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How the tables turn. Sad and small, to big and brash. A 365-word story.
Inspired by
poetigress and the Thursday Prompt.
The young boar sits alone in his room, back hunched, staring blankly at the wall. The blue sky hosts the summer sun. He doesn't notice. His tears dried up hours ago. Every now and then a little hiccup breaks the silence. It's from the crying. It happens every time. His throat hurts.
It's all war downstairs. Mom and pop quarrel in the kitchen. Dinner should be ready soon. Pop slams the screen door and drives away to the bar in his truck again. As the engine fades, happy sounds of cubs playing in the park percolates into the bedroom. Someone dragging a stick against metal railings as they run make music clinking with laughter. Mom yells at them to go home.
He sniffles, wiping his wet snout on the sleeve of his favourite sweater. A broken kite lays by the doorway, red fabric torn, wooden members splintered, its lovely never-ending bright yellow tail now just an arm's-length of tattered cloth. Beside it, his beloved roller-skates. The right one has only three wheels. As useless as himself. He got cuffed when he asked Pop to fix the wheel back on. Pop called him stupid for breaking it.
He didn't. The other kids did. They hate him.
He's the only piglet in the whole school. They're all so cool -- fur instead of bristles -- real tails, not a stupid one like his -- nice muzzles, not an ugly flat snout. They're all more clever too. And fast, better than he could dream in every sport. None of them wear glasses.
They don't have beady little eyes.
His favourite toys lie broken. His favourite games need two players, but there's only one hiding in this room. He turns away from the blank wall to pick up a comic, and feeds his head with wild adventures, funny pictures and quips.
Some day, young boar, you'll be a burly tusker.
Your former schoolmates will fear your strength and determination.
They'll complain about your attitude and your drinking and fighting.
They'll wonder what made you turn out like your worthless dad and mutter about how you were so different at school.
They won't remember kites or skates.
But you will.
oOoInspired by
poetigress and the Thursday Prompt.oOoThe young boar sits alone in his room, back hunched, staring blankly at the wall. The blue sky hosts the summer sun. He doesn't notice. His tears dried up hours ago. Every now and then a little hiccup breaks the silence. It's from the crying. It happens every time. His throat hurts.
It's all war downstairs. Mom and pop quarrel in the kitchen. Dinner should be ready soon. Pop slams the screen door and drives away to the bar in his truck again. As the engine fades, happy sounds of cubs playing in the park percolates into the bedroom. Someone dragging a stick against metal railings as they run make music clinking with laughter. Mom yells at them to go home.
He sniffles, wiping his wet snout on the sleeve of his favourite sweater. A broken kite lays by the doorway, red fabric torn, wooden members splintered, its lovely never-ending bright yellow tail now just an arm's-length of tattered cloth. Beside it, his beloved roller-skates. The right one has only three wheels. As useless as himself. He got cuffed when he asked Pop to fix the wheel back on. Pop called him stupid for breaking it.
He didn't. The other kids did. They hate him.
He's the only piglet in the whole school. They're all so cool -- fur instead of bristles -- real tails, not a stupid one like his -- nice muzzles, not an ugly flat snout. They're all more clever too. And fast, better than he could dream in every sport. None of them wear glasses.
They don't have beady little eyes.
His favourite toys lie broken. His favourite games need two players, but there's only one hiding in this room. He turns away from the blank wall to pick up a comic, and feeds his head with wild adventures, funny pictures and quips.
oOoSome day, young boar, you'll be a burly tusker.
Your former schoolmates will fear your strength and determination.
They'll complain about your attitude and your drinking and fighting.
They'll wonder what made you turn out like your worthless dad and mutter about how you were so different at school.
They won't remember kites or skates.
But you will.
oOoCategory Story / Scenery
Species Mammal (Other)
Size 119 x 120px
File Size 2.3 kB
*beats upon his chest for making her cry again... and then leans into his fur and sighs...
I was so worried you'd never write again... definately save these... I can see a small book entitled 365 word stories being sold in the airport bookstore... something the weary traveler can keep in his pocket to come and go with as they please... poetry for the soul...
V.
I was so worried you'd never write again... definately save these... I can see a small book entitled 365 word stories being sold in the airport bookstore... something the weary traveler can keep in his pocket to come and go with as they please... poetry for the soul...
V.
He just needs to be held back a few grades..then he'll be picking on kids like nobody's business! :>
Seriously, it's good...but all the "outcast" stories are a little depressing. I wonder if someone will pull off an upbeat one. If 80s movies about teens taught me anything, it's that the quirky outsiders are the most awesome people. Isn't it true of furs, too?
Seriously, it's good...but all the "outcast" stories are a little depressing. I wonder if someone will pull off an upbeat one. If 80s movies about teens taught me anything, it's that the quirky outsiders are the most awesome people. Isn't it true of furs, too?
Like Vixyy, I'm happy to see you writing again, though I'm still a little anxious for more of A Bull in My Appartment :p
This was pretty nicely done, though pretty sad. I think that most furs will find some parts that they will identify with. Myself, I lost a lot of toys when I was younger to my "friends" playing a little too rough with them on the playground. I think that's what brings a lot of us to the fandom, we have all been the outcast at one time or another.
This was pretty nicely done, though pretty sad. I think that most furs will find some parts that they will identify with. Myself, I lost a lot of toys when I was younger to my "friends" playing a little too rough with them on the playground. I think that's what brings a lot of us to the fandom, we have all been the outcast at one time or another.
Its a great style, much in the tradition owing to Hemingway. Short precise no frills declarative sentences. Something i have tried but concise is something i could never pull off. You however do and do it very well. Its a very resonate story because i think we all have memories we can relate too like those of your young bore. Something that no one will remember but us that will have an affect on us for some time to come in the future.
*hugs*
*hugs*
You're like those artists who take a pencil and a Wal-Mart receipt and render a sleeping child's face, complete with touseled hair, dirt-smudged cheeks and that angelic expression that only sleeping children have, and do it all in 90 seconds. You take so little and expand it just right to make it fill the room.
*bows* Thank you for these.
*bows* Thank you for these.
Sad. Touching. Really, this is something too cruel and real, I find it hard to write a comment. It's hard to be bullied by other kids, it's hard to live in a broken home. How hard it is to experience both? Great little piece, I don't know if I can say I enjoyed reading this, but at least I can say it was a touching experience to read this.
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