| "The Toy Box" (the sixteenth ACW monthly writing contest) |
Assignment: Write a story or poem using the following title: "The Toy Box" 2500 words or less. Deadline: Midnight (EST), December 15, 2002 |
| The Toy Box By Timothy Callahan tpcomputerman@msn.com (Entry #7) |
| ~Winning Entry~ |
| Whatever you do, never touch the
toy box! The words echoed through Jessica’s mind as she snuck down the stairs and into the basement of her father’s workshop. The toy box is not for you, it’s not a child’s toy box, it’s my toy box, don’t touch it. Jessica decided to not turn the light on because it was too dangerous. Her father might see the light and come investigate. Instead, she walked down the basement stairs with a flashlight in her hand. The toy box is full of stuff that you shouldn’t see. They’re my inventions and the world isn’t ready for them yet. Oddly shaped tools and gadgets cluttered a workbench that Jessica could barely see over. She shined the flashlight on a silver box in the corner of the room. A smile formed on her lips as her tiny hands grabbed the padlock and pulled. It didn’t open. Undeterred, she shined the flashlight around. One day when her father didn’t know she was there she watched him carefully as he placed a set of keys nearby, but where? The light from the flashlight shinned onto a metal cabinet with three drawers next to the toy box. They had to be in there somewhere. She walked over, opened the bottom drawer, and saw nothing but papers. The next drawer wasn’t much better in the way of finding the keys so she stepped on the edge of the open bottom drawer and opened the top drawer. She pulled herself up and peaked over. There they were, right on top. She quickly reached in and grabbed the keys. With the nimbleness of an 8 year old she jumped down and onto the ground. She was now able to open the padlock and see what daddy’s toy box held. ******************** "Jessica! Where are you?" Jessica’s father Tim yelled as he walked out of her bedroom and into the hallway. "This isn’t a good time to play honey, it’s time for bed and you have to start getting ready." He heard his daughter scream from outside the house. Running down the stairs he quickly opened the front door. His daughter stood in front of him, crying and very muddy. "What happened?" He asked picking her up, "why were you outside?" "I’m sorry daddy!" Tears streamed down her face, "I was playing in your toy box and I found this flashlight and I turned the flashlight on because mine was starting to die and I when I turned it on nothing happen so I looked right at it and when I did I fell in a mud puddle outside! I didn’t mean to go outside!" "That was dangerous honey." Tim said in the voice of a tolerant father, but it had an angry edge to it, one that he hoped Jessica didn’t pick up. "Go to your room now and get ready for bed." He placed her on the ground and watched as she ran up the stairs into her bedroom. With a sigh he walked into his dining room, up to a gun cabinet, and pulled out his rifle. He loaded the rifle and walked up the stairs. Waiting by the top of the stairs he pointed the gun toward his daughter’s room. When the door opened he took careful aim at her head and fired three quick shots. Dropping the cloths she carried in her hands, the girl slumped to the ground. He walked over to the body as it slowly dissolved into a pile of gray ash. Taking a small vacuum from the closet he cleaned the ashes up. Tim put the rifle back in the cabinet then walked toward the basement door and opened it. "Jessica! Get your ass up here now!" He heard her drop something then run toward the stairs. Looking up at him from the darkness she started to cry. "I’m sorry Daddy, I was just playing." "You know you’re not supposed to go down there! Now get to your room and get ready for bed!" She answered by running past him and up the stairs, crying the entire time. Tim heard his daughter’s door slam shut. He would have to explain things to her in the morning, but right now he was intent on making sure she knew that she did wrong. Walking over to his kitchen table he picked up a notebook that was lying there. He opened to a blank page and wrote two small notes. Figure out why doppelganger machine teleports the copy 50 yards away. Find a new place to hide padlock key. |
| The Toy Box by H.J. Lazarus lazdom@ono.com (Entry #17) |
| ~Runner Up~ |
| "I know they’re out there
somewhere, I can feel it in my bones," Captain Kenman muttered to himself as he
scanned the mountains with his night glasses, before adding, "Lieutenant Clark,
check out quadrant seven and report back any changes." "Yes sir!" the eager soldier quickly ran off to his task. The Captain climbed into his jeep and turned back towards the main camp. He maneuvered the vehicle through the tortuous terrain as if her were driving down one of the country roads on a lazy Saturday afternoon back in the Nebraska of his youth; he had been stationed here for longer than he could remember, and knew most of the are like the back of his hand. He’d personally combed every inch of the ground surrounding the base camp for miles in preparation for an attack; there was no foothold, no bunker that the enemy could come up with that Kenman hadn’t thought of first and planned a counterattack. This was no small task, for their camp was stationed in rather inhospitable territory; to the east they were bordered by the dense, dank swamplands which gave the barracks their unmistakable odor year-round, although the men joked that the smell really came from Rudy’s cooking in the mess. The camp was backed up to the south by high bare cliffs bordering a deep chasm; only a thick mist could be seen from above but the ever-present roar of the Towmie river had become like a second heartbeat to the Captain. To the north there was the dense jungle through which he was currently driving dexterously weaving round tree roots and sand pits, his mind all the while fiddling with that feeling he had, that sense that somehow the air was thicker today, that something was amiss. Kenman skirted a pack devouring their kill, giving the growling leader as much thought as one might give an unruly teenager. His mind was on the TB. He wouldn’t be able to think clearly until he was back at the camp, back in position. His jeep pulled past the muddy clearing at the entrance to the camp. The captain parked, leaped from the jeep and headed towards his office in one fluid motion that characterized all his movements. He gave a nod as he passed the men on guard before a thick barbed wire fence surrounding a large, black, unmarked building no larger than a room, the T.B. Their mission was a simple one: protect and defend the army’s most advanced technical support system, or the ‘Toy Box’ as they called it ever since O’Malley commented that ‘that thing’s got more gadgets in it than my boy’s toy box’. Officially it was called the Macro-Initiator Nuclear Defensive Transfer Processor or MINDTRAP, $600 billion worth of military expertise. It was not Kenmen´s place to ask questions, but the General had made the importance of this device pretty clear, saying, "Technology is moving much faster than man’s power to control it. This falls into the wrong hands, we’ve got about three minutes to say our prayers. Everybody from Toledo to Timbuktu’. Hearing this from a man who dealt with weapons of mass destruction on a daily basis sent a shiver down Kenmen’s spine. Since that day, it had become the captain’s personal mission to make sure that never happened. Kenmen’s eyes moved instinctively to the west, towards the mountain range which separated his troops from the enemy, the only zone that remained relatively uncharted. Unlike normal mountain terrain of rocks and trees, this range was covered by a heavy layer of sand, an enormous dune coating the bedrock, which shifted and moved in slow thick rolls like a winter blanket. These dark mysterious hills and mounds were in a constant state of flux, markers disappearing, landmarks wiped away as if by the hand of god. Kenmen had lost some of his best men to that mountain, and had found it usually wiser to stay to the lower terra firme. However, in recent hours he’s received reports of enemy movement just beyond the hills. There were several violent factions interested in getting their hands on the Toy Box, which made gathering intelligence even more complicated. For the most parts these groups were unorganized and militarily unsophisticated, and Kenmen and his troops had come out of the altercations relatively unscathed. But the Captain hadn’t survived all these years by being overconfident, and as the minutes passed he was becoming more and more certain that today would end in battle. He had a message coming through on his radio. A small, heavily armed paramilitary group had been sighted moving through the jungle towards the main camp. They hadn’t got a clear view due to the thick foliage, but they appeared to be traveling in armored vehicles, and though they couldn’t get an exact headcount, the group didn’t seem very big. That meant nothing to Kenmen, he’d seen men like beasts come out of that jungle, able to wipe out two or three of his men in one blow. The vehicle was also curious; even with Kenmen’s finely honed ability, he would be hard pressed to maneuver an ARRV or a tank through the area. Kenmen ordered double guard on the T.B., armed with Anti-Tank Guided Missles in case the reports of the vehicles were true. He assembled a team of his best soldiers, but decided to wait. The most logical course of action would be to head into the jungle and take the small group out before they got anywhere near the base camp, especially if the enemy was traveling with cumbersome vehicles on a terrain he knew so well. It would be like basic training maneuvers. But something about that idea made him stop and wait for further reports. He didn’t have to wait long, "Captain! Lieutenant Clark here. We’ve spotted a much larger group heading over the mountain range. This looks like a full-scale army here, well armed. No vehicles were sighted, but they can’t be traveling on foot." "The jungle group was a decoy," Kenmen replied, mostly to himself. So that sinking feeling had been right. There would be a battle today, and a big one. In the last place on Earth Kenmen wanted to fight. Their own personal Bermuda’s Triangle. Kenmen ordered more tactical groups to the assembly area and prepared for the operation. Within minutes the artillery was loaded and the group headed off to intersect the enemy. Movement was slow, the land beneath their feet sinking deeply with each step. The foothills were relatively easy to cross, but when they reached the base of the mountain they found that the land had shifted and what had used to be a relatively moderate incline was now a sheer climb of almost 90º. They abandoned their vehicles and scaled the mountain side with only what they could carry. As the last of the group was finally pulled up, they could see the enemy cresting the mountaintop. It was much worse than Kenmen had imagined! An enormous cat-like creature with purple spiked ears tips and flames shooting from its tail. It was followed closely by what appeared to be a twenty-foot-tall rabbit, its piercing blue eyes dead set on evil. Kenmen knew the battle would be bloody, but he had faith in himself and his men. His hand on his shoulder harness, he prepared to give the order. "Thomas?" Startled, Tommy froze and spun around. His mother stuck her head in the doorway and gave an exasperated sigh. "Thomas Clark O’Malley! What have I told you about throwing toys all over the bed? I want the stuffed animals back on the shelf, and all the other toys go back in the toy box. What do you think you have one for anyway?" Turning to leave she glanced back and added, "And please put your sister’s Ken back in her room. You know if she sees you playing with it she’ll just go ballistic!" |
Here are all the entries, posted in the order they were received.
| The Toy Box L.L. Rucker ruck9085@bellsouth.net Contributing Author to: Forget Me Knots from the Front Porch published by Obadiah Press |
#1 of 17 |
| 1821 words | |
| "Oh my God!" Mary squealed with delight, "I can’t
believe this! John, come look at this, quick." John groaned inwardly, ‘Not another find,’ he thought. "John, really, you have got to see this," Mary motioned to him impatiently, and he sighed deeply. ‘Wonder how much this one will cost me?’ He walked over to where Mary was standing, her eyes glued to something on the floor. "Look John, look at this marvelous toy box!" She pointed to her feet, and John’s eyes followed her pointing finger. "What’s so special about an old toy box, Mary," he asked her a bit impatiently. "Oh for Heaven’s sake, John," Mary threw her hands up in disgust. "You can’t be serious?" "Mary, you have more antiques than the Smithsonian!" John was looking at the box, and missed the scathing glare that Mary shot at him. "You can never have too many antiques, John." Her eyes narrowed in anger, her voice low and controlled. "Whatever, Mary." John shook his head in disgust, and walked away. He was so tired of these weekend excursions that Mary forced him into. It was not only boring as hell, but it was generally, extremely costly as well. John walked out of the store, and breathed in the cool, crisp, autumn air. He loved fall in New England. The trees strutted their fall colors like super models strutted the latest fashions from Versace. It was so exhilarating to ride through the countryside with the top down, and the heater blasting warm air in your face. John wished Mary would make her purchase, and get a move on. He was anxious to get back on the road. Finally the door to the shop opened, and Mary poked her head out. " Can you come in here and pay this nice man and carry the toy box out to the car, John?" She asked, her voice dripping with false sweetness. John took a long, deep breath, and shook his head, God he hated these damn shopping excursions she absolutely had to go on every weekend. And come to think of it, he was also getting pretty damn tired of her constant spending, and incessant nagging. But what could he do? She used to be his little plaything, his personal doll, his toy, but lately she had become a colossal pain in the ass. All she wanted to do was spend, spend, spend and nag. She had become a real fishwife during the brief course of their marriage. It seemed to him that when he said, "I do", she instantly went from his sweet, precious doll, to a nagging shrew that withheld his marital dues for payment. Seems she was little more than a high priced call girl. A very high priced one. His life had become one colossal disappointment, his marriage a huge, costly, mistake. But the real kicker had been the pre-nup that he had signed. She had suggested it, by way of a ploy, he was now certain. She had sweetly told him that she wanted him to be certain that she was marrying him for love, not money. He had been so blinded by that sweetness that not only had he agreed, but he had been stupid enough to let her attorney draw the thing up. And the real kicker? He hadn't even read the damn thing, just blindly signed it. He couldn’t leave her; it was in the pre-nuptial agreement. If he left her, she got half of his fortune, If, however she left him… He let the thought run loose in his mind, as he stepped into the dim, musty smelling interior of the antique shop. Mary was standing at the counter, her foot tapping impatiently on the floor, her arms crossed over her chest. "Well, here he is," she said brightly to the shop owner. John nodded to the man behind the counter, "How much?" He asked, taking his wallet out of his jacket pocket. "That’ll be twelve hundred sixty-two dollars and eighty three cents." The shop owner grinned broadly at John, who flinched at the cost, but presented his Master Card with a weak smile. As the shop owner ran John’s credit card, Mary whispered angrily, " Must you be so crass, John?" "What do you mean, crass?" John replied a bit louder than necessary. The shop owner looked up. "I mean, did you have to make that awful face when he told you how much the toy box was?" Mary said softly, smiling at the shop owner, who returned the smile, then bent his head over the credit card machine. "I always make faces when I’m being taken to the cleaners, Mary," John replied. "Whatever. You are such a boor, John." John started to fire a retort, but was stopped by the shopkeeper handing him his receipt and credit card. "Have a nice day, and do come back." The man smiled sourly at John, and positively beamed at Mary, who smiled back. "We certainly will. I am always on the lookout for treasures such as this lovely toy box," Mary gushed. "Always on the look out for ways to spend my money, " John muttered under his breath, but Mary heard, and she glared at him. Sighing, John picked up the toy box, and grunted under its weight. He found it awkward to carry: it was over two feet wide, four feet long, and he was guessing, about two and half, to three feet deep. Muttering curses under his breath, John dragged the toy box out to his new Cadillac Escalade, and opened the rear hatch. Grunting with the effort, he managed to push, pull and shove the box into the back, and then shut the door. This was going to be Mary’s last shopping, no her last spending expedition, and he meant it. With his mind set, he unlocked his front door and crawled in, then started the Escalade. After several minutes, John tooted the horn, it’s honk conveying his impatience. Mary, being Mary of course, waited for several long seconds before she opened the door and waltzed out, like she didn’t have a care in the world. She walked over to the SUV, and tapped impatiently on the glass for John to unlock the door. He deliberately took his time reaching across the passenger seat to manually flip the automatic lock. The drive back home was a silent one to John’s sheer delight. He thought that if he had to listen to Mary’s, fingernails grating on a chalkboard voice, on the way, he would have been tempted to stop the car, and shove her into that blasted toy box! For Mary’s part, she sat silently contemplating her latest acquisition. The toy box was a beautiful piece of craftsmanship. Intricately carved teddy bears and dolls had been etched in the gleaming dark wood. There were toy blocks, each displaying a letter of the alphabet, meticulously embroidered on the rich satin lining inside the box. This would be a beautiful addition to Mary’s huge collection of antique toys. She meant to collect as much wonderfully expensive things as she could. She knew that sooner or later, her marriage to John would end, and she meant not to be the one to walk away first. It had been a sheer stroke of genius to suggest that pre-nup, and to finagle a way to have her attorney draw it up. She was on her best behavior, oozing sweetness and clinging to John like some simpering little twit without a single thought in her head but him. And just as she had planned, he had fallen hook, line and sinker for her act. After their magnificent wedding, she had reverted to true form, and John had walked around in a confused daze wondering just where his little doll had gone. She smiled grimly. He shouldn't have been so stupid. He shouldn’t have been so ill back there at the shop, embarrassing her like he had. That would cost him. She knew how to make him pay for his rudeness. She smiled to herself, relishing the payback to come. As dusk gave way to darkness, John parked the Escalade in the garage, and exited the car. Mary sat waiting for him to come around and open the door, but when he simply walked into the house leaving her in the car, she muttered a curse and flounced out of the car, stomping into the house. "I have had just about all of your rude, crude behavior I am going to take, John." She stood glaring at him as he pointedly ignored her, and reached into the fridge to get a beer. "Do you hear me?" "The neighborhood can you Mary," he replied calmly sipping his beer. " Your voice carries annoyingly." "How dare you speak to me that way," she said, her voice quivering with barely suppressed rage. "I’ll speak to you any damned way I please, "he retorted. Draining the beer in one long gulp, he sat the bottle on the counter, and belched loudly. "You are disgusting! Go out and bring in the toy box." Mary gave him a withering look, and turned to leave the kitchen, and John shook his head. "I’d like to bury your ass in that damn toy box," he said softly. He picked up the empty beer bottle, and crashed it into Mary’s skull. It shattered with a satisfying burst, and John stepped back to watch Mary sink slowly to the floor, blood oozing from her head. He stood starring at the body for several long minutes, then went out to the garage, and dragged the huge toy box into the kitchen. **** The party was going well. John’s guests admired the collection of antique toys, and many asked after Mary’s whereabouts. John lied glibly, and told them she had decided to return to London, leaving it at that. "John," Harold Perkins, John’s long time friend and attorney was standing in front of the antique toy box, trying to open the top. " What’s in here?" Johns smiled broadly. "Oh that’s the last thing Mary bought before she left. It is an antique toy box. It’s quite lovely isn’t it? Such wonderful workmanship, don’t you agree?" "Quite, but what’s in it?" Harold asked stooping down in front of the box and grasping the handle. "Just some old toys and a broken doll, that no one wants around anymore," John smiled, and grabbed Harold’s arm. "Care for some sherry, Harold?" "Can we open the box and look inside?" Harold resisted the pull on his arm and looked at the box. "It appears to be locked." "It is," John stooped down in front of the box and fiddled with the lock. "I locked it the last time I looked in it, and somehow managed to lose the key." He got to his feet and turned to Harold grinning. "Say Harold, how's my divorce coming?" |
