Tahlulah peeked anxiously out of the rose bush. Were they still in the yard? Or had they moved on to the next. The coast seemed clear. She slowly slid out from underneath the bush on her belly, trying hard to not break twigs or rustle leaves. Her eyes flitted around the corners of her suburban backyard – she scanned the carefully manicured lawn, the tall protective hedges, the partially trampled flower garden with daffodils and tulips currently in bloom. Her eyes stopped at the lilac bush by the corner of the house. Something moved. The cat jumped out to chase a bug across the stone path. Yes, they seemed to have continued along their way.
Feeling secure again, and hoping to remain undisturbed, Tahlulah returned to her little friends at the edge of the house. She had created a little world for herself there. There were families and neighbors all living happily – and generally peacefully – in their houses beneath the lilies of the valley. Whether they were supposed to be humans or fairies wasn’t clear; Tahlulah herself was unsure. She only enjoyed creating them and placing them into their new homes. Generally, after creation, she would leave them to their little lives. Sometimes she would come back to them to check up on their existence, but often she would simply move on to another location and another set of beings.
Her mother had, long ago, stopped appearing frustrated at having her grass torn up to create small paths, or her flowers being picked for hats. She had come to accept that this was Tahlulah’s secret world, and that it shouldn’t bother her if a few flower heads were removed, or if her seeds were dug up just as they had sprouted. These things were minute details in a world as creative and elaborate as her daughter’s imagination – and she was happy to donate these small pleasures to her only child’s creative impulses. Perhaps she would be an artist when she grew older, the mother often thought. She would certainly be in good company – the family was rich with artistic types, a fact which could be considered a good thing, as well as not.
Tahlulah reminded her mother of Grandma Sophia – often Tahlulah noticed her mother staring at her, while she played, with that melancholic distant look. Tahlulah knew that when her mother had this look on her face, she would not like to be pestered about things like lunch, or a lemonade break, or if they should hurry up now to get to piano lessons. Tahlulah didn’t actually mind missing piano lessons, something that happened with more and more frequency in the spring, it seemed. What she didn’t like was missing meals. She had begun to remedy this by fixing her own lunches. The joy of fixing your own lunch, thought Tahlulah, was that you could eat anything you wanted. She experimented with different sandwich fixings – ham and peanut butter was quite tasty, but she wasn’t fond of tomato sauce with jam, or turkey and pineapple slices. The all-time best sandwich was Nutella, peanut butter, banana slices, and honey, toasted in a pan with butter. It made the kitchen smoky though, and so Tahlulah did not make it as often as she would have liked.
Tahlulah was an independent girl. This was good, because there was nobody else around to depend on, besides her mother. Her mother was going through a spell, as she called it, and could not focus much on Tahlulah’s needs. Luckily, Tahlulah did not have many needs. Being only five meant that she was able to entertain herself, and it did not appear unusual to the neighbors that she remained at home every day. Of course, other neighborhood children attended daycares or preschools, but as Tahlulah’s mother wasn’t working, nobody considered it strange that she would want Tahlulah to be home with her. Some even thought how nice it must be to be able to spend so much time with your child – how quickly childhood fades, they thought, and then it is gone forever. One neighbor even contemplated taking time off from work so that she, too, could spend more time with her child; soon after this thought entered her head, though, her four-year-old son knocked a favorite Tiffany lamp off her reading table, and the neighbor reconsidered daycare as the best option for her family.
Tahlulah glanced up from her little friends to see her mother staring off into space from the steps up to the backdoor. It was going to be a fix-your-own lunch day, she thought to herself, and wondered what she would make. Perhaps it was an avocado and honey on whole wheat sort of a day, or an apple slices and pickles with mustard on rye, she could never tell what she would be in the mood for until she was in the kitchen. Luckily, it was still early, and she wouldn’t be hungry for a few hours. Perhaps by then, her mother was have snapped out of it and would make some mac and cheese with carrot sticks. Tahlulah wasn’t really very sure if she was supposed to use the stove, or not, when she was making lunches. It frightened her to think about the flames jumping off of pans like they did on TV sometimes – besides, there were usually things she could create without heat. Mac and cheese was something that she had discovered to be “not-good” when it was not cooked; as was frozen pizza. Jelly bean soup did not have to be cooked, but it gave her a headache sometimes and she couldn’t eat very much of it.
