Contest judges selected this short-short as our 3rd place winner. Congratulations, Jenny.

"Adeline" by Jenny Stanley

I leapt off the edge of the ground-level deck and soared through the blanket of darkness. My worn tennis shoes slammed onto the dirt path between the garage and backyard, creating a dust cloud that hung in the stagnant summer air. With Dad’s bait bucket in hand, I took off running through the suburban maze of mowed lawns and cement sidewalks until I reached Shannon’s house. She shined her flashlight in my face.

“Ugh! What the heck, Shannon!” I whispered loudly, covering my eyes.

“Sorry! Sorry! I wanted to make sure it was you.”

“Who else would it be? Jeez!”

“Sor-r-ry.” she said. “So, do you think we’ll find any tonight?”

“Of course,” I answered, “we always do.”

We crept behind the neighbor’s house and peeked into the first window well. The corrugated steel walls dug deep into the soil, surrounding a small basement window that reflected our finding’s amphibious form. It sat on its haunches, nose tipped up in the air, with brown, green, black, and tan spots upon spots protruding from its skin.

I reached for it, but the creature escaped my grasping hand. Shannon assisted with the flashlight. We watched as it extended its long hind legs in an attempt to climb up the side. Its front feet worked furiously, but couldn’t gain a grip on the smooth surface.

“Oh, it’s so cute!” Shannon squealed. “Get it! Get it!”

I gently pinched its squishy sides and lifted it out of the well.

“Hi little toady,” I said, holding it up to my face. It squirmed between my fingers but didn’t make a sound. I wondered how lucky I was to have found it.

“What are you gonna name it?” Shannon asked.

“I dunno...maybe Adeline.”

“You mean like that song?” She snapped her fingers and sang: “Swee-eet A-de-line, bum-bum-bum. Good times ne-ver—”

“No, Shannon, like our town. Adel. Duh.”

“Oh,” she said.

I placed the toad in the bucket and we started toward the next house.

I finished reciting the scene to my daughter as we drove the final five-mile stretch to Adel. We reached the top of the valley just as the sun dipped below the horizon. Familiar shadows cast across the town, making it look cool and damp nestled alongside the river. Tall hills spotted with corrugated-steel silos flanked all sides. Porch lights flicked and illuminated the residential grid.

“Mommy?” my daughter asked.

“Hmm.”

“How come the toads get stuck in the window wells?”

“Uh—” I straightened up, adjusted my seatbelt. “Well, sweetie, I think once they jump in, they can’t get back out.”

“Then why do they jump in?” she probed.

I sucked in a deep breath, blew it out. “Um, I guess they don’t know that they’ll get trapped. They probably think that the wells look like a nice place to live.”

“Oh,” she said.

I turned onto the street that I knew so well. The houses looked exactly the same as the day we left, just after my daughter was born. I pointed out my old friend Shannon’s house and parked at the curb next to my childhood home. “Okay, we’re here—”

The back door slammed as my daughter ran straight for the backyard.

“Adeline!” I shouted after her. “We have to at least say hi to Grandma and Grandpa!”

She disappeared around the corner and I took off after her. The warm summer air felt delicious on my face and adrenaline energized my legs. I rounded the dirt path between the garage and backyard and skidded to a stop behind her.

She peered into the window well and then turned to me. “Where are the toads, Mommy?”

She squatted and dug through the dried brush inside the well. She tossed out twigs and leaves until all that was left was dirt and her reflection bouncing off the basement window. She looked up at me. “I think the toads got out, Mommy.”

“Ha!” I barked out a laugh. “You are most certainly right, sweetie. C’mon, let’s go see Grandma and Grandpa.” She grasped my hand and we headed into the house.

Jenny Stanley lives in Eden Prairie with her husband Eric and daughter Cloie. She has a BA in journalism from Iowa State University and works as an associate editor for Handy Magazine. She is also a member of Parents With Pens, an open writing group that meets once a month at The Loft Literary Center.