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| The Toy Box By Tom Campbell topcat@spiritone.com |
#2 of 17 |
| 1060 words | |
| The Toy Box had just left the Earth's atmosphere and
was skimming through space toward Jupiter and light years beyond. Arianna
Smith455Z looked back at the planet's still blue oceans and brownish clouds,
wondering if she would ever see it again. No matter, she was going to be the
first pioneer to discover a habitable world for the overflow of Earth's
occupants. The thought of that filled her with both a sense of excitement and a
little twinge of pride. The Toy Box, as she had playfully dubbed the Atlantis 10023F spacecraft, was indeed full of the latest toys that 2102 technology could provide. Micro computers, communications equipment, atmosperic sensors, and other scientific gadgets comprised much of her 24 foot ship, leaving her just enought room to move around in so she wouldn't get too claustrophopic. Slightly less reassuring was the frozen sperm from a dozen different donors, if needed, in case she didn't make it back. The trip wouldn't take too long. In a few weeks the Toy Box would be rounding Jupiter and using its gravitational forces to launch her away from the gravitational pull of the sun into the time warp of hyperspace to a galaxy 18 light years away. If her mission was successful, there were hundreds of transport ships ready to follow and colonize. Three other probes like the Toy Box were headed to the four distant planets that NASA had targeted as possibly habitable, but the other three targets were almost impractibly too far away. Her mission was by far the closest and best chance to rescue humanity from the sorry mess it had made of Mother Earth. The five great wars of the twenty-first century had left large residues of radiation over much of the civilized world and all but destroyed the ozone layer. No one could now live within a thousand miles of the Equator but even all that had failed to check the population explosion which had grown tenfold in one hundred short years. Needless to say, crime and pollution were rampant, starvation the norm, save for those with money or guns, and a general anarchy prevailed in most places, even in the most brutal draconian regimes. Those that were fairly healthy were either grim fatalists or desperate hedonists. Arianna thought back to some of the old history books she had read, increasingly difficult to find since librarys were out of vogue and the Internet had been shut down some years ago. She had greedily absorbed stories of those civilizations that had lived in harmony with nature; the native tribes of North and South America, the Bushmen of Africa, the Japanese, and her favorites, the Aborigines, who had been in Australia for 60,000 years, twice as long as any other humans, and had had to adapt to a wide variety of harsh climates. This time would be different she hoped. This time mankind must surely have learned its lesson and would treat any new planet with respect. Arianna had grown up in a small Alaskan outpost with her self sufficient family and had been quite familiar with nature all her youth. She knew all the various animals that roamed in the forests and had even wandered into town, loved the fleeting floral summers, and was toughened by the long dark winters. That was one of the reasons she was chosen from among hundreds of other volunteers for this hazardous mission and had been able to withstand the rigorous training. Soon enough, the Toy Box with all its sensitive equipment plus its sole passenger and custodian, was spinning past the dark side of Jupiter and launched into the warp that would take three Earth days to reach the target planet. No one had ever travelled this far this fast before, but the ship materialized, miraculously intact, over a blue-green planet, half covered in wispy white clouds. Arianna awoke to a gentle descending orbit and as she neared the surface, it appeared as if the same primeval forces had been at work here, with lush forests, wide oceans and long mountain ranges. Continents, differently shaped, looked reassuringly familiar. She guided the Toy Box to a flat area near the sea, its sensors now all abuzz collecting their myriad data. She had seen no sign of any human type habitation here, no cities or roads or farms, but one never knew what stage of evolution she might encounter. Upon disembarking, armed and wary, she saw nothing unusual and heard only the lilting songs of birds in nearby trees and the soft splash of waves along the beach. The Toy Box had told her the atmosphere contained more than sufficient oxygen, so she removed her protective mask and took a few tentative breaths. The air was sweet and pure, making her feel giddy and invigorated by it - far better than the grayish sludge she was used to breathing back on a dying Earth. There was an hour before the data sensors and voice link were scheduled to make the one minute transmission back to NASA, so she unpacked the lightweight one-person heloflyer for a tour of the vicinity. Soon she was soaring above the ground, seeing only a pristine wilderness populated by a number of different, gentle looking animals, who seemed neither alarmed or interested in her presence. There was also a wide variety of green healthy looking vegetation growing throughout the forests, rivers and lakes. It was a stunningly beautiful sight, and she could hardly tear herself away from her inspection mission to return to the ship for her communication rendezvous. Perhaps the great leaders back on earth would finally appreciate what she had found for them. But those same leaders, responsible for war after war, had only thought of their own glory, allowing big business and power brokers to run and ruin the world. Thoughts swirling, she made a decision. She gathered some dry wood and green leaves and made a smoky fire beneath the sensors that were due to begin transmitting in a few seconds. As the voice link activated, she got on the laser radio and spoke into it calmly and with authority. " This is Smith455Z reporting in. I regret to inform you that the atmosphere is poisonous here and the planet is uninhabitable." Then with the flick of a few switches, she turned off the Toy Box forever. |
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| The Toy Box By ailsa its_my_life_here@yahoo.co.uk |
#3 of 17 |
| 105 words | |
| An old, battered box In the corner of the attic Holds remnants of a childhood Long since forgotten Instruments of play Which fire imagination Leading to far away lands And perilous adventures Silver clad knights Ride horses so bold To rescue the Princess From the ogre’s clutches Pirate flags and treasure chests A life on the ocean Terrorising passing vessels To rob them of their riche Doctor’s sets and nurses uniforms Teddies swathed in bandages A dolly with a broken leg With a lolly stick for a splint The lives we live In a world of pretence Are here in this box Waiting for you |
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| The Toy Box Leckter Higtop HeckterFanatic@yahoo.com |
#4 of 17 |
| 1719 words | |
| (Kudos to Heckter Ligtop.) The clouds roiled with serious intention as they obscured old Mister Moon on that fateful night. If anyone had been close enough to hear him speak, they'd've heard the old satellite say, "What is all this, then? Geez. Can't see a dad-blamed thing!" But no one was close enough, and the dark, mysterious clouds certainly didn't answer. They were too busy making murkiness. Thus, was the ambience of the evening as Martina unlocked the front door to her mother's former abode of residence. She would have to sell the place. How odd to enter the old house knowing it would be empty of life and limb. No smells of apple cobbler wafting from the kitchen. No sounds emanating from the Stromberg-Carlson in the corner of the living room. No stupid jokes. No awkward silence. Now, there was only un-awkward silence as Martina turned on the lights with her left hand. The un-awkward silence seemed to echo through the halls of her petite, yet exuberant soul. Sweet old mother had "passed on" a week ago now. Or, as her mother would’ve said: Gone over the rainbow to see Dorothy and Toto. Dad had already met Dorothy years ago. The house was already brimming with staleness (which always comes faster than people expect, unless, of course, they've already experienced it), so Martina thought it best to make a pot of coffee. Just outside, the wind (second cousin to the clouds) picked up. The old house moaned and creaked like good sex on an old bed. Martina shuddered, but the Chase & Sanborn was starting to work its magic. Ah, that good old-fashioned, hearty aroma. With warm mug in hand, she decided it was time to get to work. First, the bedroom. Going through a loved one's personal things is a strange thing. Martina pontificated on this strangeness as she started emptying drawers, putting clothes and undies and other clothing-type stuff in a big cardboard box that she'd picked up at Jimmy's Liquor & Lever. As she proceeded to lovingly gut the room, nothing out of the ordinary was found. Until, that is, she peaked under the bed. Oh, what secrets are to be found there! That place for storing forbidden treasures! That last-place-you'd-ever-think-to-look spot for hidden pleasures! CRACK! Martina jerked and jolted like a female Elvis at the loud clap of thunder! Was it an omen? Should she just forget about looking under the bed? No! She should ignore the sign! And she did! Yes! You go girl! "What's this?" she whispered, as if dear sweet old mum might actually hear. Martina pulled a black wooden box out from under the bed. It was kind of big. On the top, she saw "Toy Box" painted in bright pink. Martina couldn't remember seeing this box before. In an anticipatory, yet hesitant way, she undid the small rope that sealed the two halves of the box together. An unusual knot had been tied, that in no way revealed the treasures inside. It was a sheepshank, which might indicate her mother knew a thing or two about knots, but that couldn't be right. Mild Mannered Mom knew her way around the kitchen, throwing together soups, casseroles, puddings and pies, always in a devil-may-care sort of way. When had she learned how to tie a sheepshank? As she lifted the wooden veneer top, she peered inside, only to find many smaller boxes. The first that caught her eye had the words, "REALISTIC GIANT, BETTER THAN THE REAL THING!" printed gloriously across it. "Oh my!" whispered Martina with a hushed eagerness that only a young, nubile woman of semi-virginal qualities could utter. She opened the obnoxiously decorated box and found herself staring transfixedly at what looked like the largest phallus she'd ever seen in her 29 years. CRACK! BOOM! Another sudden bolt, jolted Martina again! The phallus-filled box fell to the floor, sending the long, rubber, pink-with-blue-veins toy rolling away. "What was mother doing with toys like these?" she asked herself in mock-like confusion. Before she could answer, another box caught her attention. Jack Johnson's JIGGLY-WIGGLY. This one had an electric cord, she found, but it was the odd shape and complex textures of the device that proved most provocative to her inexperienced eyes. She felt something stirring deep, deep, deep within her. "Mother..." said Martina in exasperation. "You actually used something called a Jiggly-Wiggly?" Setting it aside, she started opening box after box. There was the Gyro-Hydramatic (with garden hose attachment). The Orgasminator. The Python (with expandable girth action). Something called a Glytractronic that "Self-Lubes for Instant and Unabashed Penetration." Martina kept pulling them out, one by one, growing more and more engrossed in the exotic, erotic euphoria that was now encompassing her. The feeling reminded her of that time when she accidentally smoked a whole joint of Marijuana. Thunder rolled more frequently now, but each vibration seemed to urge her onward. The stirring within her was increasing. So fast, it would've put her mother's Mixmaster to shame! She half-expected to find that particular kitchen appliance in the box somewhere... The Fist-O-Matic 2000, The Twirly Bird, Eyeballs On A String. "Eyeballs On A String?" blurted Martina. "What would one do with Eyeballs On A..." she stopped as the realization hit her like a bug on a windshield. "Oh, my!" As she reached the bottom of the toy box, she spied a photo album. Brushing aside several toys on the floor around her, including the Gargantua, the Ribbed Wonder, and the Wacky Weasel (with realistic weasel noises), Martina sat against the wall and opened the thick album. "What in the world?" she asked herself as she perused the photos. For there in living color, and in all their naked glory was her Mom and Dad, in some most unusual positions, and in some most unusual states of dress. We're talking leather and studs, feathers and sequins, ropes and chains ... Saran Wrap! But then... "Oh, my gosh!" she exclaimed out loud, as if someone was there to hear her quivering voice. Martina was looking at a picture of her very best friend, Denise, using the Orgasminator! Her friend's eyes were half-closed, revealing what was most certainly one of the later stages of erotic arousal. No wonder she was always coming over! "Denise! How could you!" she cried with surreal vagueness. Dad always liked her better than all of her other friends, but she'd always thought it was just because Denise had rather large boobs. Well, okay ... they were huge, actually. To put it mildly, Denise's rack was spectacular. It was as if she had gotten Martina's share, along with several other young, sexy women. As the pages of ever-increasingly naughty pictures turned before her, Martina found herself getting light-headed. The bodies soon lost their identities. So many positions ... all those frozen moments of sweaty ecstasy ... the silent moans ... the flushed flesh. Martina fainted. BOOM went the thunder! The very foundation of the house shook, but little-miss-no-longer-innocent Martina didn't jolt like a female Elvis this time. She was out cold. She also couldn't hear the doorbell or the loud knocking. With raincoat and a University of Kentucky umbrella, Denise stood on the porch of her best friend's old house. Martina's car was in the driveway. Why wasn't she answering? She decided to try the door and found it to be unlocked. She stepped inside, dripping copiously. How odd to enter the old house knowing it would be empty of life and the pursuit of happiness. "Marty?" she called out with trepidational anxiety. "Martina? It's me, Denise." She took off her raincoat and hung it on the third hook of the old coat stand. As she went in the kitchen, she saw the pot of fresh, hot Chase & Sanborn, releasing its tendrils of steamy goodness. The olfactorialistic experience called up pleasant memories from her days back in high school. She was eighteen and still innocent in the ways of the dildo. Martina's mother had taken her under her tutorial wing and educated her fully. Marty's father had eventually joined in the lessons, taking things to new levels. Ah, the memories! With warm mug in hand, Denise decided she'd better have a look around. First, the bedroom. As she entered the room, the scene before her was more shocking than when you find out you’ve had your belt on the outside of one of the loops all day! There was her petite pal, Martina, sprawled on the floor amidst a myriad of impressive, oh-so-familiar, and oh-so-inviting adult toys. "Hey!" Denise yelled, hoping to awaken her. Martina moaned, and rolled over, revealing a long, lumpy, double-ended, flexible toy Denise knew all too well as the Gemini. She kneeled and shook her friend. "Hey, girl! Wake up! It’s me, Denise! What are you doing with your mother’s toys? Did you have the Big O, or something?" Martina opened her now-knowing-more-than-she-ever-thought-she’d-know eyes, to see the very girl who had been engaging in countless positions with her parents, her monstrous breasts hanging just inches above, dangling there like two sweet melons wrapped in a tight sweater. "Oh, hi Denise." She couldn’t take her eyes off those massive mammaries. Denise noticed. "Um. Marty? You weren‘t planning on playing all by yourself, were you?" Denise said as she pulled her sweater up over her head, allowing her bodacious gazongas to emerge victorious. BOOM! CRASH! BOOM! The room shook and the lights flickered. Denise’s large, protruding nipples hardened instantly. Martina’s not-believing-what-they-were-seeing eyes sparkled, and a devious smile lit her face, as she... [AUTHOR'S NOTE: I decided to remove this portion of the story as it was just way too steamy (trust me), and therefore took away from the main thrust (no pun intended) of the plot.] ...the final throes of spasmodic ecstasy quelled as they lay there together, panting heavily, awash in a mixture of sweat and bodily fluids. The storm had passed. EPILOGUE And so it was, that the two best friends came to know each other much better than they’d ever imagined. It was to be the beginning of a different kind of friendship (wink, wink). Martina wouldn’t be selling her mother’s house after all. It was decided that the two girls would move in together and spend their nights exploring the pleasureful treasures of the toy box, unfettered by lame inhibitions, and with reckless abandonment... THE END |
