Of Ants and Mailboxes

“It’s getting cold.”

“It is.” She said, leaning her head back.

“It’ll be dark soon,”

“Mhm.”

It was dismissive, but I didn’t mind. She was obviously preoccupied. I looked out the window, the one of the two that faced away from the neighbors’ house and chipped garage door. The sun was fading quickly into the massive, dark horizon, slipping out of view like a taillight through the fog.

Her room was large and looked out over the hills. At night you could see the far off lights of the oil drills along the shoreline. There wouldn’t be too many of those soon enough. Oftentimes you could see as far as the islands, but today the air was thick, and I could only see out to their lonely mailbox as it sat on the corner.

“Rachel?”

She answered by opening her eyes once, then shutting them again.

“Look, what’s wrong? You invited me over and you’ve been moody all day, or since class ended, anyway. What’s going on?”

“Nothing.”

“Come on.”

She opened her eyes and sat up a little. “You know he likes her?”

“Who – oh, him? He does? Huh. It’s sickening, isn’t it?”

“Nauseating. She rubs it in my face – she knows I used to like him, and she does it on purpose now.”

Her eyes were closed again, so I looked out the window. Something about the way the fog slipped forward and back and forward again between the window and the lamppost across the street seemed fitting.

“I feel like I’m losing everyone,” She went on, brushing some hair out of her eyes with a lazy, long-nailed hand. “Him, and now her – well, she’s always been a horror, but now she’s just... ugh.”

“You’ve still got me,”

“Yeah...”

There was a silence, in which I noted that the blinds were dusty, and the mailbox outside was cracked. There was also a bit of rust near the little red flag. I hadn’t noticed it before.

“I don’t know why it bothers me so much,” she said, drumming her fingers on her chin. “I don’t like him anymore. And well, I never liked her.”

“Don’t let it bother you,” I said. Age old wisdom. “Stupid people shouldn’t bring you down,”

“They’re not.” She said suddenly. Her eyes flew up to mine and there was some sort of contempt in them. Then – “They’re not.” The last one was supposed to sound nonchalant. I knew her better.

I studied the floor. A little ant was crawling past my shoe, towards Rachel. I put a piece of paper in its way so it had to turn around. She might have crushed it, after all.

She leaned her head down on her own shoulder. “I’m sorry... really. I know I’ve been weird... I don’t know what’s going on. I just feel like I don’t know anybody anymore. They’re all changing and I’m stuck in the same rut – or, maybe I’m changing, and they’re all stuck. I just...”

Shadows were starting to creep around the room, spreading out and onwards from the corners. They were falling across her face in a curious sort of way, making lines in places I didn’t often see. The lighting certainly was strange.

“...I don’t feel like anything fits anymore.”

I watched the mailbox disappear as a sudden gathering of mist passed by slowly. I looked at my shoes.

“I don’t fit anymore?”

There was a brief silence. It’s funny how much a silence can say. When I finally looked up, Rachel was watching the ant. It was trying to get into a crack in the wall.

“He’s stuck,” she said, bending over him.

I watched the ant, and then I watched Rachel. The shadows in the room were growing, and my face felt hot.

“Just because they’re being nasty to you doesn’t mean you can be nasty to me.” I said. She didn’t move. “You can’t let people like that push you around. I mean, I don’t have that many friends, but at least that means I don’t have to parcel myself out to people.”

She put her finger near the ant, and I wondered if she’d heard. Funny how I’d been getting that feeling recently.

“You’ve got to stand up for yourself sometimes. I try to do it for you, but you’ve got to learn to do it yourself.”

The ant put out its’ feelers, felt Rachel’s finger, and climbed onto it. She lifted it up to the window sill. I could see nothing of the outside now.

I sprang to my feet and pushed her hand away from the window.

“Can’t you listen to me when I talk to you!”

“Oh go away!” She cried. Her eyes were large and dark in the unlit room, and I found myself thinking it strange, not being able to see even the color of someone’s eyes. “If you were so perfect you’d know when to stop! Just leave me alone!”

I stepped back, watching the girl in front of the window. The ant found a crack and disappeared. For a moment, the fog shifted and a slice of indigo sky filtered through. But then it too was gone.

I asked again, slower this time. “I don’t fit anymore?”

The voice coming from my mouth was small in comparison to the large room. Maybe it didn’t even reach the corners.

She just stood there for a minute without moving, and then suddenly sat down on the bed without a sound. I stared.

