Paper Bag pt. 2

I called out a greeting and a conversation much like the one I just held repeated itself. “Where am I? How did I end up here? This is so embarrassing, but do you know where I am?”

“I do not.” One fly, I assumed the husband, replied meanly. “I know myself and all things concerning that. Why would I know anything about you?”

“Curiosity?” I suggested.

“Hmm, I don’t recall ever having that.” His scowl deepened. “Who did you say you were again?”

“I didn’t.”

“Well, who are you?”

“I don’t know.” I confessed. “I can’t seem to remember.”

“Don’t you know who you are?” The wife spoke up.

“Rightly it seems I don’t.”

“Well you won’t figure that out standing here. Get a move on. Getta’ going. Go on!” She shooed my away furiously.

Hurrying along dejectedly I wandered for what seemed quite a long time before coming to another home. This one held no persons on its porch nor even a single rocking chair. “Excuse me?” I stood just shy of the steps, leaning this way and stretching that way to see into the dark open doorway. Finally I heard the click clacking of a cane against hardwood. A stooped figure of a grandmother maggot appeared out of the dim light, slowly making her way outside.

This is the person, I thought to myself, suddenly filled with feelings of awe. This is the person who will dispense wisdom and tell me what I need to know. I began what had become my usual introduction as she stood patiently listening. “Please,” I looked up at her with big eyes. “I need to know who I am and where to go.”

“Why?” She asked, seemingly confused. “Why do you need to know these things?”

“It’s the only way to move forward.” I reasoned.

“Move forward to where?”

Exasperated I threw up my hands. “I don’t know!”

The old woman chuckled and invited me to sit on her steps, next to her as she slowly bent her boy to rest on them. “You’re so worried about your problems. You seems to have so many. But you’re wrong. You only have one problem. You’re so greedy! You don’t need to know anything. Not where you come from, not where you go, not even who you are. You don’t need to know any of these.”

“But how will I get by?” I asked.

“By simply getting by,” she said. “Life is not so complicated. Follow your heart from moment to moment and you will find it leads you in all the right directions, not all of which are thought of or planned for.”

“But what if you don’t know what your heart wants?”

“That’s perfectly alright. The most important thing is you are trying, and because of that you are already on your way. Even if it is slow going, enjoy this time; when you reach your destination, for everyone eventually does in one way or another, there will be nothing left for you save boredom and fond memories.”

“But,” I still hesitated. “I still don’t see how I can be on my way if I don’t know my destination.”

“Eh, you make it so complicated!” The maggot scolded, suddenly pushing me away. “No one sees the end, where they are going. But that’s no reason to stay put. Aren’t you curious, even just a little?”

“I’m more scared than anything.” I confessed.

“Fear and curiosity are curiously similar.” She patted my back. “Go on. You know you’re going to eventually.”

Taking the old woman’s words as baggage I thanked her and stood, looking all around me. I saw the bright, blinding light which led to the mouth of the bag, closer now than ever. Because it was so bright, if I walked towards it, there was no way I could see where I headed until I was there. Without another thought I put one foot in front of the other, moving towards the unknown.

Paper Bag pt. 1

Once upon a time there was a paper bag. Regarding size and color it was much like every other paper bag on the block, and was therefore rather plain and wholly undeserving of a story to take place anywhere near it. That being said let us get on to our story, which takes place quite conveniently within said bag.

“Oh my,” I said, looking around in the dim filtered light. “How did I end up here?” I faced the bottom of a paper bag, which lay on its side, completely without rhyme or reason to my life. Turning around I saw the sides of the bag formed walls and a ceiling, encasing me. A pin prick of light in the distance, the opening of the bag, lent itself enough to illuminate the small world. Once the initial shock and intimidation (looking and feeling an awful lot like fright) I noticed to my left, a little ways down, a small shack sitting prettily against one of the walls. I found my feet taking me there.

There wasn’t much of a lawn, but I stood on it while on the porch two rocking chairs held a little old spider couple, the man smoking on a pipe while the mistress passed the time on two crochet needles.

“Hello,” I called out, weakly waving a hand.

The elder man sat forward and readjusted his spectacles, his many black eyes shining through with a dullness which only comes with age. “Well what do we have here?”He nudged his other half who only then looked up. “You’re awful big; how did you fit in here?”

The wife scolded him, hitting his stomach and upside his head with her arms. “Don’t be rude,” she whispered. Turning to me she smiled. “What’s your name?”

“I’m not sure,” I admitted. “Don’t you know?”

“You’re quite impressive,” the man claimed, oblivious of the conversation’s direction.

“I’m afraid I don’t recognize you,” the wife said a bit sadly, as grandmothers usually do. “But I’m sure you know your name, you’ve probably just misplaced it.”

“You flatter me.” I blushed. “But how do I find my way out of here? If I could find my way out, maybe who I am is waiting outside?”

“You go looking, that’s how!” The husband exclaimed, slamming his many fists down on his armchair in a slow sort of way.

“What direction do you suggest I go looking?”

“The opposite of which you came is usually a good bet.” Said the wife, resuming her crocheting. “You should talk to our neighbors, the Flys. They get around so much more than we do.”

The old man folded his many arms and scoffed. “Just because they have wings,” he jerked his thumbs to his left, motioning down the wall into the distance.

Thanking the old pair I continued on along until I came to another small cabin, identical to the first save there were two little flies sitting outside the door in rocking chairs as opposed to two little spiders.