...
Sunday, September 27, 2009
Saturday, April 19, 2008
oranges
The man had just finished peeling his orange, and he was savoring the sweet and spicy aroma that drifted up to his nasal passages. It had been a perfect morning so far, he had crawled out of bed seconds before the alarm was due to ring at 5:54 and was showered and dressed in time to enjoy an unusually peaceful breakfast all alone. Nothing was nicer than sipping a morning coffee in total silence, engrossed in the simplicity of the mundane. Why did oranges have such porous skins? The man thought to himself, still wrapped in his morning daze.
Still pondering, the man began to peel apart the sections of the orange, eating them slowly, one after the other; sometimes pausing to peel open the outer casing and reveal the tiny juice sacs inside. How does juice get inside those tiny sacs, and why does it stay there? Why are some oranges so dry if they are filled with tiny sacs of juice? Carefully separating one little sac from the rest of the section, the man gazed at it in wonder, curious about its’ being; aware that it was only one of many wonders of nature that he did not completely understand.
A memory hit the man, like a destructive and deadly tsunami hitting the shores of a faraway land. All at once he was lost in a place long ago, in a time when life had been simpler and less had been expected of him. He was lounging on a beach blanket with a young lady; the air was a charming mixture of salty rotting fish, coconut suntan lotion, digested beer wafting off his body as he whispered in the ear of the young lady beside him, and from somewhere down the beach the faint scent of oranges being peeled by a little girl taking a break from sand castles.
Life had seemed so easy then. One didn’t have to worry about daily routine; making sure there was enough milk and toilet paper; putting the seat down after taking a piss. Women had been attracted to his talkativeness, and festively careless attitude. He was always the one chicks crowded around for keg-stands; he always took home the prettiest ladies, and was the envy of all his college mates. He had never worried that his sheets were not clean; that he hadn’t vacuumed since…well, ever. His apartment was shared with three other dudes. None of them ever cleaned the bathroom. Sometimes one of their mothers would show up and decide that the apartment needed a “woman’s touch”; she would buy them new towels and clean the whole place, leaving behind a nice smell and a fridge full of vegetables. Soon though, everything would revert back to the way it was; towels would be used to clean up spilled beer and then left in moist piles for weeks until somebody noticed that they were what smelled and would throw them out, never considering washing them an option; vegetables would suffer a similar fate, being ignored until they rotted, the then soggy bags of indiscernible matter being thrown out.
How had his life taken this unexpected turn? When did he go from rolling on the beach, naked and drunk, with girls that may, or may not, have been featured in “Girls Gone Wild: Mexico VI” to this; a sad aging man peeling his orange in the morning while savoring a little silence? When did he stop caring about his six-pack abs, or the amounts of product he used to style his freshly dyed crew cut? When had it all gone downhill?
He was back at the beach, momentarily almost able to smell the Herbal Essences in the hair of the young woman; the fruity tonic that so encouraged men to kiss the necks of their college coeds. How had somebody thought to create a shampoo that would transform bland and tidily styled hair into something of mango, kiwi, papaya scented, lustrously shimmering locks of an angel, or other thing of beauty; a porn star perhaps. Something that you could smell when walking behind a girl on the way to class and fantasize about taking her from behind because then you could smell her hair without having to look at her face which was, no doubt, not so nice.
Then he remembered the panic. College would be over in a span of months. The boys from his frat were preparing to disperse throughout the states; girls he knew were going to graduate school, getting married, some already had kids (“accidents” during school which led to the girls moving to far away places like San Francisco; Toronto; Orlando, where nobody knew their families and there were less people to judge - at home, the families would talk about how the girl was accepted to a new school in CA, and how proud they were of her), and he even knew a young “family” with two little ankle-biters crawling around their shabby chic apartment which was bought for them by parents as a bribe to keep them together “for the child’s sake”. He remembered thinking that the gang was all splitting up, and soon he would be left living in his college town, his hometown, working for his old man, still hitting on high school girls with fake IDs at the local pub. He remembered wondering what he could do to better his fate. Even as a member of a fraternity, his options, career-wise, were not looking too bright.
