[Writing] Match Box

This is a short story that Sol (one of our selves) wrote some time ago, but it's gone through some minor revisions relatively recently. Let us know what you guys think of it, and hopefully she'll have something to say about it.

Just wanted to get something of hers out there, so... enjoy!
    - Eden

Match Box

We used to catch fireflies here. I was always sad the next morning, seeing the ones that had died in the jar -- like I had put out a flame just so that I could dream about it burning.

It's... remarkable, what time does to a place. The water used to be surrounded by trees, creating its own secluded home, a place to come to where no one could bother us. But now I can see your trailer through the branches; the leaves all decided to die, leave a carcass -- decompose like opening the curtains in your room, reminding you of what it really looks like.

But almost everything else is still here. I can still hear the crickets all around, watch the insects glide across the water; see the ripples from where a fish managed to catch one just before it got away. I can even see the tadpoles swimming around, almost playing in the shallow of the steepening banks. I could never hold on to frogs when I was little; my fingers would never grab them in time.

Turtles were easier; I just thought they would bite me, but... then again, I thought everything would. I suppose I was smarter then. But you showed me how gentle they were, picking them up and putting them in my arms back when I held everything like a baby. To me, they were.

I remember you laughing when I rocked them. You tried to hide it behind your hand, but your eyes gave you away. And I'd smile, singing to my little turtle at the pond.

So you started bringing out little plastic buckets, pouring in some of the sand and water, making a tiny island in the middle. You'd always let me place the plants just how I liked them before picking out my turtle for the night: I always liked the smaller ones. You thought that was appropriate.

And I always, always laid them down next to the mattress you placed on the floor for me. Talked to them into the night until I'd fall asleep, wake up in the morning with my head on the carpet. My neck always seemed to hurt when I stayed with you, but it was worth it then. I don't remember complaining, but... I do remember you asking why I always wrung my hands around my shoulders. I suppose that's when you got the idea.

"Why don't you keep one?"

So... I did. We went out to the pond one day and just played in the water, splashing each other, looking for the right one. The perfect turtle, a little, yellow-bellied box. And we found him. You took out your pocketknife and carved my initials into the shell, the year.

LWE '85.

But I was only there on weekends, so really, he was yours; of course, now I wonder if you wrote in my initials because... you wanted me to be there every day. I know I did, at least... well, back then. But that kind of desire is exactly what made those weekends so beautiful. Coming by year after year and watching him grow, clawing at the sides of the bucket by my bed, watching your skin as it got more brown while your hair grew out and started turning gray, those bags under your eyes getting darker and darker, teeth staining yellow while his shell just kept getting more and more vibrant. And he'd never have to leave.

The clarity of the water underneath me shatters from a tear rolling off my cheeks. That's why you loved him.

And I kept getting older, but you seemed to stay the same. Wanting that little girl back so she could pick up your turtle and sing to him while you watched and laughed to yourself in the brown-stained recliner, one hand over your mouth, those wrinkles around your eyes.

But I couldn't sing anymore. It was all too sad, and he was just a reminder of that, his tiny claws scratching up against the sides of the plastic, wanting to get back to that pond and soak in the water, the sunlight that never seemed to penetrate the curtains. I suppose by then that you didn't want to see the clean carpet from where my mattress used to sit.

It just got too hard to visit as time went on. Remarkable... what that can do.

I came by last month and knocked on the door. I never went inside because of the smell, and I could tell that you'd been crying: those wrinkles were all gone, bloodshot. And I asked you how your turtle was because I couldn't think of anything else to say, and you told me, "he went back home." And I had to leave; not even a goodbye. It felt too... final.

That was the last time I saw you. I couldn't even come to the viewing; I still can't imagine you ever being in a suit. So I came here -- to find a turtle.

You said that he went home, and I... know what you meant. But I can't keep myself from picking them all up and turning them over, looking at the shells and crying a little harder each time, watching as they waddle back into the murk every time I put one down.

And there are no fireflies anymore. Nothing to light up the water and make everything look like a dream, that surreal sentimentality, the youthful remembrance. Nothing left to spark that confidence that somehow, everything is going to be all right, because at least you can enjoy that moment of sublime beauty.

I can't dream about them anymore.

