Free In the Land of the Lawn Weenies by David Lubar

pointed toward the corner. “Got to run.” His nightmare stood ahead of us, at the other side of the maples.
    â€œNo. Let him come.”
    I waited. I think Larry still wanted to run, but
he couldn’t find the strength. I watched the seeds whirling down, imagining what would happen if they suddenly became as sharp as razors.
    A stray seed whirled at me, caught by a gust of wind. The seed glanced off my forehead. I could feel something warm and wet running down my face. Blood. In front of us, Larry’s nightmare slowly lurched forward. But it was almost over. Larry’s worst nightmare was about to walk right through my own worst nightmare.
    â€œWe’re okay,” I said.
    â€œYou’re bleeding.”
    I shook my head. “Doesn’t matter.” I held my breath for a moment as Larry’s nightmare tried to pass through the cloud of swirling seeds. It was like watching tomatoes in a blender. I had to turn away. I looked at Larry’s face. He was staring straight ahead, watching his nightmare get shredded.
    â€œMy nightmare …” He still hadn’t caught his breath.
    â€œIt’s okay,” I said. “It’s over.”
    â€œMy nightmare,” he said again. He kept staring. I didn’t know how he could stand to look at that mess. “Sometimes, I find an ax.” He took a small step backward.
    â€œIt’s over,” I said. I risked a peek beneath the maples. Larry’s nightmare was now thousands of scattered shreds.
    â€œI use the ax. I chop my nightmare to pieces.” He took another step back. Then he grabbed my shirt and twisted it and put his face an inch from mine. “It doesn’t matter. The pieces just keep coming.”

    I looked past Larry to the spot where his nightmare should have ended.
    â€œNo,” I gasped as my blood froze in my veins and my muscles fell slack from fear. “No …”
    Larry was right. The pieces were coming. They were small. But they were fast. Suddenly, the maple seeds didn’t seem all that awful. Suddenly, I had a new worst nightmare. I tried to run, but the pieces were everywhere.

PHONE AHEAD
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    N ormally, Joe wouldn’t pick through garbage, but he’d glimpsed the edge of a shiny plastic case in the trash basket on the corner of Watson Street. Electronics, he thought as he leaned over and reached inside. Oh yes. Whatever it was, it certainly wasn’t trash. Who would throw out a cellular phone? Joe wondered as he pulled the object from its nest of crumpled papers and crushed cans.
    â€œProbably doesn’t work,” he said to himself as he flicked the on/off switch and held the phone to his ear. That’s when he got his first surprise of the day. He heard someone talking. Joe listened for a moment, then said, “Hello? Hey, I found this phone. Can you hear me?”
    But the voice on the other end didn’t respond to
him. The man was speaking to someone else. “I just saw it on the news,” the man said.
    â€œLucky everybody got out,” a woman said. “Can you imagine what would have happened if there were lots of people in the bus station when the fire started? That would have been terrible.”
    The bus station ? Joe thought. He hadn’t heard anything about a fire, and he hadn’t heard any sirens. But if the man just saw it on the news, it might still be happening. Joe had to go see. He switched off the phone and slipped it in his pocket. Then he jogged to the bus terminal.
    â€œThey must be crazy,” he said when he reached the station. There was no sign of a fire. Joe looked at the clock on the bank across the street. It was seventy-four degrees. It was ten in the morning. He went home and put the phone in his desk drawer.
    That evening, Joe was walking through the living room as his parents watched the news. “A fire broke out at the bus station around five this evening,” the announcer reported.
    Joe