Muppet Snackfic: Boxcar Gonzo
I've been working so intensively on "A Refugee in Oz" I am ready to scream. After proofreading the story three times in less than a week, reading it is like chewing old gum. So, to have a little fun I've been writing snackfics. They're like little fun stories in between the bigger, more intense ones. Between-meal snacks, y'know?
Anyway, this is a followup to Eggs.
Boxcar Gonzo
by Kim McFarland
The alarm buzzed softly. The boy opened his eyes to darkness and squinted at the clock. 3:00 AM. He pressed the button on the top of the clock to shut the alarm off.
Tired as he was, he got out of bed without hesitation. He was already in his clothes. He had been thinking about this for weeks, and several days ago he had decided that tonight would be the night.
He unzipped his backpack and took out his schoolbooks. He would have had to turn them in soon anyway, he knew. He had been in more schools than grades, he had been moved around so much.
He opened drawers and took out clothing. Jeans, shirts, an extra pair of shoes - all the sturdiest stuff he had, except for what he was already wearing. These he put into large ziploc bags, then pressed them flat before sealing them. That made it easier to store them in his backpack, and would keep them dry.
He left behind the nicer, newer clothes. He never lacked for new clothes. Every family bought him things they thought he would like to wear. It always started out like that. They really did mean to be kind, he knew. But somehow...
He chopped the thought off and stuck several pairs of socks in the sides of his backpack. That filled up most of the extra space. There was only a little bit at the top, and the small outside pockets. There were other things he would have liked to take, but they were too large or heavy and would slow him down. So, he only put a harmonica in the outside pocket. Atop the plastic sacks holding his clothes he placed a small stuffed bird. He paused briefly, then closed the zipper, shutting it safely away.
He put on a denim jacket, slung the backpack over his shoulder, and walked quietly out of his room and down the short hall. Nobody else in the house was awake. He took the ring of keys from the hook beside the door, let himself out, locked the door again, then pushed the keys back in through the mail slot.
It was late spring. Insects buzzed to each other in the warm night. Maybe small animals moved in the grass beside the road; if they did, he didn't notice them. He had too much on his mind.
He didn’t like to think about how many families he had lived with in the last six years. He had been found, an unidentified child, at a farm. Nobody had claimed him, nobody had been able to find out who he was or where he had come from. Even he himself did not know; he had been healing from a concussion and broken bones when he had come to within a henhouse, and he had no memories of his own past. The chickens had found him after a storm and taken him in. They had been kind creatures, with no expectations of him except that he survive, and did not care what he was. They had warmed him and fed him, treating him with the same care they showed their own chicks, just because.
But then he had been found, and anyone could see that the small, blue-furred, hook-nosed creature was not a chicken. He had been designated a Monster. He was sure he wasn’t, because he looked like none of the other Monsters he had seen, but he had no better idea what to call himself. He had wanted to go back to the farm after he healed, but the farm’s owners didn't want a foundling, and the chickens weren't in charge. Instead, he had been placed with a foster family of "his own kind"-Monsters-to take care of him until his real family was found.
That had been six years ago. He now knew that had no real family. Nobody had claimed him, either as their born or adopted child, and nobody would. He was too strange to fit in anywhere for long. He didn't think like other people. He was scrawny and weird-looking. He no longer tried to warm to people who, he had come to understand, would eventually send him away. And so, without unkind words he would be taken back, then placed in another home. Over and over.
He saw it coming this time. Just recently they had become a little too self-conscious around him, holding something back. They would not tell him they were sending him back; that would be cruel. Much better to spare him the anticipation, they had thought, and of course save themselves guilt. He could not face the prospect of being shuffled around yet again, and had decided this time to take control of his life.
His feet took him to a set of train tracks. He followed them up to the train yard. As he had expected, there was a train on the tracks now. It had dozens of freight cars, mainly coal-filled hopper cars, tankers, and boxcars already loaded up. He found an unlocked boxcar and climbed in. He was small, and could hide in places that a human could not fit into. Plus, his dark fur and clothes would merge with the shadows inside.
He climbed up on a platform of wooden crates that reached nearly to the ceiling. From there he could not see the open doors, which meant that nobody would see him from the outside. Good enough. He set his backpack in the corner and leaned back against it. Soon, despite the hard crate and musty smell, he fell asleep.
He awakened with a start when the sliding metal doors banged shut. The locks clicked. Soon a slow rumbling began. The train was on its way. He unzipped the top of his backpack and took out the stuffed doll. It was a little yellow chick, one of the few possessions he had kept with him wherever he went. It reminded him of the only time he remembered being loved. He hugged it close as the train picked up speed. He had no idea where it was bound. That was fine. As long as it took him away from the temporary homes, his life would be better.
