(no subject)
"Little Boy's Loss"
He stopped suddenly, his ears perking up, listening intently. There, now, a creaking board! The third step from the bottom always did that when he ran down the stairs. He sprang into action as the steps drew nearer, ascending each step one by one. Six left now, he thought, as he quickly snapped shut the book, sliding it under the apron on the side of his bed. Four steps to go, she was getting close enough to see the light on under his door, just a dim glimmer from where the lamp rested on the table by his bed. He quickly stretched out his hand and tapped the switch down, covering the room with a blanket of darkness, save for the lingering rays of twilight creeping through the bent shades. She must be in front of the door now, he thought, seeing as his door was right at the top of the stairs. He lay still; quiet, except for his breathing, his heart racing slightly from the excitement of his cover-up operation.
The door rattled slightly as the figure outside grasped the door handle. No matter how gently you pressed the knob, it was always loose, and sent the door banging around on the hinges a little bit. All this, of course, was to his advantage. He rolled over, letting his head fall off the pillow and onto the soft cushion of his blanket, tattered with years of cuddling. He silently spread his legs out, as he was often told he kicked while he slept, so that a few toes of one foot poked out from under the comforter on one side, just enough to convince her that he was dreaming sweetly away in neverland. He pulled the covers up over his shoulders, just to the nape of his neck, so he felt the contact with his hair, and closed his eyes, waiting for her second step into the room, as the floorboards creaked there too.
It was dark now, with his eyes shut, but it was peaceful sometimes. He often just sat on the hill down the street, he had cleared an area on the hill of dandelions so he could sit down, and would just close his eyes and drift away. He wondered what the spot looked like now, in the light of the moon, still warm with the lingering waves of the summer heat. Creeeeeeeeak. There she was, tip-toeing as stealthily as she could towards his bed to make sure he was asleep, it was the same routine every night. He imagined her standing there, only a few feet away, looking down on him, watching him sleep. Sometimes she would stand there for a long time, one time even an hour, at least he thought so, he actually fell asleep after lying under her gaze for a while. She moved to the bedside, she wasn’t staying very long for this one, and shuffled in close to bend down and kiss him on the forehead before she left, when suddenly he heard something.
“Ouch!” She muttered in a hushed voice. She looked down to examine her toe, already swollen slightly. She reached under the apron of the bed where her foot had been and extracted the culprit: The Velveteen Rabbit. This was his favorite book, she thought, what was it doing under his bed, collecting dust, which, in fact, it wasn’t. Her sneaking suspicion led her to reach over to the lamp beside his bed. Sliding her hand up the lampshade, she drew her conclusions as she placed her hand upon the light bulb, still warm to the touch. He lay there, still stoic, breathing softly, but his mind racing, wondering what was going on around him, his eyes still covered by the shade of his eyelids.
She stood up, a smile forming on her face. He only really read at night, and while he did need his sleep, reading was just as important in the developmental process. She had read the story of The Velveteen Rabbit to him countless times as a younger boy, though she did not have much time to continue the tradition, he was reading on his own by age four, and now he was in a league of his own, especially among his classmates. She quietly placed the book under the apron again, careful to leave the pointed edge sticking out as though she had never stubbed her toe, kissed her boy on the forehead, and walked quietly out of the room smiling, knowing that her son had found a love for books.
He lay tangled among the sheets, perplexed as to the minutes that had just passed. Maybe she was just watching him sleep again, she could be strange that way sometimes. He rolled over, gazing out the open window behind him, the gray moonlight spilling gently upon the warm afterglow of the streetlight. He liked his neighborhood, and the neighbors weren’t bad either, but the nights were the best. No one was ever around, not a group of kids, not a car, not a sound, to taint the beauty that the night, the stars, became. He always felt warm at night, the cloak of darkness surrounding him, holding him close, his only company when he was alone. It was always there, it never left him, and he knew it never would. They would be together forever, like nothing else, he thought, drifting into the comfort of sleep.
...