He had never been head of the class; never understood really why he had enrolled in the business program to begin with. He didn’t want to be a businessman. If anybody had stopped him on the street and asked him what he would do if he had a million dollars, but still needed to work, he would have answered that he would work as a pool boy for a local woman who was said to have made porn in her youth. He would have replied that he would like to work for the local gas station, shelling out $20’s to lotto winners, and selling cigarettes to minors. He would have offered up “bartender”, “cruise ship director”, “lifeguard”, “talent-less rock star”, anything except lowly “businessman”. Who wanted to become a suit? “When I grow up, I want to work for a business selling stocks; updating the Internet; balancing dividends; creating PTS Reports…”
Back then, whispering sweet nothings in his newest girlfriend’s ear on the beach that spring in Cabo, he was filled with the fear of being alone; and worse than being alone, alone and unsuccessful. He paused momentarily to stare at Cindy’s profile in the rapidly dimming light; she was a nice looking girl, naturally…he only “dated” the lookers, the others became one-nighters that he could shrug off by saying “beer-goggles”…he actually enjoyed talking to her, even if she knew nothing about sports, and she had a nice sense of style. She never became the “drunk girl” at parties, and he hadn’t been ashamed to introduce her to his family when they ran into each other at a local restaurant the week before. Maybe there was potential there for something longer-term? He thought about marriage for a minute while his gaze turned to watch a sweet young thing strut by in what could barely be described as a bathing suit. How many couples did he know that had stayed together for longer than a year? Even his parents were on their 3rd (mother) and 4th (father) marriages; what kind of an example were they setting for him? If nobody stayed together, what was the big deal with marriage? Even though you still said it, it no longer really meant “till death do you part”…it was more like, “till you find something that interests you more”. So why not try it out? He remembered that thought drifting into his skull back on that beach at sunset, beer flowing naturally through his body as if it belonged there with his blood.
The next day, hangover ravaging his body and brain, he had stumbled across a native fellow selling cheaply made jewelry at a stand near the beach. Straining to differentiate between the colors and shapes whirling before his eyes, he asked the fellow which was the most expensive-looking. Handing him a nicely set, purple-tinted diamond-like gemstone ring, the fellow chuckled and asked if he was planning to give it to a nice lady. In a moment of clarity, the words catching in his throat and nearly gagging him, he replied, “yeah”, before throwing a few big bills at the native dude, stuffing the ring in his swim short’s pocket, and stumbling off down the beach in search of beer and the possibility of a mid-day blowjob.
He couldn’t actually remember the details of when he handed over the ring, the acceptance of what he couldn't really be sure was a marriage proposal as he couldn’t remember what he had said, only what it was said that he had said. He didn’t remember his pals congratulating him during the BBQ that night, or what he had worn when he posed a question to the girl he had thought a week before was probably a fling, but he did remember the sex. That was hot. Apparently, the way to get a girl to do things that she had never before considered doing was to ask her to become the little missus. The idea of stability, and being with the same guy for longer than a few weeks opened up a can of the unknown, an uninhibited girl that the man never before had known…and had not known since.
Fondly thinking back to those hours in the love shack on the beach, the man could feel his boner beginning to push up against his suit pants, asking to be rubbed and relieved. Lost in the memories of that steamy night; the midnight dip in the sea, falling off the bed but not caring-just pulling down the blanket to spread over the marble floor, protecting her back from the cold …
A tiny grin formed at the corner of the man’s mouth as he thought back, lost in the distant moments that had rushed over him as he sat at the table peeling an orange. Looking at him, one might have thought he was thinking back on any number of precious memories; the birth of his first child, watching his bride-to-be walk towards him down the aisle, perhaps even some joke that he had shared with the guys at their bowling league the night before. Unless you looked under the table, you wouldn’t have suspected the racy pornographic images running through the middle-aged man’s head, more graphic than a grocery store romance novel. The man thought about her freshly tanned skin, and the dip in her lower back; her thin but muscular legs, and the way her little breasts moved in a bathing suit, and out of one.
