My boy and his Toys

A boy likes to play pretend

            My boy, he’s a little kid, he doesn’t watch the news. My boy doesn’t know that his playtime is death and destruction broadcasted at six A.M. and mid-day at eleven. He didn’t know about the candle light vigils and twenty-one gun salutes.

            “Pew pew,” he said with his plastic toy-soldiers at the battle of his bedroom floor. “Blam blam.”

            “A squadron of American soldiers overseas were gunned down on a routine patrol,” the anchorman says as images of the deceased soldiers fade in and blacken. They were boys.

            My boy didn’t mean to kill those boys overseas. My son loves his country; he’s a tiny patriot, my boy. He was only playing, he cried himself into a nap when I dumped those army men into the garbage.

            “Whoosh whoosh,” My boy says, a miniature airplane soars at the flight of his hand. His lunch was ready, and he had to drop his plane. He was hungry, he didn’t mean for that commercial flight to end in twisted metal, fiery deaths. He pounded his fists when his toy plane soared into the garbage.

            He played with his other toys and the reports of mass killings, earthquakes, tsunamis, hurricanes, car wrecks, they all just kept coming. I couldn’t smile at my boy anymore. I couldn’t watch him play. I cringed at his splashing in puddles. I flinched when he swiped his Lincoln logs.

            He didn’t understand why I had to empty his toy chest. I couldn’t tell that watery-eyed boy that he was a force of devastation.

            The news, like my boy’s toy chest, became empty. They reverted back to the drug trends of the young and famous, the fashion of the rich and noteworthy, and the trends of the big names that are soon forgotten. I had saved world and demolished the news, a single garbage bag loaded with toys had rescued countless future victims. I had saved the word, but I had devastated my son.

            I slept in at six A.M. and mid-day at eleven I retreated to my garage. I played with my toys, tinkered with a fried engine or welded bits of metal. Getting a fine, straight weld was nearly impossible with those damn tears diluting the blaze of the weld. I had taken to sobbing in the dimness of my garage.

               The wife finally spat a nag about how if I was going to spend my hours in the garage I had to clean it. I promptly organized the clutter in between emptying beer cans into my mouth.

              "Daddy, can we do this? Can you throw to me?" My boy had found the ball and gloves I had set aside. Boys aren't meant to be withdrawn from playing. No boy is suppose to weigh his neck with a head full of defeat

            A father is never right in telling his boy no to a round of toss, “Yeah son.”

He trampled to the front yard, an oversized glove around his catching hand. His feet were light and they hopped into steps. The sun warmed us on the ground, but clouds were curtaining around the light above our heads. A faint shadow blinked and softened the yard. I cleared my throat, “okay boy, let it fly.”

            And what an arm on the kid. The ball didn’t lag in the air, it wasted no time in an arc and lost no momentum before it slugged my glove. The ball, and his vision were predetermined.  I felt the force of my boy welling in the fibers of that baseball.

            The settled shadow winked brighter, the clouds were clearing over our heads. They cleared to reveal a pink quick to become a fire of orange. The clouds sizzled and were gone. “What is that dad?”

            “I don’t know son, but throw me another one of those fast balls.” I said and underhanded the ball across the space between us.

            He could catch too, what a boy I had. Like before his throw had landed the ball in my glove with a thud and like before another blaze brightened in the sky.

            My boy didn’t mean to bake the Earth in a shower of meteors, he just wanted to play catch with his father. I ran to him, pulled him up with my arms clutching around him. “Nice throw buddy, I love you.” The chill of a single tear moistened my cheek before we both evaporated as father and son.

 

           

Reviews

[Rosemary]

Wow. Just.... wow. :) Returned to WritersCafe after a long time and the first thing I saw was this, yay!

[Naraly Godinez]

Absolutely amazing the references you were making to the boy at perhaps an older age .
When the game of catch and throw came into play I was slightly confused until the story consumed me one again with that last concluding line that couldn't have been more perfect . Fantastic job zack

[Vian]

It's so out there, I can actually imagine it happening. As far as I'm concerned it is complete but I do hope your muse returns. This is so well narrated and perfectly reflects a father/son bond. I love it. Though, it could do with another round of editing, 'throw' not 'through.' That is somewhere near the end of the story. Thank you for writing this, it was beautiful.

[Marie]

I consider this finished very well. What more do you need to add? The story is done.

[Chadvonswan]

Hahaha oh my Leo this was fantastic. Great job Zackary!!

[ZackOfBridge]

Thanks Max, Imagine the writing I could have done with a fistful of quailoods