“Want a jacket?” She said, without looking anywhere particular. “You look cold.”

I looked again at the window. There was absolutely nothing now – even the fog was gone. There was only night.

“It’s dark. I’d better go.”

She nodded, and as I turned to go, she looked around the room. She looked at the darkness, the empty spaces filled with just air – she hadn’t noticed it before.

Eloise's Garden

It was too bright. It shouldn't be that bright, Alfred was sure of it. Hadn't he read somewhere that bright colors disturbed people? It made them uneasy, or something. Especially when it was white – plain, unyielding white that made you squint when you looked at it. And it wasn't only the walls – it was the tables, the chairs, the floors, the coats on the doctors and the coat racks...

"Wait here, sir,"

Alfred stopped abruptly, and his black shoes squeaked in protest. People were walking past, but somehow they didn't seem to have any faces. Maybe if he had sunglasses, he could see better...

"The name, sir?"

"Mary." He answered instinctively. "Mary Dobbs."

A few papers were shuffled through. The man at the files had a face, but it didn't say much. It might as well have been a mask, for Alfred couldn't see anything past the first layer of skin. Of course, that was usual. Wasn't it?

A file was pulled out. "Of course. Mary." The man looked up at Alfred, and a white light reflected off of his glasses. "She's been improving very much." It was his job to say that, of course.

"Good. May I see her?"

"Visiting hours are almost over. But I'll go see if I can fetch her for you."

Alfred took a step after the man, but the glasses reflected once more and the mechanic voice said, "Wait here." So Alfred waited.

The hall by the reception desk was far too quiet. The only sound audible was the clicking of white shoes as they met with the tiled white floor. If one wasn't insane when they entered this tomb, Alfred reckoned, they would be when they left it.

He turned a circle, searching for something different to look at. There. Across the room was a pair of glass doors, leading out to something he couldn't see. Curiosity led Alfred to cross the tile, and instinct told him to open the doors. He obeyed.

There was a different smell about this place. Less of the dull scent of clean metal objects and moist wipes, and something new. Something that smelled fresh. In fact, it smelled more than fresh. It smelled like good, damp dirt.

Alfred looked around. He was standing in an enclosed patio. The ground beneath his feet was cement, but that was the only thing. Climbing up the invisible walls were hundreds of ivy leaves, and at the base of each was a potted plant of some sort. Colors seemed to jump out at him from everywhere. It was fresh and green. And it was perfect.

"Oh. Hello."

Alfred looked down, startled. On the wall nearest the doors, there was a small bench, and sitting on this small bench was a small girl with large brown eyes. Her skin was pale, like porcelain. Long black curls hung down over her shoulders, and as they met with her neckline, they suddenly were transformed into a red dress. The red was so deep and flawless that it nearly took Alfred's breath away. He had never seen so much color in one place. Yet it all fit together so beautifully, so serenely, and the girl was part of the garden.

"Are you new here?" She was asking. Her lips looked less like lips and more like a kind of flower, sitting gracefully above her chin.

"Erm." Said Alfred.

"Who are you looking for?"

"Oh. I came here to visit my wife. They're... fetching her."

"What's her name?"

"Mary."

The girl considered this. "I haven't met her."

"What about you? Who are you here for?"

She tilted her head. "That's an odd sort of question. Would you like a candy? I always keep some with me." She held up a piece of caramel in a shiny green wrapper.

Alfred shook his head. "No, thank you,"

"That's a pity," she popped the candy into her mouth. "I suppose it makes sense, though. You're not all that old."

"What?"

"Old people. They always seem to like hard candy more than anyone else." She peered up into the sky for a moment. "Can you guess why?"

Alfred glanced up to see if she saw anything noteworthy. Just blue. Then he shrugged. "No, I can't."

"Well, I've thought about it. And I think they like hard candy because it lasts longer. Don't you think so?"

"I suppose." He looked at her sideways. "What's your excuse, then? You're not old."

She smiled. "No, I suppose not. I like things to last longer, though. You don't know which candy might be your last one."

Alfred looked at her in wonder. "How old are you?"

"Fifteen."

"You're too young to be in a place like this all alone. Where are your parents?"

She shrugged. "I don't know."

"But surely –"

"Oh, I won't come to any harm here. They always keep people safe. Your wife can tell you that."

"I think they make people crazy here." He muttered.

The girls' eyes widened. "Oh, they don't say crazy here. They call it mentally unstable."

