Wednesday, June 10, 2009

The Story of Wicky

*I wrote this...a long time ago. This is AS-IS, no current editing, etc. I rather like it! Enjoy!
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Wicky was a rock.

He was small (but not small enough to be a pebble) and grey. A boring grey.

He lived under the stairs to the porch of the Huggy family.

Mr. Huggy was a lawyer. He was always rushing around, running up and down the porch stairs, off to work and coming home late. Mrs. Huggy was a school teacher. She was always busy, quickly going up and down the porch, heading for school and then hurrying to get dinner ready as soon as she came home. The Huggys had one child. His name was Stanley.

Stanley was ten years old.

Wicky had known Stanley since he was born, and had grown quite fond of him. He called out to Stanley everyday when Stanley hopped down the porch stairs on his way to school or play, and he called out to Stanley when he skipped back up the porch stairs into the house after school or back from play. He would call out: "Stanley! Stanley! Stanley, come play with me!"

But, Stanley never heard Wicky.

Wicky would sigh sadly and turn his attention to The Weed.

The Weed was a spiky green thing that would have preferred to not have Wicky around. The Weed was pompous and arrogant. He liked nothing more than to just think about himself and his concerns. He patiently, and sometimes rather impatiently, ignored Wicky.

"I do wish Stanley would pay more attention to me," Wicky would say.

The Weed ignored Wicky.

"We could have so much fun together! You have no idea!"

The Weed ignored Wicky.

"Perhaps next time you could help me get his attention."

The Weed sniffed, and then ignored Wicky some more.

Wicky never seemed to notice.

The seasons passed, and still Wicky continued to call out to Stanley, never giving up hope that the young boy would one day hear him and gleefully pick him up. The Weed just sniffed.

One bright sunny day, Wicky realized that Stanley had not yet appeared. He wondered where he could be.

"Today is not a weekend, nor is it a holiday," Wicky said to The Weed. The Weed ignored him.

Wicky turned to The Weed.

"What do you think has happened?"

The Weed ignored him.

"What if he's sick!?" Wicky said with some alarm. For as long as he could remember, Stanley had never gotten sick. He was always a healthy, robust child.

The Weed ignored him.

"What if something has happened to him?" Wicky exclaimed.

"Perhaps he has died," The Weed said.

"WHAT!?" Wicky shrieked.

The Weed sniffed and turned his back on Wicky.

Days passed, and Wicky anxiously waited for news of Stanley. Finally, one gloomy Thursday morning, Mr. Huggy slowly walked down the porch steps and to his car. He was talking on his cellular phone to someone.

"No, Jim. I'll arrange the funeral. Thanks for he offer, but Betty wants to do this herself. Thanks for looking at the house for us though. I think it'll be fine. I have to go now, I have to go meet with the funeral home. G'bye."

Mr. Huggy drove off in his shiny black Cadillac, and Wicky gasped in shock. The Weed had been right! Stanley had died!

"But how!?" Wicky wailed to The Weed.

The Weed ignored him.

"Poor poor Stanley. And we never got to play! He was such a good little boy. We could've had so much fun! Poor poor Stanley. Poor Mr. Huggy. Poor Mrs. Huggy. Poor me! I shall never be played with."

The Weed sniffed disdainfully and ignored Wicky.

In the days that followed, Wicky finally learned, little by little, the details of poor Stanley's tragic passing. he had arrived home from school with a bad cough, and that bad cough had become the terrible tuberculosis. Stanley had died shortly afterwards, and Mr. and Mrs. Huggy had sold the house and bought a smaller one in another town far away from Wicky.

The funeral was held on a sunny Saturday, and Wicky was sad that he could not attend. He called out to Mr. Huggy and Mrs. Huggy on their way to the cemetary, to take him with them and bury him with Stanley, but neither heard him. The Weed just ignored him.

Finally, the day came when neither Mr. or Mrs. Huggy returned to the house. The porch was silent, no footsteps sounded above Wicky for weeks.