So I keep looking, rolling up my jeans even though they're already soaking wet, sifting through the broken branches looking for your little, old box. And of course, I know that I'll never find him. I know that, but... admitting it would be too hard. Even the turtles know that; they're getting so hard to find when we used to be surrounded.

But I can't give up, moving the branches and dead leaves hoping to find him soaking under them with that splotchy shell and wrinkled skin, the expressive eyes that never change. Always conveying that deep melancholy that tries to stay so hidden.

And there's one beneath the tree limbs, basking in the cool mud as I look down on it, pick it up and turn it over. And there's a child's carvings, familiarity swelling in my chest.

Bobby '64.

And I wonder if you caught fireflies, too.

Excellent work. A lot of what I read doesn't move me at all- maybe it's the nature of my work- but being a father, watching my girls grow up whether I want them to or not, moving from sidewalk chalk and My Little Pony to cell phones and boyfriends so swiftly I can't imagine that time can pass so damned fast, I found this story moving. It makes me feel... well, sad. Sad because even though my kids won't have the dismal experience in your story, it's similar enough. I'm losing them. This is happening. And there's nothing I can do except love them every minute of every day, even when they're shits, untill they are no longer children.

This story outlined the kind of death that all people, all relationships and all childhoods must invariably face- not physical death, but sublime- and the consequences of letting the life of that relationship become cluttered when it reaches that inevitable day.

Gotta give you +rep for that one.

Solistra: So, Eden's been wanting me to come out and be somewhat active on this forum; he seems to believe that social isolation is something I don't desire, which is generally far from accurate. Your post, however, elicits a response, so it seems his efforts to drive me into the open haven't been completely hopeless.

Excellent work. A lot of what I read doesn't move me at all- maybe it's the nature of my work- but being a father, watching my girls grow up whether I want them to or not, moving from sidewalk chalk and My Little Pony to cell phones and boyfriends so swiftly I can't imagine that time can pass so damned fast, I found this story moving.

Thank you. Truly, that is quite possibly the greatest compliment that I could accept about this story. Of course, it's supposed to be "moving," and honestly, that's one of the aspects of this story that makes me uneasy... not because I don't want to write emotionally driven stories, but because I hate having my emotional strings pulled like a puppet -- and I feel as though that's exactly what this story does. Given that I hate being treated that way as a reader, I'm wary of writing stories that try so blatantly to be emotionally striking.

Given what you've said, however, it occurs to me that the way this story is written is perhaps all too fitting for what I was trying to convey with it. C'est la vie.

It makes me feel... well, sad. Sad because even though my kids won't have the dismal experience in your story, it's similar enough. I'm losing them. This is happening. And there's nothing I can do except love them every minute of every day, even when they're shits, untill they are no longer children.

I would go so far as to say that this is likely a common experience amongst most (if not all) parents, and of course, these kinds of experiences make for excellent material when writing. That's one instance in which I believe fictional writing can be far more than entertainment (although I wouldn't begrudge myself the occasional story written for nothing more than that entertainment value).

This story outlined the kind of death that all people, all relationships and all childhoods must invariably face- not physical death, but sublime- and the consequences of letting the life of that relationship become cluttered when it reaches that inevitable day.

This is insightful, and comes remarkably close to saying what I intended to convey in the story. The only element that I believe is missing is the experience of rediscovering someone you once believed you knew, seeing them in a more human light. In the case of this story, it's the experience of the main character stumbling upon the childhood of their father whilst mourning their father's passing (and the passing of their own childhood, as well). This is another one of those common experiences that many people inevitably face: discovering how their parents were once children and dreamers, too. To me, this adds another layer of sadness to the story: discovering too late just how fragile we all are as human beings, and how the main character's father was attempting to relive the innocence of his own childhood. As that innocence left, he began to wither.

Gotta give you +rep for that one.

Thank you, I appreciate that. As much as Eden wants to claim the reputation system doesn't matter to him, I don't believe that's entirely true; seeing that positive number rise is a positive incentive, regardless of the negative value that sits beside it.

And once again, thank you for the comment. I greatly enjoyed reading it.
  Solistra

Heh, you're so wierd... but i dig that about you, man. Keep writing.