He lounged in the office, rhythmically nodding his head, as the vocalist’s crooning voice filled the room. The acoustics in the office seemed almost perfect, at least when the door closed. He reached to the mouse to select the next track, a ballad, when his hand slipped from the plastic, leaving a sheen of sweat along the instrument’s surface. Suddenly, he jerked from the cool summer night of his daydream to the sticky May afternoon, the heat almost smothering him. The office was always the warmest room in the house, and he had sacrificed perspiration for great sound, one that, in retrospect, was probably not the smartest of decisions. The soothing hum of the music filled the humid room, penetrating his every fiber, immersing him in the drone of a guitar and a lyric. The story of music was one that he found unparalleled, the words of the songs creating their own dialogue, while the music existed on an entirely different plane, so deep and profound, the mysteries within contained so much meaning for him. He found in the rhythm a solitude that he treasured, that he remembered from long ago. But something was missing. Not from the music, but from the room, he had the feeling that something was out of order, some disarray, some gap that needed to be filled.
The thought finally struck him, and his eyes gaped wide with panic. An assignment for English was due tomorrow, a book he had not yet begun to read, and with what little time he had left and all his other work, he wondered if he would have the time to overcome the challenge. He burst from the sticky leather of his chair and tugged at the wooden door, for it often swelled and stuck in its frame, quickly crossing the threshold and clambering up the stairs. He slipped on the last step, almost tumbling into the wooden door of the bathroom, before regaining his balance and moved to stand in his room, scanning the mess for the book. He couldn’t even remember what the cover looked like, though the title was vaguely familiar.
His eyes finally came to rest upon the bookcase in the corner of his room, so filled with books he had begun stacking them in front of the other books, so that the shelves were in fact two books deep, in some cases. He started to rifle through the titles, moving them off the shelves with efficiency, but also with care. He still had the respect for literature, the interest and the thirst for words had seemingly been lost with the passage of time. Gradually, he began to slow his pace, reading the titles of the books he examined, recalling their plots and his experiences with them, how he related them to his life, what significance they carried for him. Many of the novels were still children’s books, or stories meant for kids, things of an obtrusive nature for him now, as a teenager. What were such things still doing in his bookcase? He had most certainly outgrown their childish characters and tales of fantasy and adventure. A frown crossed his freckled face, disappointed in himself for still carrying with him these memories of a naïve and hopeful child, his heart now cold to the harsh nature of the world.
He continued his search, delving deeper into the archives of novels, now reaching what he had been assigned to read over the course of his academic career, many of which he strongly disliked. He often reminisced of days when he was a child and could read an incredible story and believe every word, animating the words with the power of his imagination, the prominence of which had diminished over the years as he matured. Still fascinated with the night, he had become so nocturnal he rarely did anything with his friends in the afternoon; he would simply wait until night had fallen. His true self came out in a darker world, one where he felt comfortable, one where he felt at home. The innocence of childhood struck him as both a blessing and a curse, blind to the injustices and wrongs others committed, while also ignorant of those terrible things that taint the beauty of the world, that had now so horrendously skewed his perspective.
Sliding one particular pile of books over, he released a colony of dust particles, liberated, now, into the air, free to settle upon some other untouched object of childhood affection. He felt a sneeze building up inside, which he held back, though his body defied him with a few coughs, evicting even more dust from its quiet home amongst the tattered covers and yellowed pages. There it was, fallen in between the rows of books, invisible without investigation under the cover of superfluous titles that he entertained himself with as a young boy. He paused though, for a moment, when something caught his eye. A familiar hardcover book, the corner slightly bent in, and slightly marred on the side with the remnants of pink nail polish. It was The Velveteen Rabbit.
Awestruck, he stood startled before his bookcase, profoundly amazed at the finding of such a treasured book. Vague memories of his mother giving the book away to someone, or somehow being rid of the book came washing over him, though certainly it was another work, similar in appearance. Tracing his fingers across the cover, he felt the nicks and indentations he made as a child, recalling reading the book over and over again. Where has the little boy in me gone, he thought to himself, what has the little boy in me lost? He turned the book’s white cover over, revealing the gold embossed title, shining elegantly above the ornate illustration. The boy held the book gently, savoring the moment, and turned to the first page.
