Camp Couderay, Wisconsin. It was where they went every summer. A huddle of log cabins around a muddy lake. Marvin said the Indians cut off the tops of their own ears and ate them before going into battle, to give them courage. “That’s why it’s called Couderay. It’s French for short ears.” He caught her around the waist and pantomimed snipping her ears. When she struggled, he held her tighter and laughed. He put his face up too close to hers and whispered, “Courage.” She called him Marvin the Martian and made fun of him around the other girls, but it didn’t catch on.
The next summer she wouldn’t try to get away. She wanted to go with the boys, to spy on the girls changing into their swimsuits in the stand of white pines by the lake. Until then, no one had questioned her presence in the intrepid gang that thumbed the blades of homemade bowie knives, daubed their faces with mud, bellied along ditches. She was an honorary boy, and she kept her hair cut short and her sleeves rolled up so as to continue to appear that way. But this summer, something was different. There was a shuffling in the ranks. “You can’t come with us,” Marvin said eventually.
The hut went quiet and she was alone. She sat down on a pallet. Barbs of straw poked the backs of her thighs. She pulled them out through the sacking and concentrated on constructing a minute teepee in front of her on the floor. There were squeals and splashes from the lake – the reconnaissance had turned into an ambush. When she looked up again, Marvin was standing in the doorway.
Fourteen minutes later, the Martian was gone. She picked herself up, pulled up her shorts and pulled down her T-shirt. The world looked very much the same, despite the fact she had just had sex with an alien. “Where’s the kaboom?” she wondered. (There was supposed to be an earth-shattering kaboom.)
333 words (or maybe a couple less) instead of 100.