With these thoughts in his head, he kept peeling back sections of the orange, slowly eating the pieces inside of the sections and not paying attention to the details, or his questions, any longer. He was, momentarily, lost to the world of dishes and diapers; softball practices and after-school activities; he was lost in a blissful time before children were even a spark of an idea, a time when all that mattered was lust; the days before sex became scheduled (Thursday nights, after dessert, when the girls were tucked into their beds watching their show, before lights-out time and the evening news). Picking out a seed, he wondered again when life had become this daily routine? Thoughtfully placing another juice sac in his mouth and popping it with his tongue, he continued to question his direction in life. Eyes glazed over, he didn’t notice the quiet footsteps entering the room, and it wasn’t until he heard a voice that he was jolted back into reality. “Daddy, can I have a piece?” The little girl queried. The man tore off a section of the orange, squirting the acidic juice into his left eye and swearing under his breath as he handed it to her, before getting up to gather his things for his day at the office.
Still pondering, the man began to peel apart the sections of the orange, eating them slowly, one after the other; sometimes pausing to peel open the outer casing and reveal the tiny juice sacs inside. How does juice get inside those tiny sacs, and why does it stay there? Why are some oranges so dry if they are filled with tiny sacs of juice? Carefully separating one little sac from the rest of the section, the man gazed at it in wonder, curious about its’ being; aware that it was only one of many wonders of nature that he did not completely understand.
A memory hit the man, like a destructive and deadly tsunami hitting the shores of a faraway land. All at once he was lost in a place long ago, in a time when life had been simpler and less had been expected of him. He was lounging on a beach blanket with a young lady; the air was a charming mixture of salty rotting fish, coconut suntan lotion, digested beer wafting off his body as he whispered in the ear of the young lady beside him, and from somewhere down the beach the faint scent of oranges being peeled by a little girl taking a break from sand castles.
Life had seemed so easy then. One didn’t have to worry about daily routine; making sure there was enough milk and toilet paper; putting the seat down after taking a piss. Women had been attracted to his talkativeness, and festively careless attitude. He was always the one chicks crowded around for keg-stands; he always took home the prettiest ladies, and was the envy of all his college mates. He had never worried that his sheets were not clean; that he hadn’t vacuumed since…well, ever. His apartment was shared with three other dudes. None of them ever cleaned the bathroom. Sometimes one of their mothers would show up and decide that the apartment needed a “woman’s touch”; she would buy them new towels and clean the whole place, leaving behind a nice smell and a fridge full of vegetables. Soon though, everything would revert back to the way it was; towels would be used to clean up spilled beer and then left in moist piles for weeks until somebody noticed that they were what smelled and would throw them out, never considering washing them an option; vegetables would suffer a similar fate, being ignored until they rotted, the then soggy bags of indiscernible matter being thrown out.
How had his life taken this unexpected turn? When did he go from rolling on the beach, naked and drunk, with girls that may, or may not, have been featured in “Girls Gone Wild: Mexico VI” to this; a sad aging man peeling his orange in the morning while savoring a little silence? When did he stop caring about his six-pack abs, or the amounts of product he used to style his freshly dyed crew cut? When had it all gone downhill?
He was back at the beach, momentarily almost able to smell the Herbal Essences in the hair of the young woman; the fruity tonic that so encouraged men to kiss the necks of their college coeds. How had somebody thought to create a shampoo that would transform bland and tidily styled hair into something of mango, kiwi, papaya scented, lustrously shimmering locks of an angel, or other thing of beauty; a porn star perhaps. Something that you could smell when walking behind a girl on the way to class and fantasize about taking her from behind because then you could smell her hair without having to look at her face which was, no doubt, not so nice.
Then he remembered the panic. College would be over in a span of months. The boys from his frat were preparing to disperse throughout the states; girls he knew were going to graduate school, getting married, some already had kids (“accidents” during school which led to the girls moving to far away places like San Francisco; Toronto; Orlando, where nobody knew their families and there were less people to judge - at home, the families would talk about how the girl was accepted to a new school in CA, and how proud they were of her), and he even knew a young “family” with two little ankle-biters crawling around their shabby chic apartment which was bought for them by parents as a bribe to keep them together “for the child’s sake”. He remembered thinking that the gang was all splitting up, and soon he would be left living in his college town, his hometown, working for his old man, still hitting on high school girls with fake IDs at the local pub. He remembered wondering what he could do to better his fate. Even as a member of a fraternity, his options, career-wise, were not looking too bright.