**Author's note**
If you can guess the song in the story, I'll give you a cookie
He stopped suddenly, his ears perking up, listening intently. There, now, a creaking board! The third step from the bottom always did that when he ran down the stairs. He sprang into action as the steps drew nearer, ascending each step one by one. Six left now, he thought, as he quickly snapped shut the book, sliding it under the apron on the side of his bed. Four steps to go, she was getting close enough to see the light on under his door, just a dim glimmer from where the lamp rested on the table by his bed. He quickly stretched out his hand and tapped the switch down, covering the room with a blanket of darkness, save for the lingering rays of twilight creeping through the bent shades. She must be in front of the door now, he thought, seeing as his door was right at the top of the stairs. He lay still; quiet, except for his breathing, his heart racing slightly from the excitement of his cover-up operation.
The door rattled slightly as the figure outside grasped the door handle. No matter how gently you pressed the knob, it was always loose, and sent the door banging around on the hinges a little bit. All this, of course, was to his advantage. He rolled over, letting his head fall off the pillow and onto the soft cushion of his blanket, tattered with years of cuddling. He silently spread his legs out, as he was often told he kicked while he slept, so that a few toes of one foot poked out from under the comforter on one side, just enough to convince her that he was dreaming sweetly away in neverland. He pulled the covers up over his shoulders, just to the nape of his neck, so he felt the contact with his hair, and closed his eyes, waiting for her second step into the room, as the floorboards creaked there too.
It was dark now, with his eyes shut, but it was peaceful sometimes. He often just sat on the hill down the street, he had cleared an area on the hill of dandelions so he could sit down, and would just close his eyes and drift away. He wondered what the spot looked like now, in the light of the moon, still warm with the lingering waves of the summer heat. Creeeeeeeeak. There she was, tip-toeing as stealthily as she could towards his bed to make sure he was asleep, it was the same routine every night. He imagined her standing there, only a few feet away, looking down on him, watching him sleep. Sometimes she would stand there for a long time, one time even an hour, at least he thought so, he actually fell asleep after lying under her gaze for a while. She moved to the bedside, she wasn’t staying very long for this one, and shuffled in close to bend down and kiss him on the forehead before she left, when suddenly he heard something.
“Ouch!” She muttered in a hushed voice. She looked down to examine her toe, already swollen slightly. She reached under the apron of the bed where her foot had been and extracted the culprit: The Velveteen Rabbit. This was his favorite book, she thought, what was it doing under his bed, collecting dust, which, in fact, it wasn’t. Her sneaking suspicion led her to reach over to the lamp beside his bed. Sliding her hand up the lampshade, she drew her conclusions as she placed her hand upon the light bulb, still warm to the touch. He lay there, still stoic, breathing softly, but his mind racing, wondering what was going on around him, his eyes still covered by the shade of his eyelids.
She stood up, a smile forming on her face. He only really read at night, and while he did need his sleep, reading was just as important in the developmental process. She had read the story of The Velveteen Rabbit to him countless times as a younger boy, though she did not have much time to continue the tradition, he was reading on his own by age four, and now he was in a league of his own, especially among his classmates. She quietly placed the book under the apron again, careful to leave the pointed edge sticking out as though she had never stubbed her toe, kissed her boy on the forehead, and walked quietly out of the room smiling, knowing that her son had found a love for books.
He lay tangled among the sheets, perplexed as to the minutes that had just passed. Maybe she was just watching him sleep again, she could be strange that way sometimes. He rolled over, gazing out the open window behind him, the gray moonlight spilling gently upon the warm afterglow of the streetlight. He liked his neighborhood, and the neighbors weren’t bad either, but the nights were the best. No one was ever around, not a group of kids, not a car, not a sound, to taint the beauty that the night, the stars, became. He always felt warm at night, the cloak of darkness surrounding him, holding him close, his only company when he was alone. It was always there, it never left him, and he knew it never would. They would be together forever, like nothing else, he thought, drifting into the comfort of sleep.
...