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| The Toy Box by Vicki severina2001@hotmail.com |
#5 of 17 |
| 886 words | |
| I am soooo getting fired for this. How did I get into this predicament? Well, I guess I’ve always been too big for my britches. Always the smart-aleck, that’s me. Always trying for the big spectacle. I figured I’d do something a little different. So I squeezed myself into the space between the toy box and the lazyboy, figuring on wedging an egg into that teeny tiny crevice between the seat cushions. My fat butt hit the lid and the next thing I know, I’m head over heels into the box, with the top crashing down after me. Staring at the lid in frustration doesn’t do any good. I know. I’ve tried it. And the toy box might only be particleboard, but you think I can get it open? Geesh, I’m only a rabbit, fer chrissakes! Plopping my body down, I wiggle between a dump truck and a Barbie with a missing left arm before casting an evil look at Bob the Builder. I’ve never liked his smile. I swear, one "Can we fix it... yes we can!" and I’m going to pop him. Hard. I never should have listened to my mother. "You’ve got so much potential, Ralph. Why are you wasting your talents in the factory division?" Grrrrr. Potential, schmotential. Give me the Sprinkles Department any day. Now *that* was the life. Comfy stools, all the chocolate you can eat, and the unwavering knowledge of a conveyer belt breakdown at least once per shift. Besides, there were always the trips to the water-cooler… which was conveniently located down the hall from Accounting. I hippity-hopped down there at least three times a day. Might have got a bit waterlogged, but hey, it was worth it. The whiskers on that Rhonda! My ears are a-twitchin’ just at the memory. Not that there aren’t advantages to being an Easter Bunny. I’m not THE Easter Bunny, of course. The Big Kahuna is living the easy life down in Florida, lounging by his basket shaped pool and sipping carrot juice. Just try asking him what blue dye costs these days. That rabbit has no idea! Nah, the grunt work is left to the rest of us. I handle all of Southern Ontario and part of upstate New York, and don’t think that’s not a jaunt and a half in one freakin’ night! I think I earn the perks of my job, and then some. There’s the money, natch. I’m making the big bucks now. But heck, I also go through twice the amount of pellets that I used to. Got to keep my strength up! There’s the free gym membership, and don’t I just love working my paws to the bone and coming home limp as an old dishrag? Riiiiight. There’s the condo. That’s a given. Nice view, but who the heck ever gets to see it but me? I mean, come on. Take a look at the outfit. YOU try getting a date wearing lime-green knickerbockers and a blue felt hat. Now the magic... that never gets old. I have to admit I was all a-tingle at the annual Bunny Banquet, when I was given my golden ears and made an official Easter Bunny. The Grand Poobah himself even flew down from Florida for the occasion. Lord, but that rabbit can talk. I nodded off somewhere between "prestigious monument to our lasting civilization" and "as the sand castles of time press upon the indomitable earth". I think our Illustrious Leader needs to hire a new speechwriter. I’m not even sure he was speaking English. But I woke up in time to be presented with my Magic Dust. Oh, it’s still a thrill to sprinkle the dust in the air, say the magic words, and poof from one location to the next. Yeah, I know what you’re thinking. If you have magic dust, what are you doing stuck in the flippin’ toy box? Well you see, it’s quite simple. I keep the Dust in my basket. And the basket? On the other side of the blasted box! I don’t have a lot of options at the moment. I’ve tried cursing like a drunken sailor, but the lid stays stubbornly shut. I could lay on my back and pound my legs onto the lid like that cartoon kangaroo, but all that will do is rouse the dog. Mangy mutt was already giving me dirty looks as I went about my duties. And the Dust is out. I’m stuck until morning. At least. My route should be okay, as long as the bigwigs up at Bunny Central don’t have their heads up their cotton-tails, as usual. But maaaan, the tribunal when I get home. Nothing like staring up at three be-wigged bunnies in starched red robes to really get the whiskers jittering. I settle back against Raggedy Anne, resigned to my fate. Maybe it won’t be so bad. Like I said, I’ve got money. I could always hire that high-powered lawyer from up north. Frisco, that’s his name. He sure impressed the Fantastical Creatures jury during his big case last summer. The entire community was shocked when he got Ernie the Elf off, including Ernie himself. Turns out biting Santa on the shin isn’t against the Elf Labour Code after all. Who knew? Naaaaah. I’m soooo getting fired for this. |
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| The Toy Box by Loretta A. Stradley readlorey875@hotmail.com www.issues-mag.com www.loreyswritingplace.net |
#6 of 17 |
| 473 words | |
| Night had settled and all within the house were asleep.
The full moon rose with a silver light to shine through the bedroom window.
Casting a small glow within, the errant moonbeam shone on the box in the
corner. Harmless looking, it stood silent. The little boy looked so innocent in his little bed all snug in the blankets. His teddy bear was held tight in his little arms as if to insure the bear would not leave. Under the closed door the light from the hallway shone. The box sat in its corner, dark and quiet, its contents hidden from the world. Outside, the crickets stopped chirruping. The warm light wind, which earlier had been blowing through a two-inch gap in the window, stopped as if a switch had been thrown. The curtain at the window halted mid billow. The lid of the box slowly opened with a little squeak. Inch by inch it opened to reveal an inky blackness. An eerie green glow began to pulsate from the black interior. The green glow began to rise over the rim of the box and onto the floor. Within the green glow was an oozing mass of an otherworld material. With out any form it just oozed and crept along the floor like goo towards the bed where the young lad slept in childlike slumber. The spooky mass eased up the bedpost in one long slow movement like spilt molasses. It eased towards the boy inch by inch and the closer it got to him the more it throbbed. When it reached the boy's head it stopped moving. Still pulsating it sat on the pillow as if savoring the moment. For only a minute more it sat, then moved onto the little boy to creep all over his head and face to cover them completely. There it sat with its oozing greenness sucking up the boy's life force. The entity had a neuron tranquillizer in its mass that kept its prey asleep so the boy never woke when it fed. Growing bigger with each drop of the boy's life, the rhythm slowed. It sat there for many hours getting stronger and stronger while the boy became weaker. When it was sated once more, it would return to the toy box. A creature from another place and time, a traveler, the mass enjoyed its feeding. It wouldn't kill the boy yet. It needed him for just a little while longer until another food source became available. Then it would suck the lad dry and move on. The night went on with the creature eating its meal. In the morning the boy would be pale and weak and the parents would once again take him to the doctor's for more tests. No one knew what was causing the boy to be so lifeless and pale. |
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| The Toy Box By Timothy Callahan tpcomputerman@msn.com |
#7 of 17 Winning Entry |
| 762 words | |
| Whatever you do, never touch the toy box!
The words echoed through Jessica’s mind as she snuck down the stairs and into the basement of her father’s workshop. The toy box is not for you, it’s not a child’s toy box, it’s my toy box, don’t touch it. Jessica decided to not turn the light on because it was too dangerous. Her father might see the light and come investigate. Instead, she walked down the basement stairs with a flashlight in her hand. The toy box is full of stuff that you shouldn’t see. They’re my inventions and the world isn’t ready for them yet. Oddly shaped tools and gadgets cluttered a workbench that Jessica could barely see over. She shined the flashlight on a silver box in the corner of the room. A smile formed on her lips as her tiny hands grabbed the padlock and pulled. It didn’t open. Undeterred, she shined the flashlight around. One day when her father didn’t know she was there she watched him carefully as he placed a set of keys nearby, but where? The light from the flashlight shinned onto a metal cabinet with three drawers next to the toy box. They had to be in there somewhere. She walked over, opened the bottom drawer, and saw nothing but papers. The next drawer wasn’t much better in the way of finding the keys so she stepped on the edge of the open bottom drawer and opened the top drawer. She pulled herself up and peaked over. There they were, right on top. She quickly reached in and grabbed the keys. With the nimbleness of an 8 year old she jumped down and onto the ground. She was now able to open the padlock and see what daddy’s toy box held. ******************** "Jessica! Where are you?" Jessica’s father Tim yelled as he walked out of her bedroom and into the hallway. "This isn’t a good time to play honey, it’s time for bed and you have to start getting ready." He heard his daughter scream from outside the house. Running down the stairs he quickly opened the front door. His daughter stood in front of him, crying and very muddy. "What happened?" He asked picking her up, "why were you outside?" "I’m sorry daddy!" Tears streamed down her face, "I was playing in your toy box and I found this flashlight and I turned the flashlight on because mine was starting to die and I when I turned it on nothing happen so I looked right at it and when I did I fell in a mud puddle outside! I didn’t mean to go outside!" "That was dangerous honey." Tim said in the voice of a tolerant father, but it had an angry edge to it, one that he hoped Jessica didn’t pick up. "Go to your room now and get ready for bed." He placed her on the ground and watched as she ran up the stairs into her bedroom. With a sigh he walked into his dining room, up to a gun cabinet, and pulled out his rifle. He loaded the rifle and walked up the stairs. Waiting by the top of the stairs he pointed the gun toward his daughter’s room. When the door opened he took careful aim at her head and fired three quick shots. Dropping the cloths she carried in her hands, the girl slumped to the ground. He walked over to the body as it slowly dissolved into a pile of gray ash. Taking a small vacuum from the closet he cleaned the ashes up. Tim put the rifle back in the cabinet then walked toward the basement door and opened it. "Jessica! Get your ass up here now!" He heard her drop something then run toward the stairs. Looking up at him from the darkness she started to cry. "I’m sorry Daddy, I was just playing." "You know you’re not supposed to go down there! Now get to your room and get ready for bed!" She answered by running past him and up the stairs, crying the entire time. Tim heard his daughter’s door slam shut. He would have to explain things to her in the morning, but right now he was intent on making sure she knew that she did wrong. Walking over to his kitchen table he picked up a notebook that was lying there. He opened to a blank page and wrote two small notes. Figure out why doppelganger machine teleports the copy 50 yards away. Find a new place to hide padlock key. |
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| The Toy Box by Denise Mallas denisemallas@hotmail.com |
#8 of 17 |
| 436 words | |
| She gently sat on the side of his bed and looked at the
quiet face of her son. His dark hair had grown much too long and now covered
his eyebrows. She pulled the cover up and folded over the edge. He looked so
perfect in his peacefulness. So perfect. She looked around the room which had been decorated with a typical boy’s sports theme. She had painted everything a bright blue and then put up a border that had baseball bats, footballs, basketballs. His lamp looked like a catchers mitt. His clothes hamper was a basketball hoop. And then her eyes rested on the toy box. The toy box was a huge brown football shaped container. She had avoided it for months now. There was not a nick in the dust covering that coated it, the evidence that it had not been opened. Her eyes were beginning to tear now, as she stood up and walked over to the toy box. She softly blew away the dust and lifted the lid as she sat down on the carpeted floor. The top layer of toys were from this last Christmas. A G.I. Joe man still dressed in his army greens, everything still in its place. A virtual baseball bat game with no smudges. Digging a little deeper she found his birthday gifts. Also new without the wear marks of a child’s laughter and joy. She set these things aside. These toys held only the memories of the giving and not those of the living. There, closer to the bottom, she picked up his catcher’s mitt. The old, worn baseball was still nestled in the glove. Now the real memories. Days of playing catch with him, his insistence that he was going to grow up to be a catcher for a famous baseball team. His dream from the moment he got that catcher’s mitt. He never stopped talking about it. He had brought the dream to her, served her with its passion until she had begun to believe as well. Yes, he would grow up to be a famous catcher. She swallowed hard. She held the mitt and went back to her son’s bed. His hand was still warm to the touch and she gently picked it up and placed the glove over his hand. The glove would go with him. He would still have his dream. The cancer would be gone now. She knew there was no cancer in Heaven. He would not hurt anymore. Now the pain would only be her own. She kissed his cheek and saw her tears puddle there on his face. |
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| The Toy Box By Glen Lee lee10@host365.com |
#9 of 17 |
| 2445 words | |
| "She's not having it ... . and that's the end of the
matter!" Enid sat on the stairs, hugging her doll. A tear fell onto Annie's pot head and slid down her face but they both sat quietly, in case anything else was said. Enid heard the slap of her father's old house shoes crossing the tiled floor. The kitchen door opened and a draught of warm air seeped through and stroked the child's wet cheeks. Her father peeped round the corner and saw Enid. Behind him they heard, "That's it. Go and tell her it's all my fault again." Joe climbed the stairs to sit on the fourth step, next to Enid. "I'm sorry, Sugar," he said. "We can't really afford it." The red face of Enid's mother appeared round the door. "Tell her why. Go on," she shouted. "Tell her she can't have what she wants for Christmas because her good-for-nothing father can't hold down a job. That's why." Her voice rang up the narrow stair well. Enid held Annie closer. Her hand crept across the wooden step towards her father. His warm hand quickly found hers. "That's right," her mother's face became redder than ever. "Be lovey-dovey but while you two sit around eating your heads off, I'm the one earning what little money comes into this house." She began to run out of steam. "You'll have an orange and a penny for Christmas as usual, my girl. Like it or lump it." She retreated to the kitchen. The door slammed, cutting off the warm air and the smells of cooking. Enid and Joe heard a spoon rattling angrily against the metal sides of a saucepan. "Lumpy custard for dinner." Joe smiled down at his daughter. "Annie doesn't like lumpy custard, Dad." Enid tried a smile but tears filled her eyes. She pretended to tidy Annie's dress. It was dull December. Joe looked up at the heavy sky through the small kitchen window. He let the net curtain fall back into place. "It's a drizzly day," he told Enid. "You'd better wrap up warm." "She'll be fine. She's got her porridge," Joan said, not looking up from her task. She held a loaf close to her chest and sawed the bread. Three irregularly shaped slices lay on the breadboard. She added a fourth and put down the loaf. "Eat it while it's still hot, Enid." She waved the knife in Enid's direction, underlining the instruction. "Don't like porridge," Enid mumbled. "Don't care what you like or don't like, miss. Eat it up. It's good for you on a day like this." Joan smeared butter on the bread while Enid played with her breakfast. "Enid," Joan warned. Enid ate the porridge. Her mother turned her back. Enid pretended to gag. Joe raised a finger to his lips and shook his head. Joan finished making sandwiches, which she put into a crumpled, brown-paper bag. "Right, that's me done. I'm off to work. Don't forget your sandwiches, Joe." Enid dropped her spoon into an almost empty bowl and went to leave the kitchen. " Enid l!" Enid returned and washed her bowl and spoon, leaving them to dry on the draining board. She ran out the room before her mother could think of any more chores for her to do. Joe and Enid walked down the street hand in hand. The row of cheap housing stopped most of the wind, but nothing could keep out the chill. Enid's legs above her short skirt were soon chaffed and raw where her thighs rubbed as she walked. One of her socks kept falling down and they had to keep stopping while she pulled it back up. "I need new garters, Daddy." "Ask your Mum tonight. I think she's got some elastic left from the last time." Joe squeezed her hand. "I remember when I was little and my garters used to go saggy and my socks would fall down too." Enid giggled at the thought of her father being little like her. "And when my garters were new and made of really strong elastic, I remember the red rings they left just below my knees." "I get them too, Daddy," Enid squealed. They chatted until they came to the corner. Across the street, the toyshop lights reflected on the wet pavement. Enid would not look at the brightly-lit window. Silently, Joe hurried them on down the street towards the junior school and the Employment Bureau. The toy box sat in the centre of the toyshop window, gleaming under a spotlight. Its dark wood was polished till it shone. On each of its sides, a painted panel depicted characters from children's nursery rhymes. The front panel showed a large shoe, only partly laced, with the smiling faces of children peeping from the eyelet holes. In front of the house a happy, chubby woman was