He had never been head of the class; never understood really why he had enrolled in the business program to begin with. He didn’t want to be a businessman. If anybody had stopped him on the street and asked him what he would do if he had a million dollars, but still needed to work, he would have answered that he would work as a pool boy for a local woman who was said to have made porn in her youth. He would have replied that he would like to work for the local gas station, shelling out $20’s to lotto winners, and selling cigarettes to minors. He would have offered up “bartender”, “cruise ship director”, “lifeguard”, “talent-less rock star”, anything except lowly “businessman”. Who wanted to become a suit? “When I grow up, I want to work for a business selling stocks; updating the Internet; balancing dividends; creating PTS Reports…”
Back then, whispering sweet nothings in his newest girlfriend’s ear on the beach that spring in Cabo, he was filled with the fear of being alone; and worse than being alone, alone and unsuccessful. He paused momentarily to stare at Cindy’s profile in the rapidly dimming light; she was a nice looking girl, naturally…he only “dated” the lookers, the others became one-nighters that he could shrug off by saying “beer-goggles”…he actually enjoyed talking to her, even if she knew nothing about sports, and she had a nice sense of style. She never became the “drunk girl” at parties, and he hadn’t been ashamed to introduce her to his family when they ran into each other at a local restaurant the week before. Maybe there was potential there for something longer-term? He thought about marriage for a minute while his gaze turned to watch a sweet young thing strut by in what could barely be described as a bathing suit. How many couples did he know that had stayed together for longer than a year? Even his parents were on their 3rd (mother) and 4th (father) marriages; what kind of an example were they setting for him? If nobody stayed together, what was the big deal with marriage? Even though you still said it, it no longer really meant “till death do you part”…it was more like, “till you find something that interests you more”. So why not try it out? He remembered that thought drifting into his skull back on that beach at sunset, beer flowing naturally through his body as if it belonged there with his blood.
The next day, hangover ravaging his body and brain, he had stumbled across a native fellow selling cheaply made jewelry at a stand near the beach. Straining to differentiate between the colors and shapes whirling before his eyes, he asked the fellow which was the most expensive-looking. Handing him a nicely set, purple-tinted diamond-like gemstone ring, the fellow chuckled and asked if he was planning to give it to a nice lady. In a moment of clarity, the words catching in his throat and nearly gagging him, he replied, “yeah”, before throwing a few big bills at the native dude, stuffing the ring in his swim short’s pocket, and stumbling off down the beach in search of beer and the possibility of a mid-day blowjob.
He couldn’t actually remember the details of when he handed over the ring, the acceptance of what he couldn't really be sure was a marriage proposal as he couldn’t remember what he had said, only what it was said that he had said. He didn’t remember his pals congratulating him during the BBQ that night, or what he had worn when he posed a question to the girl he had thought a week before was probably a fling, but he did remember the sex. That was hot. Apparently, the way to get a girl to do things that she had never before considered doing was to ask her to become the little missus. The idea of stability, and being with the same guy for longer than a few weeks opened up a can of the unknown, an uninhibited girl that the man never before had known…and had not known since.
Fondly thinking back to those hours in the love shack on the beach, the man could feel his boner beginning to push up against his suit pants, asking to be rubbed and relieved. Lost in the memories of that steamy night; the midnight dip in the sea, falling off the bed but not caring-just pulling down the blanket to spread over the marble floor, protecting her back from the cold …
A tiny grin formed at the corner of the man’s mouth as he thought back, lost in the distant moments that had rushed over him as he sat at the table peeling an orange. Looking at him, one might have thought he was thinking back on any number of precious memories; the birth of his first child, watching his bride-to-be walk towards him down the aisle, perhaps even some joke that he had shared with the guys at their bowling league the night before. Unless you looked under the table, you wouldn’t have suspected the racy pornographic images running through the middle-aged man’s head, more graphic than a grocery store romance novel. The man thought about her freshly tanned skin, and the dip in her lower back; her thin but muscular legs, and the way her little breasts moved in a bathing suit, and out of one.