Where Is My Home?

Mr. Rickardson-Ticklpic was a grumpy old man, which was understandable considering he had such an unfortunate name to write on all his bills. A Wednesday night, bitterly snowing, he rushed walking home. In such weather the missus would worry herself away by the front door, and he hated to upset her when he dilly-dattled on his way home.  

“Hey Mister!” Mr. Rickardson-Ticklpic paused and looked around. A few feet behind him, perhaps a yard more like, stood a rather desolate looking child. Dressed in stitched together old pillow cases the bright-eyed child would have broken a lesser man’s heart right then and there.

“What do you want?” Called Mr. Rickardson-Ticklpic to the young boy. 

“I’m looking for my home.” The boy answered simply.

“Why are you following me then?”

“Do you know where my home is?” The boy asked.

“Why would I know where that is?” Mr. Rickardson-Ticklpic turned to leave, paused, and faced the child once more. “If you’re looking for someone to pickpocket –”

“So do you know where it is?”

Mr. Rickardson-Ticklpic huffed. “No. Now go away.” With that he turned fully and trudged on.

“But I have nowhere to go. I don’t know where my home is,” Mr. Rickardson-Ticklpic heard the boy crunching through the snow, following. He looked over his shoulder at the trailing boy.

“Don’t you know where the police station is?”

“Yes,” the boy replied. “But I don’t want to go there. I want to go home.”

“Can’t help you then kid,” Mr. Rickardson-Ticklpic tightened his coat. “I don’t know what you want me to say.”

“I want you to say where my home is.” Mr. Rickardson-Ticklpic doubled his pace in the hopes of out-running the small child. “Hey Mister!” The boy called, stumbling but carrying right on.

“What?” 

“Do you have a home?” “Yes,” “Is it warm?” “Yes,” “Is there food?” “Yes,” “Is there a family?”

“Yes, the missus.”

“Wow… That must be nice. I can’t remember my home. I wonder if I had a missus…”

Mr. Rickardson-ticklpic stopped walking and sighed. “Alright kid, come on.” He reached out to grasp the young boy’s ungloved hand; leading him, at a much slower pace, home. 

 

*Note: Hi Followers! I’m back from my trip; I ate too much and saw a-lot (but really I just ate too much). The mountains are beautiful!    

Taken

“Hey Mista?”

 

“What?”

 

“Where was it you’s said we were goin’?”

 

“To look for my puppy.” The man answered for the hundredth time.

 

“Are you sure we gonna find him?” The little boy asked.

 

“I’m sure we’re going to find something.”

 

“Cuz’ I’ve been lookin’, an’ I ain’t seen nothing. And I’m hungry.”

 

“I heard you the first time.”

 

“Ain’t you got something to eat?”

 

“No.” Came the rude reply.

 

“What chu’ say you’re dog looked like?”

 

“He’s brown.”

 

“Is that him?” Screeched the child, pounding on the glass for impact.

 

“No!” Snapped the man, grabbing the young boy by the arm. “Just sit down and be quiet!”

 

“You’re no fun…” Pouted the boy, folding his arms with a huff.

 

The man’s eyebrow twitched uncontrollably before he slapped a hand atop it. Why had he done this again? He glanced over at the thin body of the boy. Oh yes. Driving around mid-afternoon, he’d passed a park full of children. It had been easy enough to pick out a suitable target. Hearing his sad story, the boy had been more than willing to follow him to the ends of the earth for his long lost puppy. It was hardly a challenge anymore. He was a pro after all.

 

Sleazily, he gripped the steering wheel tighter and turned a corner. Almost there now, just a little longer…

 

“So’s there’s this girl in my class right?” Broke the boy. “An’ she likes me, but I don’t know if she really likes me likes me, or if she just likes me. I as’ her once, but she jus’ ran off to the sand box.” Confided the boy.

 

“And?” Asked the man, hunched over the steering wheel in a pitiful attempt to shield himself from the boy’s attention.

 

“So what do ya’ think?” Asked the boy, throwing up his hands in a dramatic way.

 

“Think of what?”

 

“Do you think she likes me? I get al’ shy around her…”

 

“Hard to imagine.” Whispered the man under his breath.

 

“She’s awful nice when she wants to be. But she’s mean too. I wanted to play a game, and she said she would, but when time came she ditched meh.”

 

“That’s… awful.”

 

“Do you think I should give her something for Valentine’s Day? Bobby, he’s the one who sits on my left, say’s I should forget her. He said she was runnin’ around with Dylan just last week! But I’m not sure. I don’t remember seeing her with Dylan, and I would know cuz’ I was watchin’.”

 

“How old are you?” Begged the man.

 

“What’s back here?” A pair of legs dangled over the back of the passenger seat, kicking at odd angles.

 

“Sit down!”

 

To someone walking along the sidewalk it would have appeared that a grimy white van was driving itself down the street in that moment. The driver of said van was far too busy trying to wrangle a young child to be worried about steering.

 

With a short screech and a sudden stop, the van parked itself in the in the middle of the road.

 

“Get out!” The man yelled, throwing open the side door. “You’re more trouble than you’re worth!” Tossing the young boy onto the street he stomped his foot on the gas, slamming shut the door with force as he sped away.   

 

“What a weirdo!” Dusting himself off, the young boy couldn’t help but smile as he looked back on the past ten minutes. “Works every time.” Smoothing his hair, he turned on his heels and headed back to school. He had obligations after all.