busily stirring a big saucepan that hung over a hot fire. When she first saw the box, Enid thought, "I bet that's not porridge!" At the woman's feet, kittens and puppies tumbled in play. The box lid did not open completely, but was held by two gold chains. The insides were lined in crimson satin. It was the most wonderful box that Enid had ever seen and she wanted it for Christmas. On Christmas Eve, Enid was too excited to feel tired but at seven o'clock her mother insisted that she must go to bed as usual. While she was waiting for her mother to come up, Enid changed Annie's clothes. She took off the doll's dress and laid it carefully on the bedside table. It was made from the material of her mother's wedding dress and had been dyed pink. Annie's rubber body resisted the tug of her pyjamas' flannelette arms and legs, but Enid finally had the doll ready for bed. Once her mother had tucked her in and her father had been in to do it again, Enid stretched out her toes under the covers. She couldn't feel the weight of the sock that lay on the end of her bed, but she tried hard to imagine the day when it might be full of good things other than just an orange and a penny. The covers were heavy. Joe's coat was a good thick blanket on top of the old thin ones and Enid was soon snug and warm. In the distance she heard the murmur of her parents' conversation drifting up from the kitchen. Quickly she fell asleep. Annie's leg was poking her in the ribs and Enid woke. It was still dark and she could hear rain pattering on the window. She wondered if it was Christmas yet and wriggled down the bed, feeling for the sock with her toes. The sock was only a small light lump and Enid knew her mother had kept her promise. She wriggled out from under the covers and reached for the sock. Inside was a big orange. Enid had seen it in the fruit-bowl last night and knew that it had bright, thick peel, pitted like the skin on Granddad's nose. She felt its delicious coolness and its perfect roundness. Also in the sock was a penny. It was slim and heavy. Enid knew that it would be shiny. Her mother would make sure it was the best penny there was. With her penny in one hand and her orange in the other, Enid went back to sleep and dreamt of toy boxes full of new dolls wearing pretty dresses and bonnets. Her father woke her. "Come on, sleepy-head. It's Christmas. Time to get up." He kissed her on the top of her head. "Merry Christmas, Daddy." Enid waved her orange and her penny at him. "Look what I got for Christmas." "My, that is the biggest, most orangey orange I have ever seen," Joe said in amazement. "I wonder how Santa got it down the chimney." Enid giggled. "Silly Daddy." "Silly I may be, but I've been downstairs already where it's nice and warm and smells delicious. Here, put your dressing gown and your slippers on and we'll go and see how Mummy's getting on with the dinner, shall we?" Joe gave Enid a piggyback downstairs. As she slid from his shoulders she did not immediately see the box that sat on the table. "Merry Christmas, Enid." Joan turned from the kitchen range and gave her daughter a kiss. "I see Santa's been." She indicated the table. Enid turned. A toy box sat on the table. She knew it at once. It had sat in the scullery for years, holding outdoor shoes. It had been dirty and scuffed but now it was transformed. She walked slowly round the table and looked at it from every angle. It had been painted white. All the old dirt was gone, vanished under a glossy covering. The lid had been painted pink, the colour of Aunty Mabel's new front room and it had been refixed with leather straps, polished to a deep brown shine. Enid held her breath and opened the lid. The inside was lined with pink satin that matched Annie's dress. Two chains, silver like the one on the sink plug, stopped the lid from opening completely. In the box there was a small parcel wrapped in tissue paper. Enid reached in and unwrapped it. She gasped. "Is it mine?" "Oh course it's yours, silly?" Her mother laughed. "It's in your toy box. Who else would it belong to?" Enid felt the coin's many sides and admired its dull gold gleam. "Look, Daddy. My very own thrup'ny bit. I'm rich." "Now," her mother said. "Get that box off my table. I've got to get the chicken in the oven and it's in the way." Joe lifted the box off the table and took it upstairs to her bedroom. As Enid began to pack her toys into the box, she noticed that the white paint had dribbled in one corner. She touched the dribble. It was soft still and left the imprint of her finger. She admired the whorls and lines, then carried on putting her wooden blocks into her new toy box. It was Christmas Day. Enid answered the doorbell's summons and recognised her son's silhouette through the glass door panel. "Merry Christmas, Mum. Got a special delivery for you." Shaun laughed. "Go on in, Granddad." Enid opened the door as wide as it would go to allow her father in, followed by Shaun and a huge pile of Christmas presents. After a round of Christmas hugs and kisses, when Shaun had gone to the kitchen to make a cup of tea, Joe reached into a plastic carrier bag. "I found this when I was clearing out your mother's things," he said. He handed the doll to his daughter. "Annie!" Tears came to Enid's eyes. "I thought she was long gone." She looked at her father. "Mother kept her all these years? Why?" "I suppose because you grew up and abandoned her. Your Mum was always a bit of a softy, you know." Shaun returned with a tray. "You don't mind teabag tea do you?" He handed round the cups. "So, aren't you going to open the presents?" As Enid unwrapped her presents and handed out those she had bought to her son and her father, Annie sat close by her side. Her pot head was cracked from a fall down the stairs when Enid was ten and stuffing seeped from holes where the rubber body had begun to perish. The doll's smile though, was as radiant as ever and Enid felt again the love she had always had for her favourite toy. Without thinking, she straightened the pink dress and smoothed the pot curl on Annie's forehead, rubbing away just a little more brown paint. "Now for the big one," Shaun did a drum roll on the coffee table with two fingers."Granddad said to leave it to till last." He pretended to read the label. "I do believe it's for you, Mum." He staggered across the room with the big parcel and laid it at her feet. "You are a clown, Shaun," Enid told him. She looked at the label. "To Enid," she read. "From Santa." Carefully she started to remove the wrapping paper. She saw, on the top of the object, a painted panel depicting a boy dressed in blue, dancing across a field of waving, golden corn. He was surrounded by a flock of fluffy sheep wearing big pink and blue bows. Joe sat on the edge of his chair watching her. She removed more paper. He watched her intensely, then unable to keep quiet, he blurted out, "It's the one you wanted when you were little. I saw it at an antiques' fair. Shaun had it restored for me." "Oh, Dad. It's beautiful." "Do you remember? I was so disappointed for you. You must have hated that old box I painted for you instead." Enid crossed the lounge and hugged her father. "No Dad. Not at all." "But you do like this one, don't you?" "I love it, Dad. Thank you so much." "I was so thrilled when I found it. I knew, just knew, you had to have it. It cost a lot but it was worth it to get my little girl what she wanted for Christmas." Enid removed the rest of the paper and uncovered the old woman in the shoe. She was still happily cooking her children's dinner over a hot fire while kittens and puppies played at her feet. Enid opened the box. Two gold chains prevented the lid opening fully. Inside, the empty box was lined with red satin. After dinner, when Shaun had washed the dishes and he and Joe were asleep in front of the whispering television, Enid took Annie upstairs. In the back room, a box stood on a small table. The white paint was yellow with age. The leather hinges were cracked and dull. Enid opened the box. The lining was torn and stained. She laid Annie down amongst her other treasures; a thrup'ny bit wrapped in tissue paper, a brooch left to her by her mother, her son's first baby tooth and other trivial yet invaluable momentos of a long, eventful life. Gently Enid closed the lid. She rubbed her thumb across the drip of paint in the corner. It was hard and over time her fingers had smoothed the whorls and the lines from it. "Welcome home, Annie." Nothing could replace her beloved treasure box but the new toy box would be useful for her grandchildren's toys when they came to stay in the summer. |
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| The Toy Box by Lisa Adams crazed_author@yahoo.com |
#10 of 17 |
| 2500 words | |
| His blue eyes lit up with pleasure when he saw the
little box placed in front of him. It was nothing compared to what the other
kids got but to this one little boy, it was the world. Everyone else got brand
new clothes, a new baby brother or sister, or even money. But that wasn’t
what counted in life. Ok so they were pleasurable for the time being but when
they looked back on life in a few years time, what would they be pleased about?
They got everything and they never thought twice about it. But this little boy
treasured everything he ever got. He was ten years old and this is only the
second present he got in his whole life. *********************** My name is Sarah. I work at the children’s hospital here in Adelaide. I’m going to tell you a story of a little boy named Joe. Joe Horner, the little boy with eyes as blue as the sky on a cloudless day and hair that glistened in the sun. I never favoured anyone in particular but this one time I couldn’t help it. Although Joe was still young, he knew that life wasn’t meant to be easy and he treasured each day as if it were his last. Joe came from a poor family of four. He had lived with his older sister, Star and his mother and father. Sadly they all died in a recent car accident. Joe was involved in the accident but was the only one that survived, but with major injuries. His face was burnt, his right leg ripped open, a piece of glass right near his heart and to top it off, internal bleeding. We all thought he wouldn’t make it but he had such determination in him and he pulled through it. The only thing was that the internal bleeding caused a tumour in his lungs and it was incurable. He only had a few months left to live. He knew what was going to happen but that didn’t seem to frighten him at all, instead it made him even more courageous. He was always asking me to take him outside or to the lounge where I would read him a story. His one dream was to go to the beach and see the dolphins jumping in the waves. I wanted to make that dream come true but it would be hard. Because of coming from a poor family, Joe was so appreciative of his gifts. They were never able to have the luxuries of buying new things and being given gifts. He was brought up to treasure everything he was given. I found this little toy box in my box of treasures at home and I knew Joe would love it. My assumptions were correct, immediately he put it in his drawer and gave me a hug. "Thank you Sarah." He said in his childlike way, "You don’t know how much it means to me." "Just know that in that box you can keep your most precious thoughts and feelings." I replied. Joe shook his head vigorously, "I’ve got something else I want to put in there." I watched carefully as Joe reached into the back of his drawer and pulled out a teddy. It was torn and faded but just by looking at Joe I could tell it was his most treasured possession. He hugged it tightly and looked at me with tear-filled eyes. "When I was sick with glandular fever my Mummy gave this to me. It was given to her when she was a child like me. She was honest with me, she thought I was going to die and so she gave me this teddy so I would always remember her, no matter what happened. Even when I got better I wanted to give it back to her but she kept on saying no, no you keep it. It’s yours now. I think she knew she was going to die before me." I could feel a lump forming in my throat, he was such a brave kid. He knew more about life then probably I even did. I was 25, a good fifteen years older then him but growing up I was one of those kids who was never deprived of anything. Joe gave the teddy one last hug, put it in the box and closed the drawer quietly then rolled over with his back to me. I knew he wanted time alone so I went out and continued with my duties. That night I was sitting at home reflecting on my life. I wasn’t a spoilt kid and was always a kind and caring person but I never stopped to think of what it was like for those with no money. Meeting Joe has been such a great influence on me and made me think twice about life. No one knew what tomorrow would bring and we have to live each day as if it were our last. There’s that saying "there’s always tomorrow" but that’s not true. I could walk down the street now and get run down by a bus. No, there was never tomorrow, tomorrow never comes. The next day when I went to work the first thing I did was drop in to see how Joe was feeling. My usual routine. When I walked in I noticed Joe sitting in bed crying. I immediately ran to his side and before comforting him I noticed his top drawer open and the box missing. My heart stopped, I just hoped he was holding it. "Joe?" I said softly, "Joe, what’s wrong sweetie?" Joe looked up at me and a tear slid down his cheek and landed on my hand. He hugged me and sobbed and sobbed. I didn’t pester him to tell me what was happening, I just let him cry, he’d tell me when he was ready. Joe slowly started to relax and he pulled away and pointed to the drawer. I couldn’t see the box anywhere in sight. "It’s gone." Joe said softly his bottom lip trembling, "Someone stole my box!" Immediately Joe started crying uncontrollably and I held him tight and tried to calm him down. Who would do such a cruel thing? Some of the nurses came in to see what the commotion was and I just waved them off to say everything was under control. "I’m going to find your box." I said softly, "I’ll find out who did this and once I find your box, we’ll keep it somewhere safe, ok?" Joe looked up at me again, his blue eyes shining brightly from the tears. "Promise?" Joe asked. "I promise." I replied hoping that I really would find it. I gave Joe a kiss on the cheek and left, I was determined to find that box, I didn’t care what it took. Just as I was about start my search I was taken aside by the Helen, the big boss. "What was wrong with that kid?" Helen said snootily, "Was he chucking another tantrum or something?" I could feel myself getting angry, Helen was one of those people that didn’t care. She was there to do her job and nothing else, she didn’t care what people really thought or felt. "He was not chucking a tantrum." I said firmly, "In fact something very important was stolen from him." "We’ve never had anything stolen in this hospital! He’s probably hidden it himself just to get some attention. I know what those sorts of kids are like." "That is not true, Helen! You don’t know anything." As soon as I said it I bit my tongue, this was bad news. "I don’t know anything, eh?" Helen shot back at me, her eyes red with anger, "Who’s the one who employed you, girlie? Who’s the one who’s been here for more then thirty years? Me! That’s who, so don’t you go saying I don’t know nothing because I know a damn sight more then two of you put together! Now if I see another outburst from you again, you’re dismissed. You’re not to be seeing that brat of a kid again, you hear? I want you to get some work done." At that Helen stormed off leaving me feeling helpless and like a failure. I had let Joe down badly and now he would want nothing to do with me. I sat down on a chair and cried. Helen was a perfect example of those who were spoiled in their child hood. Megan, a new recruit in the ward came up and put her arm around me. "Don’t worry about her." Megan soothed, "I know I haven’t been here for long but I know she’s nasty and doesn’t know what the word ‘nice’ means. She’s handed the job of looking after Joe to me. I’ll keep a check on him for you and whenever Helen goes out I’ll let you know so you can see him." I looked up at Megan, shocked, "You can’t do that! You’ll be putting your job at risk!" "I really don’t care, Sarah. I know Joe’s background and I feel for him, I don’t believe a word of what Helen said. Look, Helen is really busy at the moment, so why don’t you sneak out to the bins and see if you can find the box? If it’s anywhere, my best bet would be in the bins. Especially if Helen had anything to do with it." Before I could protest Megan jumped up and got back to her duties. I was feeling nervous but at the same time I wasn’t going to let Helen get me down. Joe meant the world to me and I was going to keep my promise. I poked my head around the corner and caught Megan’s eye, she gave me a wink to say the coast was clear and I headed out to the back of the hospital. I was so nervous and felt like giving up. I couldn’t though, I gave Joe my word and I was going to keep it. I stepped on one of the smaller bins and looked in, the smell almost making me fall off. But something caught my eye and I almost thought I was dreaming. There was the box! It was so far down and I didn’t know how I was going to get it. Just as I was about to do my best to reach in I heard the creak of the door slowly being opened. I jumped down and hid behind the bin. I looked through the crack and noticed it was Megan. "Sarah?" Megan whispered, "Sarah? Are you out here?" "I’m here." I said standing up. "Sit down!" Megan gasped, "Helen is on her way out she doesn’t know you or me are here so we have to be quiet." Megan slipped in next to me just in time. Helen walked out with a bag of rubbish. She chucked it in the bin but before leaving she somehow reached in and grabbed the box. "This will be safer in my office." She said to her self and walked back inside. As soon as I heard the door slam shut I groaned. What was I going to do? "I’ve got a plan!" Megan said jumping up and running towards the door, "Helen is off tonight, it’s you and me on the late shift. Helen finishes at five, meet me at her office at five thirty!" At that Megan ran off leaving me confused. During my lunch break I snuck in and told Joe the story of why I hadn’t visited. I could tell he was upset and he was looking very pale. I had a very bad feeling that his few months were going to be cut very short. Five thirty came and I met Megan at Helen’s office. She already had the box in hand. Without saying a word she handed me the box and an envelope. She smiled and told me to go home… with Joe. I gasped and tried to protest but Megan just walked off ignoring me, she knew what was best even if it was the wrong thing. I went into Joe’s room and handed him the box, teddy included. His blue eyes lit up and he gave me a big hug. "Thank you Sarah!" Joe exclaimed, happily, "Thank you so much!" "That’s not all." I said, "Look what I’ve got?" I showed him the plane tickets that Megan had given me. Joe looked at them but then looked at me, confused. "What does that say?" Joe asked. "We’re going to the Gold Coast." I said, "I’m going to take you to the beach where you can see the dolphins." I had never seen Joe so lively, he jumped out of bed, got changed and was all packed in a matter of minutes. When he was ready I took his hand and bravely walked out of the hospital. I knew I was doing the wrong thing but at the same time it felt like it was right. Joe had the right to be happy, just like the rest of us. As soon as we reached the Gold Coast I headed straight to the beach. "Joe?" I said, "Come here sweetie and look at this." Joe came up to me but he was looking very pale and was hunched over. "Joe?" I asked, my heart pounding, "Are you feeling ok?" Joe smiled slightly, "I don’t feel too well. But I’ll be fine. Can we go outside? I want to be able to see the dolphins closely." By this time Joe could barely walk so I had to carry him to the beach. We sat right on the shore and Joe sat on my lap, his feet right on the waters edge so he could feel the waves touching his feet. At that moment a dolphin jumped up making a spectacular scene. I gasped. "Joe!" I exclaimed, "Did you see that?" Silence. I looked down at Joe and his eyes were closed. My heart pace quickened and I felt his pulse… nothing. Joe had died. I hugged him tight and rocked him, tears streaming down my face. The only thing that comforted me was the fact that I knew Joe had seen that dolphin, I knew he had achieved in life what he wanted to achieve. He knew what was going to happen and had even written me a little note telling me he loved me and I was to keep the box. I was the only one who could have it, no one else. I felt like I had learnt a big lesson from Joe, even if he was only ten. He taught me that having everything doesn’t mean anything at all. Having less is more rewarding then anything else in the world. His toy box with his one toy was the only thing he had and he was the happiest kid in the world. |