With these thoughts in his head, he kept peeling back sections of the orange, slowly eating the pieces inside of the sections and not paying attention to the details, or his questions, any longer. He was, momentarily, lost to the world of dishes and diapers; softball practices and after-school activities; he was lost in a blissful time before children were even a spark of an idea, a time when all that mattered was lust; the days before sex became scheduled (Thursday nights, after dessert, when the girls were tucked into their beds watching their show, before lights-out time and the evening news). Picking out a seed, he wondered again when life had become this daily routine? Thoughtfully placing another juice sac in his mouth and popping it with his tongue, he continued to question his direction in life. Eyes glazed over, he didn’t notice the quiet footsteps entering the room, and it wasn’t until he heard a voice that he was jolted back into reality. “Daddy, can I have a piece?” The little girl queried. The man tore off a section of the orange, squirting the acidic juice into his left eye and swearing under his breath as he handed it to her, before getting up to gather his things for his day at the office.
Wednesday, April 16, 2008
the woodland prince
Once, in a time not too long ago, there lived a young boy who loved nature. The boy could spend many happy hours, in the woods beyond his house, bonding with the woodland creatures. The creatures adored him, and came bounding up to him when they heard his footsteps approaching. A day could not have been better spent, for the boy and the creatures, than to lounge under their favorite tree by the river, making daisy chains and whistling songs.
One day, as the boy was sitting under his favorite tree, he heard loud noises in the distance. The noises came steadily closer and soon appeared to be coming from all directions, as if it were surrounding him. There were clattering and banging sounds. Clanking and clunking sounds, and distant shots could be heard. The boy didn't know what to do, or how to escape the violent noises. In fear, he began to climb his favorite tree, hoping that he could hide from whatever was coming towards him.
As he was midway up the tree, soldiers began to appear through the trees, and leading the soldiers was a majestic figure, crowned and wearing finery befitting a King...for that is what he was. As soon as the boy saw the King, he knew that the King had seen him, and he began his downward climb, all hopes of hiding in the tree fading away.
"I see you there, son" bellowed the King, for that is who the young boy was, the King's son, the crown Prince, the next in line to rule the kingdom, and he was due back at the castle for battle-training.
Morosely, the boy leapt to the ground. As he did, something sparked inside him and he knew that his future did not have to consist of fighting battles, and defending his kingdom. He could make a choice and stand up to the great man before him, deny his place at the throne, and retreat back to the little world he so loved in the forest.
"I will not come with you, Father," began the young Prince.
"Guards!" shouted the King, ignoring the words from his son's mouth, "carry away those beasts, and bring my son to me".
"I do not want to fight your battles!" the young Prince meekly yelled, "I cannot go to war against your enemies, and I will not leave my kingdom of the woods!"
As if he had not heard a word of what the young Prince said, the King continued to order his soldiers about, instructing them to remove all creatures from the forest so that they would prove less of a distraction to his son, the Prince.
"Stop!" yelled the boy, this time with greater force, "I am not coming with you, Father! Giving him a sideways glance, the King shook his head in shame. "What have I done to create such an insolent child?" he questioned out loud, to nobody in particular, "Why do you deny every privilege that is given to you?" he asked the young boy, solemnly.
"I will not leave my forest," the boy persisted, "it is the only place where I feel truly at home, and I cannot abandon my friends here. There are beings here that understand me more fully than any human ever could. They do not fight with ghastly weapons, they are contented to simply live, love, and frolic in the woods. I wish to remain here, with them, and renounce my title as Prince...I do not feel that I can live the life you wish me to, as the head of your kingdom."
"Nonsense!" bellowed the King, angered by the words coming from his one and only child, the heir to his throne. "You will come with me now, and that is the last I will hear about this forest! Guards! Burn this place to the ground, and fight anything that tries to stop you!" The King turned, and with a hint of sorrow, began to make his way back to the castle.
The boy tearfully looked around at the soldiers who were beginning to gather up sticks and logs, and were rounding up all of his woodland friends. "No!" he exclaimed, "you cannot do this! They are beings, just like you and me. This is their home! You cannot destroy everything they have!"