He lounged in the office, rhythmically nodding his head, as the vocalist’s crooning voice filled the room. The acoustics in the office seemed almost perfect, at least when the door closed. He reached to the mouse to select the next track, a ballad, when his hand slipped from the plastic, leaving a sheen of sweat along the instrument’s surface. Suddenly, he jerked from the cool summer night of his daydream to the sticky May afternoon, the heat almost smothering him. The office was always the warmest room in the house, and he had sacrificed perspiration for great sound, one that, in retrospect, was probably not the smartest of decisions. The soothing hum of the music filled the humid room, penetrating his every fiber, immersing him in the drone of a guitar and a lyric. The story of music was one that he found unparalleled, the words of the songs creating their own dialogue, while the music existed on an entirely different plane, so deep and profound, the mysteries within contained so much meaning for him. He found in the rhythm a solitude that he treasured, that he remembered from long ago. But something was missing. Not from the music, but from the room, he had the feeling that something was out of order, some disarray, some gap that needed to be filled.
The thought finally struck him, and his eyes gaped wide with panic. An assignment for English was due tomorrow, a book he had not yet begun to read, and with what little time he had left and all his other work, he wondered if he would have the time to overcome the challenge. He burst from the sticky leather of his chair and tugged at the wooden door, for it often swelled and stuck in its frame, quickly crossing the threshold and clambering up the stairs. He slipped on the last step, almost tumbling into the wooden door of the bathroom, before regaining his balance and moved to stand in his room, scanning the mess for the book. He couldn’t even remember what the cover looked like, though the title was vaguely familiar.
His eyes finally came to rest upon the bookcase in the corner of his room, so filled with books he had begun stacking them in front of the other books, so that the shelves were in fact two books deep, in some cases. He started to rifle through the titles, moving them off the shelves with efficiency, but also with care. He still had the respect for literature, the interest and the thirst for words had seemingly been lost with the passage of time. Gradually, he began to slow his pace, reading the titles of the books he examined, recalling their plots and his experiences with them, how he related them to his life, what significance they carried for him. Many of the novels were still children’s books, or stories meant for kids, things of an obtrusive nature for him now, as a teenager. What were such things still doing in his bookcase? He had most certainly outgrown their childish characters and tales of fantasy and adventure. A frown crossed his freckled face, disappointed in himself for still carrying with him these memories of a naïve and hopeful child, his heart now cold to the harsh nature of the world.
He continued his search, delving deeper into the archives of novels, now reaching what he had been assigned to read over the course of his academic career, many of which he strongly disliked. He often reminisced of days when he was a child and could read an incredible story and believe every word, animating the words with the power of his imagination, the prominence of which had diminished over the years as he matured. Still fascinated with the night, he had become so nocturnal he rarely did anything with his friends in the afternoon; he would simply wait until night had fallen. His true self came out in a darker world, one where he felt comfortable, one where he felt at home. The innocence of childhood struck him as both a blessing and a curse, blind to the injustices and wrongs others committed, while also ignorant of those terrible things that taint the beauty of the world, that had now so horrendously skewed his perspective.
Sliding one particular pile of books over, he released a colony of dust particles, liberated, now, into the air, free to settle upon some other untouched object of childhood affection. He felt a sneeze building up inside, which he held back, though his body defied him with a few coughs, evicting even more dust from its quiet home amongst the tattered covers and yellowed pages. There it was, fallen in between the rows of books, invisible without investigation under the cover of superfluous titles that he entertained himself with as a young boy. He paused though, for a moment, when something caught his eye. A familiar hardcover book, the corner slightly bent in, and slightly marred on the side with the remnants of pink nail polish. It was The Velveteen Rabbit.
Awestruck, he stood startled before his bookcase, profoundly amazed at the finding of such a treasured book. Vague memories of his mother giving the book away to someone, or somehow being rid of the book came washing over him, though certainly it was another work, similar in appearance. Tracing his fingers across the cover, he felt the nicks and indentations he made as a child, recalling reading the book over and over again. Where has the little boy in me gone, he thought to himself, what has the little boy in me lost? He turned the book’s white cover over, revealing the gold embossed title, shining elegantly above the ornate illustration. The boy held the book gently, savoring the moment, and turned to the first page.
**Author's note**
If you can guess the song in the story, I'll give you a cookie