The Magic Powder

Author's Note: This story was written for the 8/9 Writer's Cramp contest.
The prompt:  Write a poem or story titled “The Magic Powder.”
(Word Count: 990)
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The Magic Powder

Ralph blinked as the morning sunlight poured through the windows.  Blasted birds, twittering away to wake the dead.  Instead of giving Benny that bee-bee gun, I shoulda kept it for myself!  Ralph eased into an upright position.  It took him a moment as he gathered strength, and then he heaved himself off the bed.  Nothing ever gets better…'specially when you're old.  On his way to the bathroom, he looked down and noted bitterly, Nice to see ya, even if yer good fer only one thing now.

In the kitchen, Ralph sat at the table in a rumpled robe and grumbled about his favorite team's newest trade.  "As if he's gonna help you win anythin'.  Ha!  Stupid idiots!"

A knock on the door interrupted his diatribe.

"Now what?"

Ralph shambled to the door, nudged his walker out of the way, and opened it up.  A tiny tin, the size of a lozenge box, lay on the doorstep.  Ralph glared up and down the street.  He couldn't see anyone.  Rotten kids must be hiding, he thought.  With no one to yell at, he seized the box, then slammed the door. 

The little tin proved hard to open.  He finally got a good grip and popped off the top.  A cloud of powder exploded into the air.

Ralph coughed and choked and flung the tin away.  Powder gritted between his teeth.  Anger changed to fear as thoughts of 'ricin' and 'anthrax' whirled through his mind.  He staggered to the bathroom, wrenched open the facet and plunged his head under the water.  He scrubbed and scrubbed at his face and arms.  Blinking water out of his eyes, he looked in the mirror.

As the water droplets dribbled off his face, his wrinkles went with them.

He squinted his eyes and focused on his image.  No – it can't be.  I must be imagining.  He tore a towel from the rack and dried his face then looked again.  Staring back at him from the mirror was a reflection of himself at age 25.  He looked down at his hands.  They were young again, with no lines, age spots, or bulging veins.  His entire body had transformed.

Ralph and his new, athletic body did a gleeful happy dance in the bathroom, then all through the house.  I'm young again!  I have a second chance!  Everything's gonna be wonderful now! he preened in ecstasy.

Over the next week, to Ralph's delight, he walked without a walker, ate whatever he wanted, and strutted around the neighborhood gym.  And the girls.  They flocked to him.  He had the time of his life.

Pretty soon, he noticed odd stares from his neighbors.  Then the stares became accusatory.  One afternoon, he found the police on his doorstep.  He tried to convince them that he was his son, Jake, come to take care of his ailing father, Ralph.  But they found no Ralph, no ID to match his youthful good-looks, and no corroboration from a desperate call to the real Jake.  In fact, Jake's hasty arrival on the scene threw the situation into further chaos, as he attacked Ralph and demanded to know what he'd done with his father.  Ralph was carted off to jail.

In the local jail, Ralph found that his youthful good-looks were not a blessing.  He spent two long, but not lonely, nights in jail, then he was taken to the police chief's office.

"Mr. Walker, we're truly sorry for the misunderstanding.  The ID on your fingerprints has been verified.  You are Randolph Peter Walker.  However, we can find no explanation for your appearance.  Your son states that, to his knowledge, you haven't had any plastic surgery.  And even if you had, it couldn't account for giving a 70 year old man the face and body of a 25 year old."  The chief sighed.  "You're free to go."

Ralph grinned as he changed back into his clothes.  He could go home now, and no one could bother him again.  Of course, he had some explaining to do to Jake, but it would all work itself out.  His eyes gleamed as he thought, Soon, it's gonna be life in the fast lane.  An' nothin's gonna slow me down!

Ralph walked out of the police station into a barrage of lights, cameras, and microphone wielding reporters.  They pushed and pulled at him, and stuck their microphones in his face.  They asked him so many questions, yet they didn't leave him any time to answer.  He opened his mouth and said, "There was a tin of magic powder—" and the next thing he knew, Jake appeared at his side, dragged him through the crowd, and whisked him away in a cab.

When Ralph asked why Jake hadn't driven his own car, his inquiry was met with a cold stare.  The matter became clear when they turned onto Ralph's street.  News trucks and TV vans lined the street in front of his house.  Reporters were camped on his lawn.  It was a free-for-all.

Inside his house, things were no better.  The phone rang constantly as nosy journalists begged for exclusives, and he had to shut all the curtains against intrusive camera lenses.  Jake didn't even try to talk to him.  Jake looked at him with revulsion, like Ralph had become a strange, demonic sibling, and practically ran out the door.

Over the next weeks, the uproar died down as reporters chased other stories.  But Jake never returned, and Ralph's neighbors crossed the street when they saw him coming.  The dating dried up, too.  No girl wanted to date the notorious "Fountain-of-Youth Walker."  It was a nightmare. 

As Ralph went to sleep, he wished he would wake up the next morning to find things had never changed.

Ralph blinked as the morning sunlight poured through the windows.  Blasted birds, twittering away to wake the dead.  He rolled out of bed and glared at his muscular arms.  Nothing ever gets better, he thought with bitterness.