But his words went unnoticed, and the soldiers kept going, even taking the limbs off of the young boy's favorite tree. They piled up all of the pinecones, branches and dried leaves from the forest floor, and continued to make what would be a great bonfire. They had collected all of the smaller animals into a quickly created corral, and were busy herding the larger animals into another area.
The boy noticed that the animals were getting anxious, and some were beginning to run away. A hint of his battle-training flickered in the boy's memory, "stop!" he cried to his creature pals, "we need to make a stand and protect our forest!" The creatures perked their ears, and appeared to understand what he was saying. They began to take formation behind the Prince, lining up, and ready to take his orders. The animals loved the boy and would do anything for him; they knew that he always had their best interest in mind.
Sensing the silenced animals, the soldiers looked up from their tasks to see a woodland army facing them, led by the crown Prince. Not knowing what else to do, the soldiers raised their weapons as the creatures bounded towards them, heads down, ready to attack.
Horns hit flesh. Guns fired. The sounds of beings falling to the ground resonated throughout the woods. The King, from far away, heard these noises and headed back to the riverbank, although he was already too late to stop the worst from happening.
Smoke parted as the King entered the recently silenced clearing in the woods. Guiltily, the remaining soldiers and creatures looked up at him perched on his steed. Sensing that something gravely wrong had occurred, the King looked about the small clearing, his eyes falling on a group of creatures huddled around a small form.
"No…!" gasped the King, instinctively knowing, before clearly seeing, what had passed in his absence, "not the Prince...not my son...my...child." He leaped from his noble horse and slowly made his way towards the body, already knowing what he was about to see. It was, indeed, the body of his, now deceased, son who had been shot during the brief battle, between human soldier and woodland creature, for the peaceful area in which they now all were silent.
The soldiers looked down at their feet, knowing that they were responsible for causing the King more sorrow than he had ever known. The woodland creatures were silent, not even a peep could be heard from the most insolent squirrel, understanding intuitively that the humans were mourning the loss of a wonderful being.
Slowly, the King raised his head to look away from the bloodied body of his only child. As his gaze moved across the small clearing, the sun peeked out from behind a shadow, flooding the area with a warm glow, causing the river to sparkle more beautifully than a thousand diamonds, and the light danced on the bodies of the woodland creatures and made their sad little faces stare up at the King with compassion and empathy.
The King looked over at the soldiers, and saw their bloody weapons and their stained and rusted armor, their hardened faces and their steady stances even at such a morbid moment as this, and he finally understood. His son had not wanted to join this bloodied army, he had somehow known the sorrow that comes with war, and had wanted to remain in this beautiful place, removed from all of the ugly battles and politics that came with running a kingdom. The King, too late, understood the serenity that his son had known there, in that clearing surrounded by woodland creatures, basking in the glow of an autumn beam of sunshine.
The end.
One day, as the boy was sitting under his favorite tree, he heard loud noises in the distance. The noises came steadily closer and soon appeared to be coming from all directions, as if it were surrounding him. There were clattering and banging sounds. Clanking and clunking sounds, and distant shots could be heard. The boy didn't know what to do, or how to escape the violent noises. In fear, he began to climb his favorite tree, hoping that he could hide from whatever was coming towards him.
As he was midway up the tree, soldiers began to appear through the trees, and leading the soldiers was a majestic figure, crowned and wearing finery befitting a King...for that is what he was. As soon as the boy saw the King, he knew that the King had seen him, and he began his downward climb, all hopes of hiding in the tree fading away.
"I see you there, son" bellowed the King, for that is who the young boy was, the King's son, the crown Prince, the next in line to rule the kingdom, and he was due back at the castle for battle-training.
Morosely, the boy leapt to the ground. As he did, something sparked inside him and he knew that his future did not have to consist of fighting battles, and defending his kingdom. He could make a choice and stand up to the great man before him, deny his place at the throne, and retreat back to the little world he so loved in the forest.
"I will not come with you, Father," began the young Prince.
"Guards!" shouted the King, ignoring the words from his son's mouth, "carry away those beasts, and bring my son to me".
"I do not want to fight your battles!" the young Prince meekly yelled, "I cannot go to war against your enemies, and I will not leave my kingdom of the woods!"
