Igloo Amnesia

You awaken with amnesia in what looks to be an igloo. You have $4 and a rock in one pocket, and a toothbrush in the other. Someone is staring at you. Write this scene.

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One thought on “Igloo Amnesia

  1. kathleenmagner

    Peeling his eyes open, he flinched away from the yellow bill and the black face with white splotches hovering before him. The penguin honked in a way he wasn’t sure was welcoming and stared with beady eyes. With a flap of its flightless arms against oval sides, it belted again.

    “Sorry,” he whispered.

    When he sat up and the igloo around him spun. White bricks blended with one another, creating an impenetrable blizzard across his vision. Closing his eyes, he cupped his head in hands scented of brine and fish but recoiled when his palm met a tender bump. He touched the swollen mass on his forehead tentatively, grimacing at each hot shard bolting across his skull. The pain helped his vision clear, but not the cotton candy between his ears. Regardless, gravity took hold of the igloo, revealing his bared knees beneath khaki shorts and a pair of all terrain hiking boots. Goose bumps sprouted over his exposed flesh and he rubbed his shins, inspiring some warmth in his pebbled skin.

    He stopped his hands when slaps from behind neared, and gripping his legs tight, peered over his shoulder. Through the igloo’s arched doorway he spotted a streak of unblemished ice, a crystal clear pool, and a colony of penguins wobbling his way.

    A tug on his leg drew him back inside. The penguin beside him dipped down, pinched leg hair between its bill, and began preening each curly strand.

    “Thanks Walter,” he said, although he couldn’t recall where the name had come from.

    Walter paused, cocked his head and honked again, the bleat somehow flattered. After another bob in greeting, he resumed his preening.

    “If you’re Walter,” he said, “then who am I? What am I doing here?”

    By then, the colony had gathered at the igloo’s doorway, chirping and honking a surprisingly harmonious din. During their serenade, he patted down his ruby polo shirt and found an insignia for a zoo on his chest, the lion, tiger and elephant heads surrounding the San Diego in the emblem. A badge pinned to the belt of his khakis had a colored picture of a middle-aged man with a dopey smile and too-short hair alongside the name, Paul Grant and title Assistant Supervisor of Antarctic and Arctic Exhibits. Touching his chin he found the same cleft as in the badge, and a rake over his face, the caterpillar-sized eyebrows.

    “Paul Grant,” he whispered.

    The name made a home on his tongue, although he felt more dubious about the job. Investigating deeper into his pockets, Paul found a toothbrush, four one dollar bills and a pebble the size of a small marble. His search for a wallet or any other pieces of identification resulted in nothing more than pocket lint.

    He sighed uncertainly, and unsure what else to do waited for Walter to cease his preening.

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