Mushroom Mamba

Mushrooms, mishaps, and a magical transformation on a school outing

         Ah, summer.

         I inhale deeply, savouring the crisp scent of freshly mowed grass on this perfect mid-morning—neither too hot nor too cold. The air is alive with the fragrance of petunias, roses, chrysanthemums, and countless other blooms. This day is already shaping up to be—

         “Hurry up, Miss Brown! We’re waiting for you!”

         Startled, I snap out of my daydream.

         Five children, dressed adorably in their Sunday best and sun hats, stare at me with impatient glee, baskets in hand, hopping from foot to foot.

         “All right, children,” I call, clapping my hands. “Remember what we talked about on the bus, okay? Stay together and don’t wander off. This is a big farm.”

         A chorus of “Yes, Miss Brown!” rings out, just as Mr. and Mrs. Brumfield, our hosts, appear.

         They’ve graciously opened their farm to us for a weekend of vegetable picking—more specifically, mushrooms.

         As their homeroom teacher, it’s my responsibility to make learning come alive. This week’s topic? Vegetables and the importance of mushrooms. Not exactly thrilling on paper, but I’d worked hard to bring the subject to life.

         Classroom resources are great, but nothing beats hands-on experience. Thankfully, being at a private school meant fewer budgetary constraints, and my outing proposal sailed through approval from both the headmistress and the parents.

         Speaking of parents, I spot a few already enjoying the Brumfields’ complimentary tea and biscuits. With any luck, that’ll keep the nosy ones at bay.

         Especially Mrs. Stanley. Helicopter mom supreme. I can’t help but feel for poor Alan. The boy barely gets to breathe—

         “Ready, children?” booms Mr. Brumfield, exuding jolly Santa Claus vibes—minus the red suit. Dressed in dungarees, boots, and a straw hat, he’s all charm.

         “Yaaaaaay!”

         I smile as the kids follow him in single file into the greenhouse—a sprawling, climate-controlled haven where edible, safe mushrooms grow happily.

         Their delighted gasps echo through the space. They marvel at the colorful varieties, like the scarlet sarcoscypha coccinea and the iconic amanita muscaria—the red-and-white spotted kind that reminds them of a certain video game character.

         “Now, be careful, Alan,” comes the familiar shrill voice of Mrs. Stanley, elbowing her way to the front. “You know you get rashes when you—”

         “Oh, these are quite safe, ma’am,” Mr. Brumfield offers, smiling kindly. “You don’t need to worry abou—”

         “If I wanted your opinion, Mister... whatever your name is, I’d have asked. My boy is very delicate and requires special care.”

         Before I can intervene, she’s whisked Alan out of the greenhouse. His basket is barely full, and tears brim in his eyes. His classmates, especially sweet Maryann, gather extras for him.

         Outside, refreshments await—including a tray of rich, fudgy brownies. Just as I’m about to sample one, Mrs. Brumfield swoops in with a wink.

         “Best skip that one, my dear. Let’s just say it’s... got special ingredients.”

         Her meaning dawns on me just in time.

         Because the next thing I know, we’re all staring at Mrs. Stanley—laughing.

         Giggling, in fact. Loudly. Hysterically.

         The woman, always immaculate and uptight, is doubled over, guffawing at nothing at all.

         “All I said was ‘the tea tastes like weak beer,’” Mr. Carroll mutters, bewildered. “She started laughing like it was the funniest thing ever.”

         Alan looks equally stunned. “Miss Brown, is my mom sick? I haven’t seen her laugh in years.”

         Sick? Not exactly.

         I rush over to the Brumfields, who are whispering fiercely behind a bush.

         “Please tell me she didn’t eat one of those brownies!”

         Mrs. Brumfield winces. “I was just experimenting with a bit of psilocybe cubensis-”

         “Magic mushrooms?!” I shriek. At that exact moment, Mrs. Stanley throws her arms around a tree and bursts into song. Other parents rush to pull her off, but she clings on with psychedelic zeal.

         “Aha! Knew something was up with those brownies,” Mr. Carroll says, nodding. “She loved them before your wife swapped the tray. Ah, reminds me of my college days-”

         Unfortunately, this is no time to be reminiscing about past psychedelic experiences. I am already envisioning the angry emails, a meeting with the headmistress, and especially a very irate Mrs. Stanley when she’s back to normal. Oh, my God! Is a lawsuit going to be in the future?

         This is a disaster!

         Somehow, we manage to disentangle Mrs. Stanley from the tree, and the Carrolls offer to take them home after the Brumfields reassured everyone that there would be no need to take her to the hospital. She had only taken a minimal dose.

         However, I spend the rest of the weekend in knots; staring at my notifications and wondering when I’ll finally get that phone call or email confirming my worst fears.

         By Monday morning, I am a wreck. However, seeing a happy Alan skip into the classroom gives me a little hope.

         “And how is your mother?” I finally dare to ask, as casually as possible, during lunch break.

         Alan grins and holds up the drawing he’s been working on. It’s a crayon image of he and his mother sitting on a mushroom, and she is hugging him. It’s a simple image, and yet something about it has me emotional.

         “I don’t know what happened at the farm, Miss. Brown,” Alan replied, “But since then, she’s like a new person. I think I like this version of my mom best. I hope she remains like this for a long time. Even Dad looks happier. He wants us to visit the farm again!”

         Oh dear.

         All’s well that ends well?

         One can only hope.




-----------------------------------------


Winning Entry
Word Count: 927
Prompt: Write a story or poem about a mushroom hunt that goes wrong.
Written for: "The Writer's Cramp"