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| The Toy Box by jturner4@charter.net |
#11 of 17 |
| 1293 words | |
| Chester crossed his arms over his white uniform and
scowled as Jess Wheeler hobbled toward the day room. The old broad was a
handful and although he didn’t like interfering with the seasoned
citizens, as they called themselves, he would step in and shame her into
behaving when she got out of line. She lifted her chin, ill-fitting dentures resting on her fleshy bottom lip and gave him an I-dare-you stare. He shook a finger at her in warning. Poor Harold Price sat in the recliner, Jess’s throne at Beacon Hills, home for the aged and infirm. Jess shoved her walker ahead of her, less in need of aid and more prone to use it as a weapon to go with her scaly personality. "Mr. Price! Have you lost another toy? Did your box spring a leak and all your marbles fall out?" The screech brought Chester off the wall in a heartbeat. He was tired of this fragile-looking woman bullying the residents, it was their home too. "Mrs. Wheeler, Harold has just as much right to sit in a comfortable chair as you do. Leave him alone." She turned quickly, much faster than his cronies at Mack’s Pub would believe later on, and too fast for him to do much more than raise a hand in self-defense. The walker slammed into his head. Bright pain erupted in his skull and his teeth clamped hard on the side of his tongue. Her cackle followed him to the ground and Chester blinked on hands and knees. The grey specked tile wavered between his splayed fingers. Harold, obviously not willing to be her next victim, shuffled past on worn brown slippers. "I do what I want in my house, Mr. Atkins." Jess Wheeler shook her fist at him as he started to stand. "My toys are all in their box." Chester held onto her walker to keep it grounded as he found his feet. Shocked, embarrassed by his inability to control one, petite–if insane–woman, he floundered for something to say, something to put her in her place that wouldn’t get him fired. He had two kids, or he’d say to hell with the job and clobber the old bat a good one. Teach her a lesson. Enough, after all, was enough. She laughed; a high, grating noise that made her dentures clack. "What? The big man can’t say anything? You lose your toys too, like old nicey-Pricey?" "You . . ." he breathed, hands balled into fists. His eye throbbed and later it would be the shiner that made him the object of ridicule. Beaten by an old biddy. And as he breathed, as he calmed, the answer came to him. "You, Mrs. Wheeler, are banished from the day room. For a week." She straightened and looked down her nose at him. "Just you try it, you weasel. I pay your salary. You have to do what I say." "No," he grinned, as a thought occurred to him. "No, Mrs. Wheeler. I hold the keys to your toy box. I control you." He shook the large wad of silver and gold keys in her face and smiled triumphantly as she went pale, eyes wide. "No, no, no," she mumbled and backed up toward the television. "No, they’re my toys, you can’t have them!" "But I can. I’m bigger than you, I’m stronger than you, and I have the keys." He forced her backward until she side-stepped the old console set and her back was to the wall. "And if you ever think of hurting someone again, I’ll lock that toy box in your head for good and you’ll never get to play." Chester didn’t know for sure why she referred to the mind as a toy box, but he knew her delusions were based heavily on that theory. A small, and perhaps more humane part of him was sickened by this act of taunting one of the elderly women in his care, but Jess Wheeler was not the typical grandmotherly figure. She’d broken Lizzie Jackson’s arm last month, knocked Daryll Danver’s dentures clean out of his head simply because he was black, and Bruce Dickson had quit working there not two weeks ago because she threw a full bed pan at the back of his head when she’d asked him to help her with her slippers. Aside from those horrid antics, she loved to watch her neighbors cry. She would bully them, spit on them, taunt them until they became a blubbering mess of hysterical nerves. Chester was through with her. It was time to take charge. "Go back to your room, Mrs. Wheeler." He pulled her forward and though he wanted to yank her arm, he held it gently and let his tone do the forcing. "And if you come out of there before I tell you too, your highness, I’ll make sure that not only do I lock up those toys in that attic you call a head, I’ll give them all away to the rest of the residents. I’ll make sure that your roommates all have a piece of you." She started to struggle then, the steel in her spine, and in one hip, too sturdy for her to give in that easily. "You can’t do this, Chester! I’ll–I’ll . . ." "You’ll what, Mrs. Wheeler? Have my job? Surely someone who has as many toys as you do understands her place in the world," he tugged her toward the hall, the walker a forgotten weapon against the recliner. "You have no power here." And because the words sounded so right, so extremely perfect, he said them again, "You have no power here." She trembled beneath his hand, but her eyes darted back and forth between him and whatever had caught her attention behind him. "I’ll have your toys, you heathen. I’ll have them take your toys away the same way Daddy locked up mine. I’ll have your toys!" "No, Mrs. Wheeler, you’ll have a nice dose of Haldol." To push her further, to aid her delusion that a person could be judged by how many toys were still left in their head, seemed cruel at this point. "I don’t like that stuff. I don’t want it. You can’t make me take it," she cried, but continued to walk forward. "I can and I will, Mrs. Wheeler." Chester directed her to the dim corridor. During the day, they kept the lights off to save on electricity and the lack of windows plunged the hall into shadow. It was like walking toward an ending, from the day room to the night hall, and he picked up the pace. "You’re a bully, through and through, Chester," she barked at him. He didn’t care what she thought or said, as long as she did what he told her. "You are the Queen Bully here, and your reign is over." Behind him, someone clapped, and then someone else added their agreement until the hall fairly erupted with applause. Chester turned to find Harold and everyone who had to live in the east wing with Jess Wheeler standing behind him. Surprised, Chester smiled as they applauded louder, even Lizzie Jackson, waving her cast, clapped loudly. Daryll Danvers stood next to her, his wizened face split with a grin, dentures firmly in place. As Chester’s gaze passed over them, he saw bruises, split lips, and exultant cheer on their faces. His stomach churned at how far out of control, or in control depending on how you looked at it, Jess Wheeler had been allowed to get. "You see, Mrs. Wheeler, the people have decided," Chester began as he turned her back to her room and the applause died down, "your toys are no longer welcome at Beacon Hill." |
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| The Toy Box by Maggie Grinnell MSuspense@aol.com |
#12 of 17 |
| 80 words | |
| The toy box all wooden and square what suprises await in there Springy jumpy things Little objects in the shape of rings Clowns, rubber balls and matchbox cars all processing the box as 'ours.' When the box opens up, the toys jump out and bound all around They spring, bounce, crawl along the ground When they are done Giving fun To each boy and girl, It is time to go back in the box and give another day a whirl. |
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| The Toy Box by Alec Riker alangrantus@yahoo.com |
#13 of 17 |
| 4593 words Ineligible Entry |
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| He was an eleven-year-old and since two years an
orphan. His parents died twenty four months and thirty days ago. Still counting
every day at the orphanage. He couldn't stop himself, couldn't stop thinking
about incoming days, weeks and months. He had younger sister, Lisa had her sixth birthday today and she wasn't smiling but crying. They were most lonely orphans at the most obscure orphanage in Chicago and he, Richard Walker was the younger father in world. He had to care not only for himself but also for his sister. She was so small that she could barely remember the day when a black police officer entered their cramped two-room apartment on 23rd December two years back, a very windy and snowy day, looked around and tears shined in his eyes. It was Richard who opened the door just after he checked through peephole. "Are you alone, son?" a quite soft voice asked. Richard looked back where his little sister was plying dolls with a stupid teenage babysitter who billed three bucks per hour. "Something like that, sir" he answered scared to his depths. Black policeman crouched beside him "Where are your parents?" "Went shopping. For X-mas." he added cautiously as if it could be a crime. "You have an uncle, aunt or some relatives nearby?" "No, sir". Richard saw a young woman dressed in brown costume standing behind the policeman. She came forward and took his hand carefully. She looked at his eyes and he felt something very bad had happened. "Richie" she said softly "Your parents had a car accident". He stiffened." Are they alright?" "No" She hugged him as he was still standing stiffly. He knew already they were dead. A day after it they wounded up at the nearest orphanage and had to live there long time. They had no close family, only old aunt from his mother side but she was so old she herself needed care. So they were now on their own. Little frightened nine year old boy and a four year old girl asking over and over again for her mummy to come back. How to explain a four year old child that her mother has gone for ever? It could be impossible for an adult and he himself was a kid. But she eventually stopped asking about their parents and started to forget. He couldn't, he remembered them too well. They were always in his mind, always and everywhere. At school, at his room in orphanage which he shared with four other boys. Everywhere. Time is the best doctor, his soul wounds began to stitch up and finally he was healthy again. They were waiting for adoption as everyone in this overcrowded place and Richard knew it will not be easy. Firstly they, he and his sister, were a family despite everything and he wouldn't want them separated. And it could happen. There were some people who wanted took Lisa but happily they didn't. She spend a few weeks with them but was so scared and missing her brother it was a tough job to had her not crying and weeping twenty four hours a day. So she was returned back to him. Secondly there was a matter of their age. Children who were adopted most often had no more than four, five years. It included Lisa but not him. He was out of the competition and most likely to spend rest of his teenage life in the public care. But he didn't give up hope. It was dictum which his father, notoriously out of job because of his numerous ailments. So didn't give it up and was hoping one day someone would want to take care of them both. But as the next Christmas was closing his sadness and loneliness deepened. Memories started to come back again and he spend most of his leisure time laying on his bed and daydreaming how it would be if his parents were still alive. His sister was now in kindergarten and he decided to roam around district. He put on his old warm jacket and a pair of black worn-out jeans along with a pair of dirty Nikes he had won in some interschool baseball competition. From under a mattress he pulled out a few twenty dollar bills he had happened to earn cruising between two small greeneries and one small bar with sacks of various spices and vegetables. He always managed to get some money along with few dollars he could get from the orphanage staff. On the streets was cold and snow began to lash the world. He put up his fur collar and dived through the nearest crossing in direction of downtown where big Christmas tree was occupying people's attention. Around the tree, which stood on huge square, a big group of people gathered listening to a street orchestra playing Christmas carols so loud and clear that the air amid the downtown skyscrapers seemed to quiver with music and joy. Richard stood there half an hour listening to singing of people who waved as they felt the spirit of Christmas. Then he turned around, big pearls of salt liquid smudging down his face and freezing to a halt on his red cheeks. He saw a family like his own standing in the crowd. Father with little girl on his shoulders and a mother clutching hand of her seven year old son. It was too much for him and he run away. Three or four streets farther he was out of breath and had to stop. He glanced at left and noticed that he's in front of the entrance to a huge department store. Two Santa Clauses in their funny red coats were ringing bells and giving away sweets to children who came out the store with their parents. He came closer but two supposed-to-be Christmas Fathers didn't take any notice of him. He stared at them longingly for a while then went inside. Pleasingly warm air hit him as he stepped through glass door. He unzipped his jacket and rushed forward elbowing his way through crowded hall. He had seen whole families laughing and enjoying themselves in cafés, while shopping or watching expensive things he could have only dreamed of where his parents were with him, let alone now. Tears again flowed his eyes but he pushed ahead, his mind fixed on a Christmas present he intended to buy for his little sister. It wasn't anything sophisticated, Lisa all year long was watching every TV ad showing Barbie and her uncountable accessories. He was going to buy her latest model of Barbie along with her new camper. Lisa cried happily every time she saw it on the ad. He had eighty dollars and fifty-five cents and hoping it will be enough. But it wasn't. He found the shelves with Barbies, Kens and so on and read the price stuck to the camper box. One hundred forty seven bucks. He couldn't even imagine himself such amount of cash in his present situation. There was no solution to the problem, at least he couldn't see any. He wandered around the store for an hour or so, bought himself a doughnut and diet cola. At last he faced the shelf with the Barbie and camper again thinking hard. He was very determined to get this thing and eventually see face of his beloved sister smiling. But before he could even think about theft beside him appeared huge black department detective with a gun on his hip. His outer resemblance to the policeman who met him at that terrible night when his parents died was enormous but his behavior not quite the same. Detective caught him hardly on the shoulder and asked huskily "Looking for something specific, boy?" "Not quite" answered Richard toughly "Why are you squeezing my arm?" "I had an idea that you might be one of those little thieves who were sneaking here lately some electronic equipment" said the man looking deep in his eyes. "Well, I am not so please be kind and let me alone, would you?" "you little-" detective started but he couldn't finish. Richard freed himself from the man's grip and kicked ahead yelling form all his might "Mum, Dad! This mad is trying to rape me!" At this moment he pointed his index finger behind his back, at the detective who stopped obviously lost for words. Talks, breathing, moving - everything was brought to a sudden halt when Richard uttered the sentence. Crowd stopped and looked in the direction where boy's finger was targeting. The detective flushed red. Richard was still running and near the exit door he brushed against a man wearing black cashmere coat, white long shawl and a black hat. Richard thought that the man looked like famous Al Capone. Richard saw once long ago a movie about the thirties and noticed actor who played Capone, they both wore similar clothes. He muttered some apologies under his breathe and fled outside, into cold darkening afternoon. At parking lot outside he spotted flashingly red car and went closer to take a better look. It was ferrari 360 Modena as he remembered a photo from a car mag. He rounded it twice staring curiously. A moment later he noticed another department thug closing in on him. He glanced last time at the shining coupe and treaded his way through the parked cars. He stopped at the hot-dog booth where there was a vantage point at the red ferrari and bought one with salad and mayonnaise. Thirty five minutes later the man he bumped into at the exit door emerged from it and walked to the ferrari. His heart pounded when he heard engine starting. It was a sound! What he would have done for a one ride in such a car! The best Christmas present of all times. Engine roared and the ferrari was gone, racing away amid ordinary gray limos. Richard not thinking what he was doing walked up to the place where ferrari had been parked. He saw something silver opallising at his feet. He crouched and picked it up. It was a rectangular piece of plastic with a black stripe and numbers on one side. He saw similar cards earlier and knew what it was. A credit card. He scanned surroundings with a quick look and this time spotted something white. It was a business card. There was a name and a telephone number on it. Devon Tretcher, Jr - he read. He squeezed springy credit card in his hand. He knew how to use it. It was a solution