xvszero
March 26th, 2007, 11:36 PM
(The formatting got all messed up and I don't know how to fix it, but whatever...)
A young boy sits in a dandelion-scattered field in summertime, holding countless threads in his hands. Outward they expand, in tens and hundreds, creeping and crawling in every direction around him, some entwined into rope as thick as his nervous little fingers, and they sparkle with a golden glow in the afternoon sun. Across the field, lying in each other’s arms, a young couple is lost in a place that only lovers know, oblivious to the world around them.
The boy stares at the threads in his hands in contemplation, then moves to entwine two more of them; but a third is caught and a knot forms, which only tightens the more when he attempts to undo it. Subsequent moves end in more knots, and finally he throws the entire work down in frustration.
He turns to his father behind him, biting his lip, a tear coalescing in the corner of his eye. “It’s ruined!” the boy cries, as tears begin to stream down his face.
“Now, now,” his father says, moving closer to the boy and gently picking up the threads. They glow translucent in his aging hands, and he begins to twist this way and that.
“I just can’t do it,” the boy sobs. “I’m not any good!”
“Neither was I, at your age,” the father says, continuing to work the knots. “It’s a tricky business, to be sure. We all made mistakes. I, your grandfather, your great-grandfather…” He trails off, concentrating on the threads.
“Really?” the boy asks in a softer tone, rubbing his hands against his reddening eyes.
“Of course. You’re doing fine,” his father says. He makes a few more movements with the threads, then pauses. “But I think this is about as good as we’re going to get it today,” he says as he hands the threads back to the boy. The boy looks down; most of the knots are cleared, but the original remains, thick and ugly in his hands. He begins to tear up again.
“Son?”
“Yes dad?”
“You did great. Really. Much better than my first time. Mine was so full of knots it nearly gave old gramps a heart attack trying to get them undone.” He laughs out loud, and the boy is infected, smiling through his tears.
“Are you ready to tie it off?” his father asks.
“I guess so.”
“Remember, all of the threads in one—“
“I know, I know,” the boy replies, and begins to twist.
The father smiles and places his hand on his son’s shoulder, gently squeezing. In the hazy distance the couple still lies, now staring into each other’s eyes, pondering the depths of the soul. The sun is lower now, and the shadow of the great oak stretches out across the field, covering all its path in darkness except for the strands of golden yellow that spread out from the boy.
“There,” says the boy, and drops the thick knot into the grass. It sits for a moment, burning bright, then softly fades into nothingness. The threads, a thousand creeping arms expanding from the center, burn away like wicks in every direction until they too are gone. The father and son sit in silence, watching the couple in the distance until the sun sinks to the horizon and the first stars begin to spark across the dark blue sky.
“Do you think they will be alright?” the son finally asks.
“Sure they will,” the father replies, patting his son on the back. “Sure they will. Now let’s get home, mom is waiting for us.”
“Ok dad. Race you home!”
In a flash they are gone, and not even footsteps remain.
*****************
The couple has moved to the bench now, where the man sits nervously fingering a small box in his pocket. The sky is clear and the stars are burning bright, constellations beaming across the heavens. A cool wind blows across the field, and the woman pulls herself closer to him. She turns and kisses him softly on the lips, then pulls back and smiles, her eyes begging. Yes, he thinks, she knows. Of course she knows, women can tell. And she wants this, and I want this, so why not? Why not tonight? Why not now? He fingers the box one more time, hesitates, then sighs and pulls his hand away. His lips cannot form the words, and he doesn’t know why. Perhaps tomorrow, he thinks to himself, yes, tomorrow for certain.
He turns and stares into the night.
A young boy sits in a dandelion-scattered field in summertime, holding countless threads in his hands. Outward they expand, in tens and hundreds, creeping and crawling in every direction around him, some entwined into rope as thick as his nervous little fingers, and they sparkle with a golden glow in the afternoon sun. Across the field, lying in each other’s arms, a young couple is lost in a place that only lovers know, oblivious to the world around them.
The boy stares at the threads in his hands in contemplation, then moves to entwine two more of them; but a third is caught and a knot forms, which only tightens the more when he attempts to undo it. Subsequent moves end in more knots, and finally he throws the entire work down in frustration.
He turns to his father behind him, biting his lip, a tear coalescing in the corner of his eye. “It’s ruined!” the boy cries, as tears begin to stream down his face.
“Now, now,” his father says, moving closer to the boy and gently picking up the threads. They glow translucent in his aging hands, and he begins to twist this way and that.
“I just can’t do it,” the boy sobs. “I’m not any good!”
“Neither was I, at your age,” the father says, continuing to work the knots. “It’s a tricky business, to be sure. We all made mistakes. I, your grandfather, your great-grandfather…” He trails off, concentrating on the threads.
“Really?” the boy asks in a softer tone, rubbing his hands against his reddening eyes.
“Of course. You’re doing fine,” his father says. He makes a few more movements with the threads, then pauses. “But I think this is about as good as we’re going to get it today,” he says as he hands the threads back to the boy. The boy looks down; most of the knots are cleared, but the original remains, thick and ugly in his hands. He begins to tear up again.
“Son?”
“Yes dad?”
“You did great. Really. Much better than my first time. Mine was so full of knots it nearly gave old gramps a heart attack trying to get them undone.” He laughs out loud, and the boy is infected, smiling through his tears.
“Are you ready to tie it off?” his father asks.
“I guess so.”
“Remember, all of the threads in one—“
“I know, I know,” the boy replies, and begins to twist.
The father smiles and places his hand on his son’s shoulder, gently squeezing. In the hazy distance the couple still lies, now staring into each other’s eyes, pondering the depths of the soul. The sun is lower now, and the shadow of the great oak stretches out across the field, covering all its path in darkness except for the strands of golden yellow that spread out from the boy.
“There,” says the boy, and drops the thick knot into the grass. It sits for a moment, burning bright, then softly fades into nothingness. The threads, a thousand creeping arms expanding from the center, burn away like wicks in every direction until they too are gone. The father and son sit in silence, watching the couple in the distance until the sun sinks to the horizon and the first stars begin to spark across the dark blue sky.
“Do you think they will be alright?” the son finally asks.
“Sure they will,” the father replies, patting his son on the back. “Sure they will. Now let’s get home, mom is waiting for us.”
“Ok dad. Race you home!”
In a flash they are gone, and not even footsteps remain.
*****************
The couple has moved to the bench now, where the man sits nervously fingering a small box in his pocket. The sky is clear and the stars are burning bright, constellations beaming across the heavens. A cool wind blows across the field, and the woman pulls herself closer to him. She turns and kisses him softly on the lips, then pulls back and smiles, her eyes begging. Yes, he thinks, she knows. Of course she knows, women can tell. And she wants this, and I want this, so why not? Why not tonight? Why not now? He fingers the box one more time, hesitates, then sighs and pulls his hand away. His lips cannot form the words, and he doesn’t know why. Perhaps tomorrow, he thinks to himself, yes, tomorrow for certain.
He turns and stares into the night.