, before continuing its way between some cozy Victorian era homes. The park was simple, concrete opposite from the rush of cars with three metal benches spaced apart evenly, a door into the library on the right. From there, a path climbs up to the sidewalk. It was a simple park. A usually empty one.

On this day, there were two friends sitting on the middle bench. They had little to do; merely waiting. The otter, Vincent, sat watching the cars pass by, looking for anything interesting. It’s these kinds of days when people bring out the classics or the sports cars; that’s what he was on the lookout for. On the day before, he had seen a red ‘81 Pontiac Firebird, as well as a Porsche 911, on top of some other older style cars. It was one of those things he took small happiness in, to see a less than common car driving the streets.

Conversation always pauses when a semi truck goes by; which is not an uncommon occurrence. Their roar fills the tight space, far overpowering any speech. Dump trucks especially aren’t uncommon, with the construction just barely a few blocks away, but it didn’t bother either too much. It was simply life.

The wolf, Keaton, was eating lunch, a basic PB&J, sure to keep it from the Otter. They sat in silence for the most part. Neither had much to say. Until a stray thought had invaded Vincent’s mind; “I saw Blaine stall yesterday.”

“Hah, where?” the wolf asks, head turning to the otter.

“On the corner there,” he replies, finger pointed at the intersection. “Didn’t even realize it was him. I just saw an old car stall, so I thought it was the car, then I noticed who was driving and knew it couldn’t possibly be the car.”

“That’s hilarious. What car does he drive?”

“I wish I knew.” The otter responds, looking at the intersection as if the car would appear, “It’s red. I always forget he has it.”

“Hm.”

And the two went silent again. Not as long as the first silence though, because around the corner of the library comes a lynx, Logan, walking along the grass instead of the concrete sidewalk, ears lowered.

“Hey,” greets Vincent. “Did you get your ticket?”

“Well, I would’ve if they were 20 bucks,” Logan responds, walking to a stop in front of the bench. “But no, I waited in line for like half an hour only to find they were 70.”

“Jeez,” the otter says, ears perking.

The wolf doesn’t move much past finishing a bite of his sandwich; “That’s a lot.”

“It would’ve been fine if they were even 30 bucks, but 70 is just crazy,” the lynx continues to complain, tossing a hand in the air just before a red semi passes behind him; flatbed filled to the brim with canoes, bright red, yellow, and green canoes stacked 6 high in rows of 4. It roared by‌, loud enough to force the conversation to a halt, and both the otter’s and the wolf’s gaze followed it each meter of the way.

“Woah, that’s a lot of canoes,” the otter says, moments after its roar fades.

“Yeah, think about how many canoes you could get with 70 bucks,” he says, entirely oblivious to the canoe torrent that had rushed behind him, ears perked up a little more.

The otter, laughing, said, “No, there was a truck of canoes that went by.”

The lynx turns around, but the truck is long gone. “You missed it,” Keaton responds, a puff of air blowing out of his nose.

“There must’ve been at least 50 canoes,” Vincent says, smiling at the lynx’s confusion.

He turns back around to his friends, back to the road and then to his friends again, “What?” He says, having completely forgotten about the tickets.

“I think that was the most canoes I’ve ever seen in one place.”

“Damn.” Logan responds, feeling like he’s missed out on a joke. “Well, I’m gonna go home now.”

Both of the friends on the bench bid farewell, and soon the Lynx had walked up the concrete path up the road to be seen another day, returning the park to silence again. Except for the occasional car, and to Vincent’s happiness, a bright blue ‘65 mustang.