Boo Fedupsca and the Playallan Touch

By Liam Poder

Just a touch makes all the difference.

Life on Playalla isn't too good to be true. It's truly so good, newcomer Boo Fedupsca loses track of all time eating fruits galore, racing two-headed Skitzools through canyons and surfing forty-foo

• Language: English
• Publisher: Close Embraces
• Release date: Mar 15, 2022
• ISBN: 9780578376202

Book preview

For Prasad

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © 2022 by Liam Poder

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or used in any manner without written permission of the copyright owner except for the use of quotations in a book review.

For more information, contact: [e-mail].

First Close Embraces paperback edition 2022

Cover Illustration by Daniele Fabbri

Book design by Veronica Scott

ISBN 978-0-578-37619-6 (paperback)

ISBN 978-0-578-37620-2 (ebook)

Contents

1 Super Seed

2 Angry Birds

3 The Grand Bowl

4 Jaggers

5 Pastimes

6 A Chthonic Marvel

7 Island Waves

8 A Hasty Departure

9 Operation Secret Santa

10 Ulama

11 In the Dust

12 ET, ET, ET

13 Tapas Heaven

14 Hellfire

15 Ganesha

16 Bushfire

17 Play through the Pain

18 Plan B

19 A Tearful Reunion

20 The Axial Age

21 Right Livelihood

1

Super Seed

Another ho-hum week at school. Boo Fedupsca waves to the driver on his way off the bus. Why’d they have to go the day after Halloween night, anyway? There oughta be a law!

Tomorrow morning’s match against the Radnor Wraiths decides who comes in first. Right after that game, dad will drive him to a select-team tournament somewhere in Bucks County. Tomorrow, not one ball gets by me. In ten starts this fall for the Paoli Piranhas, he’s given up only two goals. No more.

He dumps his book bag on the driveway and bounds through the obstacle course he and dad set up in the backyard. Miss a tire or slip off a two-by-four or fail to rope-swing far enough, and you land in lava so hot your body melts instantly. So says his mother the fantasist. It helps his performance to suspend disbelief.

After a few flawless runs, he scampers inside to grab his lightsaber and loot bag. He snarfs down two fizzlers and a chewmonga bar on his way to the old oak tree out back. Then he ascends a ladder up to a wooden platform suspended by rope eight feet above ground.

When he was younger, the perch served well enough as a starfighter. He’d sit cross-legged, rock sideways to get it swaying and pretend he was weaving his way through an asteroid belt or dodging imperial fire. These days, he isn’t so sure about the Force. For candy collection, Boba Fett fits better.

Ouch! he blurts after an acorn from on high bounces off his skull. Darn, I left my helmet inside. One throbbing lump on his head is enough.

He gazes up at the copper-brown leaves blotting out the late-afternoon sky above. Their color matches his hair. While he can do without the acorn assaults, the fluttering dance of a falling leaf never fails to fascinate him. I’m aboard it, bouncing through the air like a white-water rafter. By Thanksgiving, every branch of the huge oak will be bare, its fallen leaves joined by those from the Japanese maple and big beech, his backyard lawn a yellow-red-orange sea with leaf waves rising on windy days.

If there’s one chore no one need nag him about, it’s raking leaves so high a spread-eagle plunge from his platform feels like dropping into a puffy pillow. Only snow or his father’s obnoxiously loud blower can finish off the fun. And since flurries seem a thing of the past, all he needs to do is hide that blasted machine. An easy-peasy task, what with so much junk piled up in the garage. No doubt their next-door neighbor Mrs. Eliot, an old-school librarian whose demand for silence seems both futile and profoundly sane, will be forever grateful.

Boo reaches blindly into his bag and pulls out a mini noogla. Yuck! Why didn’t I unload that one last night? He tosses it up and swats it a good twenty feet with his lightsaber. Another stand-up double for Harper! he announces to a non-existent crowd. Then he pokes his head into the bag for a more satisfying selection. Yes, another chewmonga!

While munching away, he glances down at the mushy remains of a pumpkin he’d smashed on a large rock near the fire pit. Yesterday, he’d botched the carving and was glad to be rid of it. Mom wasn’t pleased with the mess he made. That temper will be your undoing, she said afterwards. I wasn’t mad, it’s just fun to smash them.

