Grease Stains Like Glitter

Intro

This flash fiction story was inspired by two writing prompts:

• Velocity (#vss365)
• Sled (#thingstowriteabout)

They were halfway across Central Park as the snow continued to blanket the area.

Many parents and their kids had already claimed the hill. Plastic sleds streaked past in bright arcs. A father in boots shouted countdowns like a launch director.

Leonard slowed. “Remember when gravity didn’t feel personal?”

Frank didn’t answer. He was staring at a trash can.

A pizza box leaned against it, lid half open, snow collecting in the grease stains like glitter in old scars.

Frank picked it up, inspected the grease constellation in the center. “Large,” he said. “Good surface area.”

They unfolded it carefully, prying open the corners until it lay flat, a broad square of damp cardboard. Frank stepped on one edge to test it. It bent but held.

At the top of the hill, they positioned the box like a ceremonial rug. Leonard sat first. Frank lowered himself behind him, knees protesting, hands gripping Leonard’s coat.

“You’re leaning wrong,” Frank said. “We’ll lose velocity.”

“We’re on recycled paper,” Leonard said. “Manage your expectations.”

They pushed off.

For a second nothing happened. Then the box caught the slope and began to slide, slow at first, then quicker, snow spraying up along the sides. The cardboard hummed against the packed surface, a thin vibrating sound like it couldn’t believe its own career change.

They picked up speed. Not impressive speed. But enough to make Leonard bark out a laugh that startled a nearby teenager.

“Physics!” Frank yelled, as if he’d arranged it.

Halfway down, the center softened. The grease spot surrendered. Their combined decades pressed through, and the box began to crease, folding them gently into each other.

They reached the bottom in a sideways drift, arriving in a soft collapse of pulp and dignity.

For a moment they stayed seated in the wreckage, legs splayed, snow in their collars.

A kid at the bottom stared. “Did that actually work?”

Leonard brushed snow from his coat and stood carefully.

Frank was already holding the largest surviving flap of cardboard up to the light, squinting at it like a jeweler inspecting a flawed diamond.

He tore off the soggy center and handed the kid a relatively dry corner.

“Sit,” Frank said.

The kid hesitated once, then obeyed.

Leonard looked at Frank. “You’re outsourcing now?”

“Field testing.”

They positioned the fragment at the top of the lower slope. The kid launched, shrieking all the way down.

It slid beautifully.

The kid popped up at the bottom, triumphant.

Frank nodded once. “Weight ratio.”