As if he had not heard a word of what the young Prince said, the King continued to order his soldiers about, instructing them to remove all creatures from the forest so that they would prove less of a distraction to his son, the Prince.
"Stop!" yelled the boy, this time with greater force, "I am not coming with you, Father! Giving him a sideways glance, the King shook his head in shame. "What have I done to create such an insolent child?" he questioned out loud, to nobody in particular, "Why do you deny every privilege that is given to you?" he asked the young boy, solemnly.
"I will not leave my forest," the boy persisted, "it is the only place where I feel truly at home, and I cannot abandon my friends here. There are beings here that understand me more fully than any human ever could. They do not fight with ghastly weapons, they are contented to simply live, love, and frolic in the woods. I wish to remain here, with them, and renounce my title as Prince...I do not feel that I can live the life you wish me to, as the head of your kingdom."
"Nonsense!" bellowed the King, angered by the words coming from his one and only child, the heir to his throne. "You will come with me now, and that is the last I will hear about this forest! Guards! Burn this place to the ground, and fight anything that tries to stop you!" The King turned, and with a hint of sorrow, began to make his way back to the castle.
The boy tearfully looked around at the soldiers who were beginning to gather up sticks and logs, and were rounding up all of his woodland friends. "No!" he exclaimed, "you cannot do this! They are beings, just like you and me. This is their home! You cannot destroy everything they have!"
But his words went unnoticed, and the soldiers kept going, even taking the limbs off of the young boy's favorite tree. They piled up all of the pinecones, branches and dried leaves from the forest floor, and continued to make what would be a great bonfire. They had collected all of the smaller animals into a quickly created corral, and were busy herding the larger animals into another area.
The boy noticed that the animals were getting anxious, and some were beginning to run away. A hint of his battle-training flickered in the boy's memory, "stop!" he cried to his creature pals, "we need to make a stand and protect our forest!" The creatures perked their ears, and appeared to understand what he was saying. They began to take formation behind the Prince, lining up, and ready to take his orders. The animals loved the boy and would do anything for him; they knew that he always had their best interest in mind.
Sensing the silenced animals, the soldiers looked up from their tasks to see a woodland army facing them, led by the crown Prince. Not knowing what else to do, the soldiers raised their weapons as the creatures bounded towards them, heads down, ready to attack.
Horns hit flesh. Guns fired. The sounds of beings falling to the ground resonated throughout the woods. The King, from far away, heard these noises and headed back to the riverbank, although he was already too late to stop the worst from happening.
Smoke parted as the King entered the recently silenced clearing in the woods. Guiltily, the remaining soldiers and creatures looked up at him perched on his steed. Sensing that something gravely wrong had occurred, the King looked about the small clearing, his eyes falling on a group of creatures huddled around a small form.
"No…!" gasped the King, instinctively knowing, before clearly seeing, what had passed in his absence, "not the Prince...not my son...my...child." He leaped from his noble horse and slowly made his way towards the body, already knowing what he was about to see. It was, indeed, the body of his, now deceased, son who had been shot during the brief battle, between human soldier and woodland creature, for the peaceful area in which they now all were silent.
The soldiers looked down at their feet, knowing that they were responsible for causing the King more sorrow than he had ever known. The woodland creatures were silent, not even a peep could be heard from the most insolent squirrel, understanding intuitively that the humans were mourning the loss of a wonderful being.
Slowly, the King raised his head to look away from the bloodied body of his only child. As his gaze moved across the small clearing, the sun peeked out from behind a shadow, flooding the area with a warm glow, causing the river to sparkle more beautifully than a thousand diamonds, and the light danced on the bodies of the woodland creatures and made their sad little faces stare up at the King with compassion and empathy.
The King looked over at the soldiers, and saw their bloody weapons and their stained and rusted armor, their hardened faces and their steady stances even at such a morbid moment as this, and he finally understood. His son had not wanted to join this bloodied army, he had somehow known the sorrow that comes with war, and had wanted to remain in this beautiful place, removed from all of the ugly battles and politics that came with running a kingdom. The King, too late, understood the serenity that his son had known there, in that clearing surrounded by woodland creatures, basking in the glow of an autumn beam of sunshine.
The end.
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