creative writing · Humor · parenting

The Dark Shadow of the Miami Bridge

My son said the most wonderful 7 words to me.

Will you help me write a story?

I nearly fell out of my chair. I was so unbelievably happy! It must be what doctors feel when their child says they’re going to medical school. Or what a chef feels while watching their kid bake their first cake. Or what actors feel when their child dramatically flops along the floor screaming for the new Iphone.

The best part is, Tommy didn’t want to write for a school assignment or a contest or to impress a girl or any other dumb reason there might be to write a story. He just wanted to do it for fun. That right there just makes my heart skip a beat.

So, we wrote, my son and I. (Seriously got goosebumps writing that sentence.) He told me what to type and I typed it. I did give a few pointers here and there (“you don’t need to say Mr. Booshall is rich. We figure that out when he’s driving around in that shiny gold Limo.”).  I fixed some grammar and suggested a few tweeks (most were answered with “meh, I think I like it my way better.”)  And the outcome, he later told me, was a pretty good camp-fire tale. (though, when I say pretty good I mean amazing! My son is a genius!)

So, without any further gushing, I give you Tommy’s story.

The Dark Shadow of the Miami Bridge.

A long long time ago, in a small town in Chicago, on a beautiful sunny day, Mr. Booshall made a bridge. It was the most amazing bridge in all of Chicago. When the sun shown just right on its swirly walls, rainbows seemed to appear and splash on the water below. The townspeople thought it was so great. But, they didn’t know Mr. Booshall accidentally made a horror bridge. Every night anyone that went across it, never came across alive. No one knew where all these people were disappearing too, but no one thought it could’ve been the bridge. They thought it could have been a murderer. But who? No one suspected it could have been the mysterious fog that appeared halfway across the bridge only at night. One night, Mr. Booshall went across the bridge, himself, in his gold shiny Limo. When he entered the mysterious fog, he learned it was true. He did not come back across alive. Only his Limo, wrecked and on fire, returned that night. And in the morning, the mysterious fog disappeared. Only hours later, the bridge began to crumble away. Piece by piece it fell into the deep dark waters. The townspeople didn’t know that the bridge was the murderer the whole time and it had claimed its last victim, Mr. Booshall. Legend has it that if the creator of the bridge dies then the bridge dies, too!

The End


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