Gonzo is copyright © The Muppets Studio, LLC and is used without permission but with much respect and affection. This story is copyright © Kim McFarland (negaduck9@aol.com). Permission is given by the author to copy it for personal use only.
Anyway, this is a followup to Eggs.
Boxcar Gonzo
by Kim McFarland
The alarm buzzed softly. The boy opened his eyes to darkness and squinted at the clock. 3:00 AM. He pressed the button on the top of the clock to shut the alarm off.
Tired as he was, he got out of bed without hesitation. He was already in his clothes. He had been thinking about this for weeks, and several days ago he had decided that tonight would be the night.
He unzipped his backpack and took out his schoolbooks. He would have had to turn them in soon anyway, he knew. He had been in more schools than grades, he had been moved around so much.
He opened drawers and took out clothing. Jeans, shirts, an extra pair of shoes - all the sturdiest stuff he had, except for what he was already wearing. These he put into large ziploc bags, then pressed them flat before sealing them. That made it easier to store them in his backpack, and would keep them dry.
He left behind the nicer, newer clothes. He never lacked for new clothes. Every family bought him things they thought he would like to wear. It always started out like that. They really did mean to be kind, he knew. But somehow...
He chopped the thought off and stuck several pairs of socks in the sides of his backpack. That filled up most of the extra space. There was only a little bit at the top, and the small outside pockets. There were other things he would have liked to take, but they were too large or heavy and would slow him down. So, he only put a harmonica in the outside pocket. Atop the plastic sacks holding his clothes he placed a small stuffed bird. He paused briefly, then closed the zipper, shutting it safely away.
He put on a denim jacket, slung the backpack over his shoulder, and walked quietly out of his room and down the short hall. Nobody else in the house was awake. He took the ring of keys from the hook beside the door, let himself out, locked the door again, then pushed the keys back in through the mail slot.
It was late spring. Insects buzzed to each other in the warm night. Maybe small animals moved in the grass beside the road; if they did, he didn't notice them. He had too much on his mind.
He didn’t like to think about how many families he had lived with in the last six years. He had been found, an unidentified child, at a farm. Nobody had claimed him, nobody had been able to find out who he was or where he had come from. Even he himself did not know; he had been healing from a concussion and broken bones when he had come to within a henhouse, and he had no memories of his own past. The chickens had found him after a storm and taken him in. They had been kind creatures, with no expectations of him except that he survive, and did not care what he was. They had warmed him and fed him, treating him with the same care they showed their own chicks, just because.
But then he had been found, and anyone could see that the small, blue-furred, hook-nosed creature was not a chicken. He had been designated a Monster. He was sure he wasn’t, because he looked like none of the other Monsters he had seen, but he had no better idea what to call himself. He had wanted to go back to the farm after he healed, but the farm’s owners didn't want a foundling, and the chickens weren't in charge. Instead, he had been placed with a foster family of "his own kind"-Monsters-to take care of him until his real family was found.
That had been six years ago. He now knew that had no real family. Nobody had claimed him, either as their born or adopted child, and nobody would. He was too strange to fit in anywhere for long. He didn't think like other people. He was scrawny and weird-looking. He no longer tried to warm to people who, he had come to understand, would eventually send him away. And so, without unkind words he would be taken back, then placed in another home. Over and over.
He saw it coming this time. Just recently they had become a little too self-conscious around him, holding something back. They would not tell him they were sending him back; that would be cruel. Much better to spare him the anticipation, they had thought, and of course save themselves guilt. He could not face the prospect of being shuffled around yet again, and had decided this time to take control of his life.
His feet took him to a set of train tracks. He followed them up to the train yard. As he had expected, there was a train on the tracks now. It had dozens of freight cars, mainly coal-filled hopper cars, tankers, and boxcars already loaded up. He found an unlocked boxcar and climbed in. He was small, and could hide in places that a human could not fit into. Plus, his dark fur and clothes would merge with the shadows inside.
He climbed up on a platform of wooden crates that reached nearly to the ceiling. From there he could not see the open doors, which meant that nobody would see him from the outside. Good enough. He set his backpack in the corner and leaned back against it. Soon, despite the hard crate and musty smell, he fell asleep.
He awakened with a start when the sliding metal doors banged shut. The locks clicked. Soon a slow rumbling began. The train was on its way. He unzipped the top of his backpack and took out the stuffed doll. It was a little yellow chick, one of the few possessions he had kept with him wherever he went. It reminded him of the only time he remembered being loved. He hugged it close as the train picked up speed. He had no idea where it was bound. That was fine. As long as it took him away from the temporary homes, his life would be better.
Gonzo is copyright © The Muppets Studio, LLC and is used without permission but with much respect and affection. This story is copyright © Kim McFarland (negaduck9@aol.com). Permission is given by the author to copy it for personal use only.