to a lot of problems not only a Barbie one. He could use it and then simply throw it into water or burning street garbage can. Anything. No one would ever know about it. He started again to the glass door but stopped abruptly. What would my father said if I do this?, a thought crossed his mind. He knew what was the answer but he was undecided. It wasn't easy but eventually his strong side won. He looked for a phone booth and threw a quarter into slot. He picked out the number from the business card. Nobody answered. He tried again but the result was, again, silence. He went for a stroll to the Christmas tree again and found another booth. This time someone answered his call. "Yes?" a woman's gentle voice said. He tried to sound older. "Can I speak with Mr. Devon Tretcher?" "He's not home" came the answer "Who is speaking?". "He didn't know me. My name is Richard Walker, I've found something that belongs to him" "Namely what?" her voice toughened as if she was thinking some teenage hooligan was making a stupid joke. "His credit card. I saw his ferrari on the parking before department store in downtown and it caught my attention. When I was watching it he came out of the store and drove away. I went to the place where the car was parked and found the credit card and a business card with his name and this phone number on it. I had also bumped into him earlier, inside the store. I want to give the cards back to owner so I called". For a moment there was no answer and then suddenly "How old are you?". He hesitated, "Eleven". Silence again. "Are you with your parents?" he felt a prick on the heart. "No" "May I ask where are they?" she said inquiringly. "Dead" he answered sharply with a kind of wild satisfaction. "Oh, I didn't- I didn't mean-" she couldn't finish the sentence. "It's okay. Are you his wife?" "Whom?" Now, he became irritated "Devon Tretcher. Are you his wife?" "Yes" "If so could you take the cards?" "I- Oh, he's back! Hang on, dear! I'll be right back!" Richard heard a ring in receiver and put another quarter into the slot. He squeezed the credit card in his left hand and saw in his mind two consecutive pictures. First was when he and Lisa were sitting near the orphanage plastic Christmas tree and his sister was unwrapping her toy box. Then she smiled and showed his elder brother what Santa Claus brought for her. She believed that Santa Claus worked his way through chimneys and secretly hid the presents for children under the X-mas tree. Second picture was when they were sitting under the same tree but there were no real presents, only some cheap down market clothes from the social service and Salvation Army. He chased away the pictures. He had made his decision and it was a good one, he was sure now. He heard suppressed voices from the receiver, some quick answers and a man's strong but nice voice said "Hello, Richard. Devon's speaking. I am very happy you've phoned. It means you are a honest man and I appreciate it." "Thanks" it was everything Richard had to say. "Maybe we could meet and talk?" Devon's proposition was very seductive to Richard but he didn't let him sense it. In his mind he was racing in ferrari through the streets and blocks of Chicago's downtown and eventually stopping to a dead halt before orphanage door. Then he would take Lisa into the car and speed away through the city for ever. "Okay, why not?" he answered. "Good. Maybe we can meet before the department store? My car is-" "I know what it is" Richard interrupted "my quarters are running out. Before the store in an hour. Be there." He hung up. For half an hour he stood beside the huge Christmas tree and listened to Christmas carols. Then he glanced at his old Casio wristwatch, which his father bought him just before he died. "Be always on time, Richie" he said back then. He was before the glass door to the store five minutes earlier and waited impatiently for a roar of Ferrari’s engine. It came with the wind and snow, sharp high-pitched tone closing in to the parking lot with every passing second. In the next moment the shining coupe was in front of him and a man in black cashmere coat waved for him to get inside. He hesitated but when he saw store detective, who interrogated him in the store, going outside through the entrance, he made a quick decision. He opened red door and sit himself in a leather seat. "So you are Richard Walker?" said the driver "Yes" he answered "Would you please be so kind and kicked a hell outta here?". Devon noticed the detective walking to them and smiled. He had to recognize the man and surely he saw whole accident at the store before Richard jabbed his elbow in his stomach. "Easy" he said still smiling and pressed the gas pedal. Ferrari's tires squeaked and it shot forward almost like a bullet. Surprised detective waved his hands angrily and he saw middle finger of Richard's right hand stuck out in response. Richard lounged himself on the seat and was relishing the ride. "So why have you decided to return the card?" Devon asked driving at a maximum speed allowed by the traffic. "It's not mine" came the answer and Devon looked at the boy whose face was grave. "You are honest boy" he repeated his previous sentence. "Or stupid" came another tough answer. "Indeed. It's a stupid thing return that amount of money when the law cannot do any harm to you even if you spend it all, because you are juvenile. Did you know that?" "Yes" Richard answered. He knew it indeed because he heard about it from elder boys at the orphanage. "Laura told me your parents are dead. Who are you living with?" "My sister and I are under the government protection" Richard responded with a smirk. "At the orphanage" he added. Devon said nothing, he was just driving. Then he spoke. "Could I have my credit card back?" "Here it is" Richard handed to him silver piece of plastic. "Thank you. So you have a sister? And you certainly are waiting for an adoption?" "Yes, we are. But we do not want to be separated." "I understand. What if a family would want to take you both home for Christmas?" he asked turning left. "I guess it's possible. Why?" "No reason" they stopped in front of a big mansion at the outskirts of the city. "Would you like to come in?" Devon said. "I have to be present on dinner, at eight o'clock" "You will be. I'll drive you back." Richards dreams were becoming true. "So I would like to" "Great" Devon stopped the car at end of driveway and cut the engine. A tall person in a suit opened both doors and said "Welcome back, sir" "How funny, John". They followed John inside, through magnificent looking hallways and into a row of airy and expensive-completed rooms. There they sit and John left them to came back after a while with a tray, on it various, strangely looking sweets and two sodas. "Feel yourself free" said Devon and Richard was grateful that he didn't use "at home". They talked for an hour and Richard liked Devon and his wife, Laura, who met them later. It was very much like real home. The conversation slipped naturally onto a credit card topic and Richard was thanked once again and praised for being honest. "Few young people at your age and with your problems would return the card" said Laura. Richard felt heat flowing down his face and he said awkwardly "I am not a thief" "I can see it" said Laura firmly "Devon, what would you say if we ask this young man and his little sister for a Christmas dinner?" "If only Richard will agree". They both looked at him expectantly. His cheeks flashed red again. "I have to ask my sister. But I think she will be very happy to come here" "So it’s a deal. I will get this done with the orphanage director tomorrow" said Devon and smiled. "I saw you standing in front of the shelf with dolls in the store today, before detective caught you" said Devon. "Yes, this jerk thought I am going to steal something." "And what were you doing there?" asked Laura. "Counting my money. I was going to buy Lisa, that’s my sister, a new Barbie model. One with a camper. She loves it on TV. But I didn’t have enough cash." He said shyly. Devon and Laura exchanged meaningful looks and asked him to tell his family story. "There is nothing special about it" he started cautiously "Two years ago my father and mother, it was on 23rd December as I remember, went shopping and were killed in a car crash on highway. A drunk driver pushed their van off the road." he was speaking quietly without emotions "We didn’t have any close family so we wounded up in the orphanage. "Poor children" said Laura with her throat squeezed with grief. Conversation was getting too hard as for Richard so he stood up and said "I will be better going back. There is an evening meal at eight p.m. and I have to be there. It was very nice to met you Mrs. Tret-" "Laura" she interrupted him "Just Laura. Devon will drive you back and talk to the orphanage director today, okay honey?" "Sure, I will do this today". They went to the Ferrari and John, the servant, opened the doors. Richard felt that this was too much for him as for one day and was sitting in silence while Devon drove through the streets, nigh and snow. At last Ferrari stopped before gray obscure two-story building where the orphanage was situated and they went inside. Group of boys whispered in the corners of the hallway and glanced at Richard with respect. They had to see the Ferrari. Richard was walking proudly, his chest full. They finally get to the directors office and Devon knocked on the door. "Come in, please" a woman’s deep voice said and Devon pushed the black-paneled door. Inside the small office a big black woman sat on a chair behind old desk with out-of-date computer and a lot of papers everywhere. "Mrs. Dove?" said Devon - he read gold lettering on the outside door. "Yes. What can I do for you?". Devon was holding Richard’s hand. "I and my wife want to take two of your children for Christmas. Walkers" he added pointing his chin at Richard. "If only all conditions will be met I don’t see any obstacles. Richard, could you wait outside?" "Yes, Mrs. Dove" he said and shut the door behind him. He went to see Lisa. She was sitting in common room watching TV along with another children. "Hi, Lisa." He said kissing her on cheek. "Hi, Richie. Where were you?" "Outside, in downtown. I saw big Christmas tree." "Did you meet Santa Claus?" it was a standard daily question since the beginning of December. "Yes" "Will he come?" "Yes, he will." He stroked her fair blonde head "He will". Devon walked into the room and welcomed Lisa. "Hi sweetie, my name is Devon. I am a friend of Richard’s. Would you like to spend Christmas with my family, me and my wife Laura?". Small girl looked up at her elder brother. He nodded with a smile and she answered cleverly "Richard’s saying we want to". Devon smiled again his overwhelming smile and took Richard by the arm. "I will be here tomorrow to take you" "Tomorrow!" Richard was shocked "Yes" Devon was still smiling "Are you angry?" "No, not at all. It simply is so, so-" he couldn’t find proper word. "See, you" Devon hold his palm against Lisa’s cheek and she flashed her small white teeth at him. Then he was gone. Richard sat with Lisa to watch some cartoons. Next day everything was perfect. Richard was only worrying how they three will go in a two-seater but his concern appeared to be groundless. Devon drove black Jeep Commander and there was enough room for a football team. It was 20th December and holiday was coming much closer. Richard was freed from school and Lisa didn’t have to go to kindergarten. Streets were again full of cars and snow. Lisa was squirming impatiently in the back seat. "Calm down, honey or you will drill a hole in my car" said Devon with his inseparable smile. Laura was waiting at them at the porch and she hugged both Richard and Lisa like a real mother. Richard was anxious whether Lisa wouldn’t take it wrong and misinterpret Laura’s behavior. They went inside and undone their clothes. "Come here" said Laura to Lisa and helped the girl with her shoes. The hosts took them to a big room where everything was shining new. The children opened wide their eyes. There were a lot of different toys - dolls, teddy bears, lego’s and games. There were also two laptop computers. Richard run up to one and cried "Can I use it?" ?Of course" said Devon "everything in this room is for you. We wouldn’t want to separate you so we prepared one room for you both. "Take your time and feel good" asked Laura. She and Devon left. Lisa was yelling with joy. She didn’t see such quantity of toys ever. Richard turned on the laptop and went online. They were playing and enjoying themselves five hours. Then Laura took them for lunch and they ate with appetite. Two days in the Tretcher’s mansion passed so quickly that no one even had noticed. Third day was quieter because Richard remembered it was anniversary of their parents death. But Lisa didn’t know that and he didn’t want to remind her. It wouldn’t be no use. Christmas Eve started happily with tasty breakfast not some unidentified brown substance they had to eat at the orphanage. Richard was imaging himself they all were one happy family. He wanted for a while to feel like in true home and with the atmosphere in the mansion it was so easy. Lisa was growing happier by the day and her beautiful smiles were the best evidences that she felt okay. So felt Richard. He thought it could be their perfect home. Christmas Eve passed and as the next day was approaching Lisa asked if Santa Claus knew about their whereabouts. Richard told her to be quiet but she kept asking. In the morning they were both very exited, mainly because Lisa had found Stacks of presents in their room. They were anxious to open it but they didn’t want to make their hosts angry so they waited until during breakfast Laura asked them "Did you unpack your boxes?" "They are for us?" asked Lisa and Richard in unison. "Sure" said Laura and Devon also in one voice. They smiled as the children left their places immediately and run to their room. Lisa found a present with her name on the color paper and unwrapped a red ribbon. She squealed as she held up the box with a Barbie camper inside and pulled Richard by sleeve wanting him to see. He smiled and found a box with his name. Inside was a car model - red Ferrari Modena with a remote control device. They were both so occupied with their activity they didn’t notice as Laura and Devon slipped into the room. "What do you think about Santa Clause’s presents?" asked Laura. Lisa squealed again, Richard winked at Devon. Almost every toy box was now open. There was only one intact, a very small one without a name on it. Devon pointed to it. "Why don’t you check last box?". Lisa picked it up from under the Christmas tree, which was lightened with myriads of lamps, and pulled the red ribbon. There was nothing inside apart from one single sheet of folded hand written paper. Lisa unfolded the sheet and tried to read it but it was to big task for her so she handed the paper to her brother. There was only one sentence and Richard read it aloud "Would you like to stay with us as a family?". His voice cracked as he was reading. There were two signature underneath "Laura and Devon". He wiped his eyes but big drops of tears hung on his nose. Lisa was quiet and smiling. "Yes" Richard took her sister by the hand and looked at her. "Yes" both repeated and run up to their new parents. Copyright© by Pawel Wartalski |
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| The Toy Box A Children's Story by walshnyc@yahoo.com |
#14 of 17 |
| 1021 words | |
| "Grandma, do you have toys in the attic?" Kylie asked
as she looked around the dark, oddly shaped room. "No, dear, there are no toys up here," her grandmother chuckled. The ceiling was so low, her grandmother had to keep her head bent down to avoid hitting it. Kylie thought she looked funny. "Why do I have to be up here then?" she asked. "Because grandma was right in the middle of doing something when your mommy called and asked if I could watch you," her grandmother explained. "It’s kind of important, so I’m going to need you to be patient for just a little while, and I’ll try to be quick in finding what I’m looking for." "What are you looking for?" Kylie asked, surveying her surroundings. The attic was lit by a light bulb that hung from the ceiling, but somehow it still seemed dark to her. There were several boxes stacked in small clusters near the slanting walls; they created strange shadows, and this made her nervous. She stepped closer to her grandmother and took her hand. "I’m looking for something called a ‘passport’," her grandmother responded, stroking her hand. "It’s a special document grandma needs for when she takes her trip next summer." "Mommy says you’re going to go to ‘eye-land’…" "It’s Ire-land, dear," grandma corrected her. "Eyer-land," Kylie repeated. "Yes. That is where I was born. I came to America when I was just a little baby." "Did you go on an airplane?" "No, people didn’t travel by airplanes very much back then. I came on a big boat with my mommy, and my older brother Patrick." "What about your daddy?" "My daddy didn’t come with us. He used to work in the ship builder’s yard, and after he had already made plans to come to America, they needed him to stay on and help build another big boat. He sent us ahead because all of the arrangements had already been made. The three of us stayed with my mommy’s mother- your great grandmother, and we had to wait a long time before my daddy could join us in New York." "Did you miss him? Did you miss your old house in ‘eye-er-land’?" "I did. We all did. But we used to send things to him from America, and he would send us things to remind us of him, and the place we left behind. As a matter of fact, I’m pretty sure it’s here somewhere…" Grandma turned left, then right scanning the attic for what she sought. "Aha! There it is!" She stepped closer to a nearby wall, stooping as the ceiling got lower with each step. She reached, and grabbed a large cardboard box, and pulled it out to the center of the room. "What is it?" Kylie asked, peering over the top of the box that was nearly as tall as she was. "This very box came all the way from Ireland," Her grandma announced. She tilted it so Kylie could see where an address label confirmed it as grandma pointed to the word Ireland on it. "Is this the one your daddy sent to you?" "You know, it may well be," grandma replied, turning and tilting the box for closer inspection. When the light fell on it just right, Kylie could see that it was empty. "Why is it empty? Shouldn’t you throw it away, or recycle it?" "Oh, no, dear. This box is very special to me. You see, when I was a little girl, we didn’t have very much money and hardly any toys at all. Instead, my brother and I would play with the box for hours on end." "You played with the box like it was a toy?" "It was better than any toy we ever had. We would pretend it was a house, or a fort, or a pirate ship…" Kylie gave the old carton a skeptical look. "It doesn’t look like any of those things…" she said. "It does if you use your imagination. I used to love to pretend it was a castle, and I was a beautiful princess waiting to be rescued by a brave knight…." Kylie tentatively released her grandmother’s hand and moved closer to the box. She touched it, felt it’s sturdiness, smelled the paper smell of it mixed with the dust of the attic. "Can I play with the box?" she asked as she pulled it closer to where the light shone brightest. "You certainly may," grandma replied. Kylie lay the box on it’s side and crawled inside it. Her grandmother stepped toward a stack of other boxes, and began to sort through the open one on top. She hummed a pleasant tune, occasionally turning to watch as Kylie became absorbed in her own little world, and her own private space… Two hours later, Kylies mother came into the den where she greeted grandma with a kiss on the cheek "Hi mom; where’s Kylie?" she asked. "I believe she’s in her space ship," grandma replied. "She is? I wasn’t aware that she had a space ship," her mother said. Kylie could hear her coming across the room. When she was close enough, Kylie jumped from her hiding place and yelled "Boo!" "Have you been waiting in that box just so you could scare me?" her mother asked. "No, I wasn’t just hiding; I was playing in my space ship," Kylie said. "Grandma says it used to be a pirate ship when she played with it." Her mom touched the box and smiled as if she had remembered something funny. "When I was little, I used to pretend it was a stagecoach, and I was a cowgirl," she said happily as she turned back to grandma. "That’s not the same box Patrick and I played in, is it?" she asked. "Well, it’s not the same exact one, but it doesn’t seem to matter, does it?" grandma replied, her voice fading as Kylie returned to the far reaches of the galaxy. "A box is only as useful as what’s inside, and right now, it’s full of a little girl having a wonderful time." |
