The first assignment I had in my recent creative writing class was of the classic variety: “Write a story about a _____ without mentioning the _____ anywhere in the story.” It turned out better than I could have hoped, so for the hell of it I thought I would post it here. Enjoy.

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In all his years of delivering pizzas to the suburban zombies of Deercrest Village, Charlie had probably driven past the man-made lake bordering the neighborhood three hundred times without ever giving it a second glance. Now that it was too late, now that he was standing at the edge of the water in the light of a full autumn moon, his eyes flitted over every last detail, taking in a list of his mistakes with photographic clarity.

From the troublingly well-lit cul de sac, in his state of mind, the lake had seemed like exactly what he needed just when he needed it the most. True, it wasn’t completely secluded– the manicured backyards of Mountain View Drive were plainly visible just across the water– but the dry, gray reeds and weeds on the north shore of the lake were just tall enough to conceal a grown man from the road, and in the heat of the moment that had seemed good enough. Now that his pulse had slowed a bit, though, Charlie scanned every ornate porch light and bay window on Mountain View Drive with gnawing dread.

I can see them, Charlie thought, which means they could see me. Could anyone be up at this hour…?

The smell, too, had seemed like an advantage at first. Fat tendrils of algae extended across the surface, strangling the life out of the fish the lake had been stocked with to attract retired fishermen to the neighborhood. Apparently not many had been attracted, since the lake was now mercilessly assaulting Charlie’s senses with the reeking algae and dead bass floating near the shore. Once his eyes had stopped watering, a wave of relief had surged through Charlie: if it smelled this bad already, nothing he hid here could possibly make it smell any worse.

Now, of course, the tepid green water had soaked into his sleeves and pants. He had been careless in his haste, had slipped on a bass in the darkness, and now he looked and smelled like a papier-mache sea monster. This would be difficult to explain. At the very least, he would need some air fresheners for the car now.

And then there was the mud.

Back at the house, Charlie had been so preoccupied with keeping even the tiniest speck of red away from his clothes, and now like an idiot here he was nearly up to his ankles in thick, murky mud, unmistakable coffee-colored gunk that surrounded the lake and would now trail behind him all the way home like a yapping puppy. A little bit of the lake would be with him all the way to the car, maybe even all the way back to the laundry room. Worse still, the once perfect man-made monstrosity– a little too symmetrical, a little too smooth around the edges, less like a lake than the dirtiest pool in the neighborhood– was now completely ringed by dozens and dozens of footprints from his large, distinctive work boots. The banks looked like a marching band had held a parade around the damn lake now. He couldn’t attract more attention to himself now if he waded out to the ducks sleeping in the water and wore one as a hat all the way home.

Charlie briefly thought about taking off his boots and tossing them in the lake before deciding muddy sock prints would be no better. Besides, in the silence of the night, with not so much as a breeze stirring the willows around the lake, his every footstep made a sound like a plunger in a toilet. Without traction, and with his luck, he’d probably end up stuck in the mud altogether at this rate. All he could do now was get a move on and make the best of it.

He took a deep breath and gazed at his reflection in the water. With the algae dancing just below the surface, for a moment it was as if he had glimpsed a monster from the depths. He shuddered and quickly put it out of his mind. The feeling in his chest would pass in time. For now, there was still work to be done.