Then one day, the shiny brown dress shoes of the real estate agent, that Wicky had come to recognize, was accompanied by a pair of little feet in blue sneakers with red stripes.

"A little boy!" Wicky exclaimed happily. The Weed ignored him.

Wicky hoped against all hopes that this family would move in, and perhaps he would call out out this new little boy and the child would hear him and play with him! Wicky could hardly contain his excitement. The Weed ignored him.

Finally, one day not too long after, a moving truck pulled up in front of the house and Wicky shrieked gleefully!

"They're moving in!" he said to The Weed. The Weed ignored him.

The little blue and red sneakers raced up the porch steps, and were followed by pink hih heels and black loafers.

"Now, Jonny," Wicky heard a high voice say softly, "be careful or you'll fall down."

"Johnny!" Wicky said happily. The Weed ignored him.

Wicky waited for a week, while the Smithy family moved in and settled down. And then, one beautiful Monday morning, when Johnny jumped down the porch steps to go to school, Wicky took a deep breath and called out "Johnny! Johnny! Come pick me up and play with me!:

Wicky held his breath in anticipation as Johnny's footsteps slowed and he turned back to the porch. He took one step back towards the porch, then turned back around and ran to school.

Wicky sighed disappointedly. The Weed sniffed.

The day passed slowly, and Wicky could barely contain his eagerness for when Johnny would return home from school. But, finally, the little blue and red sneakers came running up the sidewalk to the house and Wicky nearly burst with joy.

"Johnny!" Wicky exclaimed, "Johnny! Come play with me!"

And suddenly, Wicky's wish came true. Johnny's feet slowly approached the porch, and then stopped. If Wicky could breathe, he would've held his breath. And slowly, for what seemed like an eternity to Wicky, Johnny knelt on the ground, and suddenly, he was peering under the porch at Wicky and The Weed.

"Did you call me?" his small, gentle voice asked, his eyes wide.

"Oh yes!" Wicky replied. "I've been waiting near forever for someone to play with me! We could have so much fun!"

A wide smile graced Johnny's face. "Oh yes!" he said. "I can see that! Ever so much fun!"

The Weed sniffed.

"And who is that?" Johnny asked politely, turning his attention to The Weed.

"Oh that is only The Weed," Wicky said, but introduced them anyway. "He is my only company here."

The Weed sniffed.

"Hm," Johnny said. And then suddenly, he reached under the porch and yanked The Weed out of the ground.

"Put me down!" The Weed shrieked. But, Johnny ignored it's screams and sighing slightly, he withdrew his hand and took The Weed with him.

Wicky stared in astonishment and then called out frantically "What's going on?! What are you doing?" Wicky stared in amazement as The Weed fell to the ground in front of him in two pieces. The Weed's bright green leaves were ragged and torn, it's stem twisted and crushed.

Wicky gasped, and then Johnny's face came into view again.

"I didn't like him much, did you?"

Wicky was silent for a moment, and then he laughed gleefully. "No! Not I! He was a dreadful thing! He wasn't much company, and he never told any jokes!"

"Shall we play?" Johnny asked.

"Oh yes!" Wicky exclaimed happily. "What shall we do first? Play catch? Perhaps make a little fort with some other lovely stones? I could sit in your room by a window, or sit for a while in a glass of water." Wicky could barely contain his excitement.

"I have a better game!" Johnny said. His fingers closed around Wickky's smooth self, and suddenly, Wicky was in the open sunlight. Wicky felt the wind rush against him and Johnny ran to the garage.

"What an adventure!" Wicky proclaimed.

And then Johnny lay Wicky down on his father's workbench and giggled joyfully. "Here we go!" he said. And he brought his father's hammer down upon Wicky once - twice - three times! And all that remained of Wicky was a pile of grey powder and shards.

The End

2 Comments:

Blogger Jessica said...

I do believe I am thoroughly traumatized. ;)

5:19 PM

 
Blogger Rachel said...

dear god, how old were you?


that was not what I was anticipating.

melodrama is the spice of life !

9:58 PM

 

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