The Boy (short un-beta'd)
A 2-page story i wrote for class....
The Boy
The boy had fallen asleep with echoes of the applause still echoing in his ears. He dreamed he was on stage, conducting the best Puppet-show in the history of Puppet-showing. The Puppets moved on his command, at the slightest twitch of his fingers. He was the best and he was in control. He woke when he felt a sharp pain in his side.
“Up boy, make yourself useful.”
It was the Puppeteer. He was back in that dark slightly damp back room where he had fallen asleep. Gone were the lights and the applause. Gone was the control. He stood and nodded, moving over to pick up the heavy box from where the older man had left it. The Puppeteer grunted and walked off knowing that the boy would follow. What else would he do? He had no where else to go. And who would want to take him anyways. The ride in the car was quiet as always, there was no conversation to be had in any case, neither cared for the thought of the other. The boy looked out the window, it was dark out and honestly there really wasn’t anything to look at, but it was better than looking at the Puppeteer .
“Take care of these, and this time make sure you don’t make a mess out of it.”
The boy walked into the house head slightly bowed, he hated that room. The box was heavier than he remembered, or maybe he was more tired than he thought he was, either way he dropped it down the stairs when he was carrying it down into the Puppet room. The boy froze and slowly turned towards the Puppeteer. Face blank, he walked over to the boy and without malice or any such thought pushed him down the stairs. When the boy finally stopped the Puppeteer asked him if he was alive. He grunted as an answer.
“Think about the Puppets’ feelings.”
The boy heard the door lock, he heard the footsteps recede, and then he heard nothing. He stayed where he had landed; there was no reason to rush anymore. When he decided to move it was only because it would be worse in the morning if the room wasn’t in order. He opened the box and began to place the Puppets in their respective places. The older female handmade Sock-Puppets were placed in stands neatly arranged around a table in a fake garden. The males went in a room that looked like what he imagined country clubs would look like. The Marionettes sat in little chairs placed around a dinner table all of them young, all of them beautiful. Some of the Marrionettes had their strings on hooks and stood on the dance floor in front of each other caught in an eternal unmoving waltz. The boy stopped to place a kiss on the one named Farrah, she was easy that way. He shivered as he placed the Shadow-Puppets under their lamps; they always felt so slimy and cold to him.
He stepped back to check his work and nodded, he was most probably going to be in trouble tomorrow anyways. The Puppets would have moved, tired of the same dance partners, longing to see their wives, visit their lovers, be a different type of shadow. They always moved. They also talked, more than the boy ever did. Even more than the Puppeteer. To each other. To the audience. The boy understood the Puppets. He understood them too well. And they understood him also. In the way that beings without control of themselves or their own words understand each other.
Eventually, he curled up to sleep hoping that maybe he would wake up to find Farrah’s lipstick on his cheek.
The Boy
The boy had fallen asleep with echoes of the applause still echoing in his ears. He dreamed he was on stage, conducting the best Puppet-show in the history of Puppet-showing. The Puppets moved on his command, at the slightest twitch of his fingers. He was the best and he was in control. He woke when he felt a sharp pain in his side.
“Up boy, make yourself useful.”
It was the Puppeteer. He was back in that dark slightly damp back room where he had fallen asleep. Gone were the lights and the applause. Gone was the control. He stood and nodded, moving over to pick up the heavy box from where the older man had left it. The Puppeteer grunted and walked off knowing that the boy would follow. What else would he do? He had no where else to go. And who would want to take him anyways. The ride in the car was quiet as always, there was no conversation to be had in any case, neither cared for the thought of the other. The boy looked out the window, it was dark out and honestly there really wasn’t anything to look at, but it was better than looking at the Puppeteer .
“Take care of these, and this time make sure you don’t make a mess out of it.”
The boy walked into the house head slightly bowed, he hated that room. The box was heavier than he remembered, or maybe he was more tired than he thought he was, either way he dropped it down the stairs when he was carrying it down into the Puppet room. The boy froze and slowly turned towards the Puppeteer. Face blank, he walked over to the boy and without malice or any such thought pushed him down the stairs. When the boy finally stopped the Puppeteer asked him if he was alive. He grunted as an answer.
“Think about the Puppets’ feelings.”
The boy heard the door lock, he heard the footsteps recede, and then he heard nothing. He stayed where he had landed; there was no reason to rush anymore. When he decided to move it was only because it would be worse in the morning if the room wasn’t in order. He opened the box and began to place the Puppets in their respective places. The older female handmade Sock-Puppets were placed in stands neatly arranged around a table in a fake garden. The males went in a room that looked like what he imagined country clubs would look like. The Marionettes sat in little chairs placed around a dinner table all of them young, all of them beautiful. Some of the Marrionettes had their strings on hooks and stood on the dance floor in front of each other caught in an eternal unmoving waltz. The boy stopped to place a kiss on the one named Farrah, she was easy that way. He shivered as he placed the Shadow-Puppets under their lamps; they always felt so slimy and cold to him.
He stepped back to check his work and nodded, he was most probably going to be in trouble tomorrow anyways. The Puppets would have moved, tired of the same dance partners, longing to see their wives, visit their lovers, be a different type of shadow. They always moved. They also talked, more than the boy ever did. Even more than the Puppeteer. To each other. To the audience. The boy understood the Puppets. He understood them too well. And they understood him also. In the way that beings without control of themselves or their own words understand each other.
Eventually, he curled up to sleep hoping that maybe he would wake up to find Farrah’s lipstick on his cheek.