Last night’s tour of haunted houses had been a blast. Each year, people came from all over town to his famously spooky ‘hood. Adults of all ages gathered around a cauldron and several coolers at the intersection of Smothers and Diller. Tween packs and younger trick-or-treaters accompanied by plough parents made the rounds.

On occasion, homeowners tried to give older candy hounds like himself a good scare. Good luck with that. One crafty neighbor down the street secretly occupied a cardboard box the size of a large refrigerator. He lurked in the shadows as Boo and his costumed crew came up onto the front porch. When they rang the doorbell, Box Man rumbled out of nowhere toward them and let loose a hideous roar. His frightened friends fled down the steps. One of them jumped over the porch railing to escape the Box That Ate Cleveland.

Standing alone, he drew his weapon and battered the box bully until it backed away and fell silent. A victory cheer went up from the walkway. He stood guard while his posse went to the door. On his order, they demanded a double portion from the eye-patched pirate lady handing out loot.

Back at the Fedupsca house, they munched on pizza while sorting their booty into keepers and trade bait. Boo made favorable swaps for fizzlers and reluctantly paid dad’s hosting fee: four firerods, three gobblies and two zonkya bars. Outrageous!

After the pizza disappeared, they all went out back to roast marshmallows under the chilly stars. He grew fidgety waiting for his father to fetch the lighter he’d forgotten. Joey’s Ewok outfit was thick and fury enough to withstand a few more jabs. While no kid within a hundred clicks could touch his younger brother and live, that rule applied to him only when mom or dad invoked it. Of course, they had to catch him in the act. Joey would take every whack without a whimper and battle unto death before he’d ever tattle. Ah, the courage of those sworn to fealty.

His gutsy little bro flailed away with a pillow-case full of candy but was no match for Boba Fett. Dad returned just in time to prevent a slaughter and told them both to quit it. They flamed up and wolfed down all the marshmallows. Tubby polished off an entire bag. No surprise there.

No more yelling or screaming out here! his father shouted after dousing the fire. "I do not want a phone call at this hour from Mrs. Eliot. Before going inside, he pointed at Joey. Time for all good Ewoks to go to bed."

"Do I have to?" He knew the answer, of course, but still made a show of foot-dragging as he followed dad into the house.

Boo hardly noticed. He was fencing with Lance, whose roasting stick from the kindling pile was long and strong enough to pass for a sword. Bruce and Sam joined in, only to find their lame sticks broken within seconds. They all went inside as soon as his lightsaber’s batteries died.

Everyone brought sleeping bags for a sleepover--on a school night, no less--and crowded into the finished basement. No one said a peep when mom confiscated the trick-or-treat bags. She’d just had the rug professionally cleaned and wasn’t taking any chances. All was forgiven when she let them stay up an extra hour playing Fortfite. As usual, she was right: just before lights out, Tubby turned greyish-green and barely made it to the toilet bowl before barfing his brains out. It happened every year.

Amidst the splattered pieces of pumpkin out back, Boo notices something aglow. A stray cinder from last night? Unlikely. As he climbs down from his platform for a closer look, a flock of crazed blue jays suddenly swoops in upon him. Pinned on the ladder, he draws his lightsaber and lashes out furiously to fend them off. When one of the mad bombers falls by the sword, the rest scatter. Good riddance!

He jumps down to inspect the glowing object. The almond-shaped seed appears to be on fire. He flicks a dry leaf over it. No flames. Warm to the touch, he snatches it up and shoves it into his blue-jeans pocket. What now?

Often his best ideas come when bouncing on the trampoline. He jumps up through the netting and bends his knees. Soon he reaches unusual heights with little effort. How so? He springs harder and finds himself flying high above the tree canopy staring wide-eyed at the setting sun. On the long way down, he decides not to press his luck and lands as limply as possible. He sticks to the mat as if it’s magnetized. Way too weird.

Where his stomach now resides, he can’t say, for he’s never felt this kind of queasy before. In shock over both the leaping and the landing, he sits down on the trampoline to ponder the mystery. A minute later he pulls out the glowing seed and places it in front of him.