A Word Doodle
The boy sat still, his eyes transfixed upon the windchime that hung so daintily outside his window; which had been, until now, draped by curtains with print reminiscent of old french paintings of flowers.
These particular drapes had always been a factor of stress for the boy, and had on multiple occasions moved him to mutter many menacing remarks under his breath. The curtains, despite their french appearance, never had no snarky comebacks for the bitter boy. It was obvious to any one with a basic understanding of psychology that the boy's behavior towards the effeminate drapes was just a temporary phase. In this case, the boy (who, like all boys, was slowly but inevitably becoming "the man"), was asserting his inner manliness.
This day was like any other as far as those curtains were concerned. They hung, covering the window. The rooms lights were off, as the boy had turned them off. But when the boy returned home, he was in a red hot rage. He stormed around the room in an abnormally ferocious manner, and cursed many things. At the peak of this, his attention focused onto the drapes. He had had enough. Today, his apathy towards his window's mask changed into a burning incentive to not only open up his window, but to rip off the drapes and make sure that they would not stain his vision again.
Earlier, before his hurricane of huffetty-puffety hate, he had been steaming out his ears from a particularly hot embarassment. The once rambunctiously gay children of McCulloch Middle school had taken a wicked turn recently. All of the boy's friends found it necessary to point out that day that his shirt was not only a pink one, but a woman's shirt, and that he looked "fucking homosexual" in it.
So, now, in his room, in a ridiculous rage, he stared down his drapes.
"Fucking drapes," he spat.
"God-damn motherfucking drapes."
And, with one swoop of a hand, he grabbed at his drapes. And, throwing his whole body into it, he ripped and tugged until the curtains lay in a heap on the floor. And there, hanging so daintily outside his window. He saw the windchime, dinging in the wind. He had never heard it nor seen it before, but here he stood still, transfixed.
At this particular moment, he was a man.
And yet, his drapes lay heaped on the floor.
These particular drapes had always been a factor of stress for the boy, and had on multiple occasions moved him to mutter many menacing remarks under his breath. The curtains, despite their french appearance, never had no snarky comebacks for the bitter boy. It was obvious to any one with a basic understanding of psychology that the boy's behavior towards the effeminate drapes was just a temporary phase. In this case, the boy (who, like all boys, was slowly but inevitably becoming "the man"), was asserting his inner manliness.
This day was like any other as far as those curtains were concerned. They hung, covering the window. The rooms lights were off, as the boy had turned them off. But when the boy returned home, he was in a red hot rage. He stormed around the room in an abnormally ferocious manner, and cursed many things. At the peak of this, his attention focused onto the drapes. He had had enough. Today, his apathy towards his window's mask changed into a burning incentive to not only open up his window, but to rip off the drapes and make sure that they would not stain his vision again.
Earlier, before his hurricane of huffetty-puffety hate, he had been steaming out his ears from a particularly hot embarassment. The once rambunctiously gay children of McCulloch Middle school had taken a wicked turn recently. All of the boy's friends found it necessary to point out that day that his shirt was not only a pink one, but a woman's shirt, and that he looked "fucking homosexual" in it.
So, now, in his room, in a ridiculous rage, he stared down his drapes.
"Fucking drapes," he spat.
"God-damn motherfucking drapes."
And, with one swoop of a hand, he grabbed at his drapes. And, throwing his whole body into it, he ripped and tugged until the curtains lay in a heap on the floor. And there, hanging so daintily outside his window. He saw the windchime, dinging in the wind. He had never heard it nor seen it before, but here he stood still, transfixed.
At this particular moment, he was a man.
And yet, his drapes lay heaped on the floor.