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| The Toy Box by Heckter Ligtop ligtop@yahoo.com |
#15 of 17 |
| 2500 words | |
| The night had ultimately fallen prey to darkness, as
the Verone family assembled for the evening shutdown. Daylight savings had just
been invoked, so dusk meandered in a tad in advance. To the Verone family, this
wasn’t worth a fuss. Every year they knew it would come and they adjusted
their lifestyle accordingly. There would be work to do and odd jobs to complete
around the house, but now there would be a little less light and a little
cooler breeze running amiff. Everyone had his or her chores. Some swept, some sorted, and others would sift, until the whole house was spic-n-span. The Verone’s put high regards on cleanliness and it showed. Theirs was clearly the only household on the block that really yielded to the earlier onset of dusk. Other households didn’t seem to care. Mom, dad and all their girls had just finished a wonderful meal and had gathered round the TV watching their favorite sitcoms. There was laughter, a little back-smacking, and a few high fives as the TV comedians hit their marks. Ragone Verone, the father, had to remind the girls not to pat him too hard on the back because he was prairie-doggin'. The two oldest girls snickered, but respected his request. The younger girl, Reese, asked the oldest sister, Lynette, what prairie-doggin' was. Lynette looked over at the middle sister, Mandy, and sighed a sneer as she peered over the top of her glasses. Both girls simultaneously nodded their heads in unison. Lynette agreed to explain. She tilted her head slightly, got into a squat position then squashed and contorted her face, demonstrating the inkling. She then cupped her fist and reached for a nearby Lincoln Log. While moving the log leisurely through the bottom of her squeezed hand, she frantically snatched it back up again to finalize the explanation. Everyone starting laughing at this little routine. Finally, Reese crossed her arms and smirked, indicating that she'd gotten it. "That’s sick," she remarked. Ragone too, applauded the charade. The strain from the intense, hard laughing forced him to adjourn from the room to expel the prairie dog. On that note, they all agreed it was time for bed. Ragone found it hard to sleep so he flipped on his favorite classic movie channel. One of his favorite films was running. The Poseidon Adventure. What a classic. He was so impressed with the casting ensemble. You had guys like Chico, from Chico And The Man and one of the lead monkey guys from the first Planet of the Apes. Others too, had notable credentials. The movie not only inspired him but also made him laugh. Seeing Shelly Winters climb that inverted Christmas tree was not only inspiring but worthily of a chuckle. Especially when the small boy compares her to a six-hundred-pound swordfish. He later apologizes. Ragone Verone was head of the household. Breadwinner, if you will. Living in America made him proud and at awe. There was not a day that went by that Ragone did not consider the country a land of timeless beauty. He just wanted success. He had harbored a very deep and compassionate love for what his father had taught him as a youthful youngster. These early lessons would be the cornerstones of what he was to be. His father struggled financially, however, and Ragone wanted no part of that. Ragone Verone, Sr. had taught him the rudiments of business early in his life and Ragone had firmly vouched to obey them. These rudiments were truly celebrated like the Ten Commandments. Ragone didn’t agree necessarily with posting the Ten Commandments, but he still revered the aspect of homage. Through hard work and perseverance, Ragone had managed to launch a respectable hardware business. The name was Verone’s Respectable Hardware Business. It was with the help of Ragone, Sr., and his teachings, that made it possible. One of the primary teachings was to know and understand the core of your business. Ragone, Sr. would often say that many other business owners simply didn’t understand their core. That simple. His motto was, "In order to score, know your core." Ragone respected this motto but deep down felt it was more fitting for the adult film industry. He never had the courage to share this with his father--and never had the courage to post the motto. Ragone knew his core and knew it well. Sell the product and deliver the means. Accentuate the bottom line of profit margin and capital expenditure. Reiterate diligent expectations to staff, suppliers, and business associates. Go for the bottom line and take no prisoners. Fight the good fight. And, never let’em see you sweat. Yet above all: All things whatsoever ye would that men should do to you, do ye even so to them. Ragone’s so-called success was unfortunately spiraling out of control as he'd suspected. The profits from his hardware business were faltering and a comeback looked dismal. Competition and gawky store displays seemed to fortify the stagnation. He tried making a web site but had difficulty getting the codes to load. Ultimately he had limited success. He felt what he really needed was to come across someone who could help supplement his inventory and bring some fresh ideas to his marketing strategies. Some of his business associates suggested that he get involved in networking. So, both Ragone and Senior went to a town entrepreneur seminar held at the corner of Rygel and 9th. It was a big factory warehouse where the up-and-coming business strategists would converge. As the tobacco debris sauntered across the pine floor, it was apparent that this had been an impressive, old tobacco warehouse. You could even smell the tobacco in the air. Neither Verone smoked, so to them it was unimpressive and a non-issue. Their sole mission was to make connections and catapult business prospects. Business deals were made and connections were fostered. For the most part, things went as planned. People socialized and offered suggestions for the ill-fated. There was also the expected flirting and the casual small-talk that typically permeates such events. But this time was different. An incident was about to develop. Ragone was talking to some business leaders, nodding his head, when William Mott approached. Mr. Mott had come from the Festival of the Gun and Knife Alliance. It was just next-door in the adjacent building. He was taking a break and mingling when he stumbled into Ragone. From their conversation, Mott soon realized that Ragone was down on his luck. He decided to share with him something that he felt may be of some good. Mr. Mott was not only a devout philanthropist but also, at times, supported the Republican Party. He decided to invite Ragone over to his compound to explain the details. Ragone Sr., wearing a look of confusion, waved as they left. They got into Mott’s armored truck. The paint had dulled from exposure and the interior was gloomy, but it fired up faithfully. Even though it was a little dilapidated, it somehow assumed balance with the three gun racks that engrossed the rear window. On the floor of the vehicle were some survival magazines. One was titled, How To Survive When No One Else Does. Another read, Building A Fortress, The Right Way. Ragone scooted them out of the way and positioned his feet for the ride. Below the steering column was a silver plated switch that read SOLAR POWER. Mott explained that this allowed the vehicle to operate from the solar panels on the roof. From the reflection in the silver plate, Ragone saw black tubular-looking things mounted above the truck. When he peered up, he saw about twenty black mini mag lights clipped to the felt roof. Ragone curiously asked, "Why so many?" Mott just shrugged his shoulders and said something about a good deal. From the rear-view mirror a swinging picture caught Ragone’s eye. It hung from a small string that twisted and twitched as the truck maneuvered. He thought perhaps it was Mott's son. It was a picture of a young man with a full head of hair and a mountain dew pressed tightly in his upper jacket pocket. Underneath, was a faded tie-dye T-shirt with the word, "Jesus" on it. Mott smiled when he saw Ragone affixed to the picture. He indicated that it was him as a teenager and he just liked it. Ragone was a little shaken by the overkill vehicle. Mott explained that you never know about Uncle Sam. At anytime, the government could come to your house without warning (and without due process) and burn it down while everyone inside scratches and screams at the windows until they’re burned a treacherous and enraged, flagrant death. Ragone rolled his eyes and shifted them left to detect any possible sarcasm. None detected. They talked a little about politics and some of the front-page headlines. Mott seemed to have a grip on things but was insistent on things always being either black or white. "No middle-ground," he kept reciting. Then, "You have to stick to your guns, Ragone." He exhaled a dampened giggle and remarked, "Pun intended." Ragone kept asking Mott about the business opportunity and why he had to go all the way out to his residence. Mott was rather quiet and reserved about revealing any details. "Patients," he said. "It's hard to explain, and things will soon make more sense. Seeing is believing and believing is what you will have." Mott then looked into Ragone's skeptical eyes and said, "Trust me on this one." Ragone just laughed and jokingly said that it was cool. Under his breath, however, he groaned that he hoped he wasn’t being taken prisoner to be disrespectfully violated. Mott heard him and returned a cackle. He assured Verone that he wasn’t his type anyway, so he was safe. This time. They drove past some buildings and eventually made their way deep into the rural landscape. Finally, at a distance, you could see Mott’s refuge. It was unassuming but looked forthright and secure amongst the wooded enclave. You could make out a spotlight that was attached strategically to the sniper tower. It was just a few hundred feet shy of the entrance. A small boy could be seen popping in and out of the opening at the top. Mott flashed a clearance code with his headlights and the boy faded from view. Finally Mott made a sharp right turn and pulled into the long gravel driveway. He slowed to accommodate the lumpy ride. Mott deactivated the necessary ground explosives with a remote on his visor. The lawn had weeds and mounds of dirt scattered randomly throughout. Behind some of the mounds you could identify the tips of turrets. Sand bags were abundant. Manning some of the turrets appeared to be an array of make-shift mannequins wearing factory-type bump caps with chin straps. Some wore heavy, rigid, green jackets and glasses with safety shields on the side. Many had charcoal smeared on their faces. Some were African-American. Others were Caucasian. Mott continued down the long and winding driveway until they could clearly see the large rivets that outlined a big steel door. Four pit bulls jogged alongside both sides of the vehicle as they approached. All were male. Very male. At the bottom of a hill, two mannequin-guards secured either side of the steel door. They were stout and tall and wore shiny armor. Their faces stayed behind spiked metal helmets with the words KEEP OUT written across their brows. Right in front of the steel door were thick, round bars that had slats of iron both above and below, holding them in place. The windows of the structure were double-hung and well-to-do. They were clearly insulated and covered with expensive, reflective, window tint. Up under the soffit was hardware that housed a camera and attached cabling. Apparently they were being watched because the camera moved with their every flinch. In Ragone’s mind, this was the modern-day, residential, crouch-down-in-the-bunker kind of pad. Mott proceeded to open the big brass lock encased in the front door. He then punched in some security numbers on a keypad to the right. To the left of the door, he placed his palm on a red pad. It confirmed identity, beeped, then turned green. They now had access to the facility. Mott showed Ragone around a little and explained more about the security system. He pointed out some of the monitors that spread throughout the main floor. It was amazing. There was total, panoramic protection throughout the compound. Mott suggested that they make their way downstairs. While heading down, they were overcome with squeaking noises, a greenish fog, and some rumbling, bursting sounds. When they reached downstairs, they paused with jubilation. It was Mott’s wife. She was benchpressing and was possessed by a flatulent attack. She couldn’t hear due to her headset. Mott just laughed and excused his wife. Ragone finally had to ask the question. "What is it you want to show me?" "Okay," Mott finally said. "Here's the deal." He told Ragone that all that was left was to go through a door downstairs and then go down a long hallway. There, he would find the answer. So that they did. Ragone followed Mott down the hallway and they finally came to the last door. It was a super-heavy door much like the main one upstairs. There was also a barrage of cameras surrounding it. Above the door was something peculiar. It read, THE TOY BOX. What could that mean? Ragone thought. He didn’t bother asking. Mott opened the door. He reached in and flipped a light switch. Wow. Ragone could not believe it. The room was huge. Really huge. Ragone could not believe what he saw. Inside were supplies. Enough supplies and munitions to survive for years. Countless rounds of ammo, generators, fuel, gold bullion, rations, mag lights, spring water, cash, turret repair kits, guns, knives, bows, mannequin parts, disguises, dog food, arrows, men-in-armor replacement dummies, a shortwave radio, and even a scaled down Army tank in the back corner. Ragone’s jaw just stayed down. He didn’t want to know the why; he just asked how this was going to help him. Mott made him an offer he couldn’t refuse. He said that he really didn’t have much use for this stuff anymore and he was looking for a means of distribution. He thought that Verone’s Respectable Hardware Business was just the place. After a few scratches on the head, Ragone thought it over. He felt it was surely worth a try. He shook Mott’s hand with assertion and agreed to at least give it a go. So they changed the name of the store to THE TOY BOX and totally restructured the inventory. It sure paid off because the place did wonderfully. Ragone could relax and reap the profits. His family was ever grateful. Mott too was gratified for the opportunity to affirm his philanthropist status, creating more unity within the character of people. |
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| The Toy Box by bar8484@earthlink.net |
#16 of 17 |
| 2485 words | |
