She talked to him and held him tight. It was something he was unused to, being all the time alone in a box under a bed, and he didn't mind. She put him on her shelf, right at the end, near her bed. Late into the night they would talk, her to him. She poured out her soul to him, he listened well. As if he had any choice in the matter. Not with those tears.
He didn't see it then, I did and tried to tell him, to make him see through those little thread eyes. He was entranced by that smile, it was hard to ignore. The dust that covered the other mismatched toys further down the shelf waited with the utmost patience. I saw, but he only had eyes for her.
She made for him a heart to wear, he was so proud. She would take him from the shelf and dance with him out the door, sharing her life with him. He would never stop smiling that little crooked smile, even when placed once more upon the shelf, right at the end, near her bed. As if he ever had any kind of choice. Not with that peaceful golden head.
Then the day came when she closed the door, her bed made and her clothes packed away. He sat there patiently, waiting for her to come back, to talk, to dance. The door stayed closed and the room got cold. He looked down at the heart she had made for him to wear, fading away with the patient layer of dust, that heavy dust. He sat and waited, high on the shelf, on the end, near the lonely bed. As if he had any choice. Not with that pin holding him there to the wall.
~This is a short story(obviously) that I just finished (finally) that accompanies that one finished painting I did a while back. It just happens to be 365 words long, which would be a word a day for a year, if it took me a year to write it, which it did in a round about way. Still, I have a few others in the works, and perhaps I'll have enough peace and quiet on the Africa Mercy to make an attempt at those.