| Germany 1936 Night was falling on the snow-capped Eiffel Mountains as Lieutenant Adjunct Heinrich Ritter deliberated over what wine to serve at Himmler’s dinner next month. In an attempt to diffuse the growing tension between members of the Wehrmacht, Germany’s regular army, and members of the SS, Hitler’s elite secret police, Heinrich’s commanding officer had decided to throw a lavish dinner for Himmler in honor of his recent promotion to Reichsfuhrer-SS and Chief of the Gestapo. Not only was Himmler now the second most powerful man in Germany, but also the most feared. Even a seasoned Wehrmacht officer like Heinrich’s superior, General Erich Eberhardt, was wary of the long arm of the Gestapo. Heinrich’s thoughts were interrupted by the sound of footsteps coming down the hall. A moment later, the General himself stormed into the office. "Heinrich, come with me. It is a matter of the utmost urgency." Leaping to his feet, Heinrich shouted out, "Ja Woll, Herr Commandant. Heil Hitler!" "Heil Hitler. Let’s go. We’re not going to accomplish anything standing around like cows." As they navigated through the ancient hallways of Castle Turmhaus, Heinrich found himself practically running to keep up with the older man. At length, they came to massive wooden door. After a nod from the General, Heinrich took out his key ring and the two men descended down a narrow stone staircase and entered the wine cellar, where a large wooden crate stood. "Open it!" ordered the General. Heinrich carefully pried apart the cover with a crowbar. Inside were bottles wrapped in red linen. He picked one up and removed the wrapping, gasping when he saw the label. "Sir, this is an 1874 Mouton Rothschild, one of the rarest wines in the world," he said in awe. The General chuckled. "I knew you’d be pleased. A little gift from Bertillion in Paris." A formidable man in his own right, the General believed it was important to cultivate good relations with Germany’s neighbors. "A generous gift indeed, sir. I have heard the French would rather sell their souls then part with such wines," said Heinrich, who had never been outside the Rhine valley. "True enough," the General agreed. Glancing around to make sure they were alone, he softly asked, "So, Heinrich, will this grape juice suffice for Reichsfuhrer Himmler’s visit next month?" "Most assuredly, sir. But perhaps we should serve a German wine instead," suggested Heinrich, in view of Himmler’s extreme nationalism. Waving his hand, the General said, "Relax Heinrich. Both the Fuhrer and Herr Himmler have taken a fancy to all things French. Besides that wine you’re so impressed with, Bertillion gave me a few paintings to pass on-a Renoir, a Monet, and a Degas. Very nice." The General feared he’s said too much. He quickly said, "But that is none of your concern, Heinrich. You need only arrange a dinner Himmler will never forget." "Of course, my General. I recommend a leek soup for starters, followed by venison, potatoes, carrots; naturally we will have Rhine trout for the fish course…" "Already my mouth is watering. Go ahead and set it up. Himmler’s personal cook will be here to oversee the preparations," said the General. "A Bavarian cook? Sir, with all due respect, a Bavarian will not know how to prepare our Rhineland specialties," argued Heinrich. "Perhaps Reichsfuhrer Himmler has other things on his mind besides what is on the table." The General said sternly, not mentioning Himmler’s obsessive fear of poisoning. Embarrassed by the General’s rebuke, Heinrich quickly apologized. He would have to be more careful with his words. National Socialism had swept through Germany like a firestorm. After the country’s humiliating defeat in WW1, Hitler had promised jobs, security and above all, order. Since coming to power in 1933, a great many changes had taken place. Nowadays a man could find work and feed his family. There were programs like Hitler Youth for the children. Even a poor soldier like Heinrich was able to buy his own house. People were once again starting to take pride in being German. "Never mind, I have another task for you. It has come to my attention that an old woman, a certain Frau Gretchen Muller, was recently murdered. Does that name mean anything to you?" "No, I don’t believe so. Should it?" he asked. "She is from Oberburg, your own village." "I do not know her." Heinrich stated emphatically. "Nonetheless, you must investigate the matter. We cannot have old women murdered under our very noses. It makes us appear incompetent. After all, we have a responsibility to protect the people of Germany." "Sir, shouldn’t the Gestapo be consulted? It sounds like a police matter." The General looked shrewdly at his protégé. "Perhaps later. For now, I am ordering you to go home and spend Christmas with your family. How long have you been away, two years? But first, ask a few questions and see if you can find out anything." "I will do what I can, sir, " he told his friend and mentor. # # # Much to his delight, Heinrich found himself traveling on the Autobahn with the General’s own driver at the wheel. Cars were seldom seen in Oberburg, and Heinrich was anticipating seeing the looks on people’s faces as the shiny black Mercedes drove into town. Yet as the car lumbered down the cobblestone streets, Heinrich thought something about the sleepy little town had changed. He just couldn’t put his finger on what. He found the Muller house easily enough. An old man with a cane and opaque blue eyes opened the door. "You’re too late. The funeral was yesterday," he barked, attempting to slam the door in Heinrich’s face. "I apologize for the intrusion, but I must ask you a few questions," Heinrich said by way of introduction. "Who are you?" asked the old man suspiciously. "I am Lieutenant Heinrich Ritter of the Wehrmacht. Kindly state your name and your relation to Frau Muller," Heinrich ordered, taking out a notepad and pencil. "My name is Johan Traub and Gretchen was my sister. Maybe you should come inside," he said with the same unwavering stare. It took Heinrich a moment to realize the old man was blind. He followed him into what appeared to be a shrine to Hitler. The walls were decorated with pictures of the Fuhrer, while every available surface was cluttered with pamphlets and other Party materials. "So now the Wehrmacht is interested in my poor Gretchen," muttered Johan, lowering himself into a threadbare chair. "Have you found her killer yet?" "It is best if I ask the questions and you provide the answers." Heinrich retorted. "You certainly sound important! Your superiors would be pleased. Tell them my sister’s book is missing. If they are truly concerned about finding her killer, they must first find her book." "What is this book?" he asked, making notes. "My sister was very meticulous. She was always noticing things and writing them down. I used to say to her, ‘Gretchen, you must stop this, it is becoming too dangerous.’ But she was greedy and refused to listen," Johan explained tearfully. Heinrich didn’t have the faintest idea what he was talking about. "Herr Traub, I must insist you be forthright," he stated. Johan snorted. "I make no apologies for my sister. She was loyal, as every German should be." Heinrich stopped writing. "No one is questioning your sister’s allegiance," he informed Johan. "It’s just that certain individuals do not appreciate all that the Fuhrer is doing for Germany. Surely you agree these instigators and troublemakers must be found and punished." Johan said enthusiastically. "What are you suggesting?" "Me? I am not suggesting anything. I am merely stating that the laws are for the people’s own good. Some may find them a trifle harsh, but every true patriot will acknowledge them as necessary. Take for instance, the Jewish menace. It is high time they were dealt with." Closing his notebook, Heinrich announced, "This interview is over. You will be contacted if there is any news." He began walking toward the door when Johan called out, "Herr Ritter, come back! I was a friend of your father’s. I knew him when he was still a young Communist." Startled, Heinrich turned around and faced him. "You do not speak like someone my father would befriend," said Heinrich. "Forgive me, I had to be sure. They have spies everywhere. My own sister was one of them," Johan whispered, "The Gestapo was paying her to be their eyes and ears." "Why should I believe you? Maybe you are insane. Are you even blind?" Heinrich asked. "I lost my sight due to cataracts, young man! Think! Have you forgotten how your father and I would discuss politics for hours over a glass of wine? How badly we wanted to change the world?" Johan Traub…Heinrich tried to put the name and face together. Childhood memories were not something he cared to dwell on too often. After his wife’s death, Hans Ritter struggled to raise his eight children alone. Heinrich remembered visits from different church and social agencies, but mostly he remembered the sheer, overwhelming poverty of his existence. There never seemed to be enough food or money. The family moved constantly, with everyone doing odd jobs like delivering newspapers, picking grapes… "Now I know who you are," said Heinrich. "You had a vineyard in Siegburg! We spent Christmas with you one year" The old man smiled thinly. "You are correct. Your father was a good man, but he was a dreamer. He believed that if people simply had enough work and enough to eat, everyone would be happy. Now look at us! " Heinrich sighed. National Socialism was the best thing that ever happened to Germany. Old people often lived in the past, and Herr Traub seemed no exception. "About your sister’s book…" Heinrich said, trying to bring him back into the present. "I have not told you the worst part. Besides working for the Gestapo, Gretchen was also blackmailing certain people in the village," Johan confessed. "Then maybe the Gestapo has already found her book," Heinrich snapped with growing impatience. This was a waste of time. What was there in Oberburg that could possibly interest the Gestapo? "I don’t know. But you must find out and destroy it, if possible." "I will let you know, Herr Traub." They shook hands, and Heinrich left, feeling a chill in the air. # # # "Mama, Trina, look! It’s Papa," Pauline screamed with excitement. "Heinrich, what a surprise! I was not expecting you so soon," Margaret said, as his daughters hugged him. "Papa, come read me a story," implored his youngest, tugging at his hand. "Yes, why don’t you read to Pauline while Trina and I finish making dinner," suggested Margaret. "Of course, Liebschen. Now, Pauline, what shall we read?" asked Heinrich as she led him to her play area. "Shall I read you the story of how Siegfried killed the evil dragon and saved the Rhineland? It’s your favorite…" The story of Germany’s greatest hero was one of Heinrich’s favorites as well. Pauline began rooting through her toy box. "Read me this, Papa," she said, handing him a small black book. The leather cover was scorched, and the pages barely legible. "Where did you get this?" Heinrich asked, straining to make out the writing. It appeared to be some sort of journal. "I found it outside after the snow melted!" chirped Pauline, obviously pleased with herself. "Doesn’t it look like the snow burned it, Papa? But that’s silly because snow can’t burn." "Pauline, I must speak to your mother. We will read later," he promised, bolting from the room. Entering the kitchen, Heinrich said, "Trina, please leave us," Wide-eyed, she quickly fled the room. "What is this?" he asked, holding up the charred book. Margaret looked at him, her blue eyes flashing. "Where did you get that?" she asked defensively. "Pauline had it in her toy box. The question is, where did she get it?" Turning away, Margaret silently gripped the stove to steady herself. "You went to see Frau Muller, didn’t you? Tell me why," he demanded. Margaret began to sob. "I had no choice. She threatened to turn us over to the Gestapo unless I gave her money," "So she was blackmailing you? But why?" "It started with small things. One day she stopped me in the street and started talking about how wonderful Hitler is. Pauline let it slip that she hates it when Hitler comes on the radio because he always screams." "And that is why you killed her?" asked Heinrich incredulously. Had his wife lost her mind? Margaret took a deep breath. "No, I killed her because she threatened to tell the Gestapo about me and have the children sent to an institution for ‘corrective measures’," Shaking with fury, Heinrich now began screaming, "What have you done? Are you trying to ruin me? I am an officer of the Wehrmacht, and not without influence! Why didn’t you say something?" he railed. "Because I am a Jew," Margaret announced sadly. "What?" he cried, feeling his knees go weak. "Margaret, how could you keep this from me? And how could Frau Muller know what I, your husband of sixteen years, did not?" "I was adopted, Heinrich. My real parents were obscure artists, but they outspoken. They made no secret of being Jewish, they had no reason to. But they died when I was three and I was brought here to live with Bettina and Nicholas Jaeger. Frau Muller made it her business to find out these things and she began checking old records, going back years. She found out about me." Under the Nuremberg Laws of 1935, it was illegal for a Jew to be married to a Germanic person. Margaret could no longer be his wife. His children would be taken from him. He sat down and began staring at the floor. "So the book…?" he asked dumbly. "I tried to burn it, but there wasn’t enough coal! It wouldn’t burn…" she sobbed. "They are taking us all away! In the last few months, the Schneider’s, Frau Bernstein, the entire Hoffmann family, they have all vanished! No one knows where, and no one ever returns! Oh, Heinrich, I’m so scared…" The terror in her face cut him to the quick. "Tomorrow you will take the girls and go to Switzerland. I will arrange everything." Heinrich said quietly. "But you can’t stay here! You’re an officer! They will surely kill you," she protested. "Then all I can do is die. As an officer and a human being, I have a responsibility to protect the people of Germany; " he said, echoing the General’s words and knowing they were true. As the Mercedes began its long trip back to Castle Turmhaus, Heinrich wondered if the General knew the story of Siegfried and the evil dragon. |
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| The Toy Box by H.J. Lazarus lazdom@ono.com |
#17 of 17 Runner Up |
| 1327 words | |
| "I know they’re out there somewhere, I can feel it
in my bones," Captain Kenman muttered to himself as he scanned the mountains
with his night glasses, before adding, "Lieutenant Clark, check out quadrant
seven and report back any changes." "Yes sir!" the eager soldier quickly ran off to his task. The Captain climbed into his jeep and turned back towards the main camp. He maneuvered the vehicle through the tortuous terrain as if her were driving down one of the country roads on a lazy Saturday afternoon back in the Nebraska of his youth; he had been stationed here for longer than he could remember, and knew most of the are like the back of his hand. He’d personally combed every inch of the ground surrounding the base camp for miles in preparation for an attack; there was no foothold, no bunker that the enemy could come up with that Kenman hadn’t thought of first and planned a counterattack. This was no small task, for their camp was stationed in rather inhospitable territory; to the east they were bordered by the dense, dank swamplands which gave the barracks their unmistakable odor year-round, although the men joked that the smell really came from Rudy’s cooking in the mess. The camp was backed up to the south by high bare cliffs bordering a deep chasm; only a thick mist could be seen from above but the ever-present roar of the Towmie river had become like a second heartbeat to the Captain. To the north there was the dense jungle through which he was currently driving dexterously weaving round tree roots and sand pits, his mind all the while fiddling with that feeling he had, that sense that somehow the air was thicker today, that something was amiss. Kenman skirted a pack devouring their kill, giving the growling leader as much thought as one might give an unruly teenager. His mind was on the TB. He wouldn’t be able to think clearly until he was back at the camp, back in position. His jeep pulled past the muddy clearing at the entrance to the camp. The captain parked, leaped from the jeep and headed towards his office in one fluid motion that characterized all his movements. He gave a nod as he passed the men on guard before a thick barbed wire fence surrounding a large, black, unmarked building no larger than a room, the T.B. Their mission was a simple one: protect and defend the army’s most advanced technical support system, or the ‘Toy Box’ as they called it ever since O’Malley commented that ‘that thing’s got more gadgets in it than my boy’s toy box’. Officially it was called the Macro-Initiator Nuclear Defensive Transfer Processor or MINDTRAP, $600 billion worth of military expertise. It was not Kenmen´s place to ask questions, but the General had made the importance of this device pretty clear, saying, "Technology is moving much faster than man’s power to control it. This falls into the wrong hands, we’ve got about three minutes to say our prayers. Everybody from Toledo to Timbuktu’. Hearing this from a man who dealt with weapons of mass destruction on a daily basis sent a shiver down Kenmen’s spine. Since that day, it had become the captain’s personal mission to make sure that never happened. Kenmen’s eyes moved instinctively to the west, towards the mountain range which separated his troops from the enemy, the only zone that remained relatively uncharted. Unlike normal mountain terrain of rocks and trees, this range was covered by a heavy layer of sand, an enormous dune coating the bedrock, which shifted and moved in slow thick rolls like a winter blanket. These dark mysterious hills and mounds were in a constant state of flux, markers disappearing, landmarks wiped away as if by the hand of god. Kenmen had lost some of his best men to that mountain, and had found it usually wiser to stay to the lower terra firme. However, in recent hours he’s received reports of enemy movement just beyond the hills. There were several violent factions interested in getting their hands on the Toy Box, which made gathering intelligence even more complicated. For the most parts these groups were unorganized and militarily unsophisticated, and Kenmen and his troops had come out of the altercations relatively unscathed. But the Captain hadn’t survived all these years by being overconfident, and as the minutes passed he was becoming more and more certain that today would end in battle. He had a message coming through on his radio. A small, heavily armed paramilitary group had been sighted moving through the jungle towards the main camp. They hadn’t got a clear view due to the thick foliage, but they appeared to be traveling in armored vehicles, and though they couldn’t get an exact headcount, the group didn’t seem very big. That meant nothing to Kenmen, he’d seen men like beasts come out of that jungle, able to wipe out two or three of his men in one blow. The vehicle was also curious; even with Kenmen’s finely honed ability, he would be hard pressed to maneuver an ARRV or a tank through the area. Kenmen ordered double guard on the T.B., armed with Anti-Tank Guided Missles in case the reports of the vehicles were true. He assembled a team of his best soldiers, but decided to wait. The most logical course of action would be to head into the jungle and take the small group out before they got anywhere near the base camp, especially if the enemy was traveling with cumbersome vehicles on a terrain he knew so well. It would be like basic training maneuvers. But something about that idea made him stop and wait for further reports. He didn’t have to wait long, "Captain! Lieutenant Clark here. We’ve spotted a much larger group heading over the mountain range. This looks like a full-scale army here, well armed. No vehicles were sighted, but they can’t be traveling on foot." "The jungle group was a decoy," Kenmen replied, mostly to himself. So that sinking feeling had been right. There would be a battle today, and a big one. In the last place on Earth Kenmen wanted to fight. Their own personal Bermuda’s Triangle. Kenmen ordered more tactical groups to the assembly area and prepared for the operation. Within minutes the artillery was loaded and the group headed off to intersect the enemy. Movement was slow, the land beneath their feet sinking deeply with each step. The foothills were relatively easy to cross, but when they reached the base of the mountain they found that the land had shifted and what had used to be a relatively moderate incline was now a sheer climb of almost 90º. They abandoned their vehicles and scaled the mountain side with only what they could carry. As the last of the group was finally pulled up, they could see the enemy cresting the mountaintop. It was much worse than Kenmen had imagined! An enormous cat-like creature with purple spiked ears tips and flames shooting from its tail. It was followed closely by what appeared to be a twenty-foot-tall rabbit, its piercing blue eyes dead set on evil. Kenmen knew the battle would be bloody, but he had faith in himself and his men. His hand on his shoulder harness, he prepared to give the order. "Thomas?" Startled, Tommy froze and spun around. His mother stuck her head in the doorway and gave an exasperated sigh. "Thomas Clark O’Malley! What have I told you about throwing toys all over the bed? I want the stuffed animals back on the shelf, and all the other toys go back in the toy box. What do you think you have one for anyway?" Turning to leave she glanced back and added, "And please put your sister’s Ken back in her room. You know if she sees you playing with it she’ll just go ballistic!" |
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"You're Too Loose"
The Aspiring Editors Club