"They?"

"The doctors. I called somebody crazy when I first got here, and I got in trouble. Not real trouble, I mean, but they told me not to do it again. It upsets people, I think."

"What do you mean, when you first got here? How long have you been here?"

"Two years."

Alfred frowned. "Surely you're joking. You're not any more... mentally unstable, than I!"

"No, well, they don't think so... not yet. But they say it's only a matter of time." She let her feet sway back and forth under the bench, and Alfred noticed that she was barefoot. She saw the look. "They gave me shoes, but I don't like them. They were too white."

"What did you mean, 'not yet'?"

"It runs in my family. My mother died when they couldn't control her fits. And my father didn't want it to happen again, so they decided to stop it before it started. But between you and me, I think I'm already slightly mad."

"You don't look mad to me."

"Not up here," she tapped the top of her head, and then placed her finger over her heart. "In here, I think. I always knew I was different, but it's nothing medical – not yet, anyway. But they keep me here, just for safety."

"That's silly. You couldn't harm anybody."

She smiled. "Not for other peoples' safety, for mine. I guess I should thank them. You never can tell if you're crazy or not, left to your own opinions."

Alfred could think of nothing to respond with.

"Anyway. It's not all bad here. It's quiet and I've got time to think."

"Do you have friends here?"

She thought this over. "I've got the cousins,"

"The cousins? Who are they?"

"Oh, we're all a big family here. The doctors say we are. When somebody new comes in, they introduce us all as family. There's cousins, and grandparents, and even uncles and aunts... they don't call anyone parents, because that would just get confusing to some of them. We get family portraits, and name badges, and everything."

Alfred wondered vaguely whose cousin or aunt Mary was.

The girl peered up at him. "What do you do?"

"What?"

"You have a job, don't you?"

"Oh. Yes, I'm a writer."

"What do you write about?"

"Oh... things." Alfred looked down at her. Why did he get the feeling that he was speaking to someone his own age? Someone even older, perhaps. Every time she looked into his eyes, he felt as though he were the child. "What do you do?"

She laughed. "They don't give us jobs here. We're their jobs!"

"Surely you must have some hobby,"

The girl considered this, a serene smile playing about her eyes. "Well, we're standing in one of them," she took a sweeping glance around the patio.

Alfred looked around as well. The beauty suddenly increased by half. "You did all of this?"

She nodded. "It's my sanctuary. They say we all need one. Most of the family's sanctuaries are in their rooms. But I hate my room. It's too bright and too empty. I feel love here. It's almost as if you're not at the sanitarium anymore, isn't it?"

Alfred nodded. "Indeed it is." Then he looked down at her again. "How long do you... do they say you'll be here?"

"I don't know, they haven't said. I think once I start showing the signs, then they'll give me medication... and if they let me go they'll keep an eye on me. Can I tell you something?"

"Of course."

"When I grow up, I don't want to feel like an experiment anymore. I can take it, of course... and if they think it's best, that's what has to be done. But sometimes I get tired of doing everything I'm told to do. It makes me feel like a robot. That's how they treat us, anyhow."

Alfred sat down on the bench next to her. "I don't think you're a robot."

"You don't?"

"No. I know people who are. They say and do everything like everyone else does. But you know what? None of them made their own sanctuary. They just borrow from everyone else's."

She looked at him for a long time before she smiled. "What's your name?"

"Alfred."

"I like you very much, Mr. Alfred."

"What's your name?"

"Eloise."

"Eloise." He repeated, looking around the colored haven. Then he looked into her big brown eyes, so lustrous and large that he could nearly see his reflection in them. "I like you, too."

Suddenly the doors were opened and a presence stood in the doorway.

"Mr. Dobbs? Your wife is in the waiting room. You have ten minutes."

Alfred stood up and looked back at Eloise. "Do you have any more of those candies?"

Eloise smiled. "Yes." She took one out of the small bag next to her and pressed the small square wrapper into his hand. "Put it on your tongue and don't chew it. It lasts longer that way."

Alfred unwrapped the caramel and put it in his mouth. "Thank you." He didn't know exactly what he was thanking her for. But he knew that he should for something, and she seemed to understand.

And with that, Alfred left the sanctuary. He stepped through the glass doors into the colorless world once again, the green wrapper glittering in the light.

Childhood Memory

It was hard to get through school that day – as much school as a six year old does, anyway. I just couldn't concentrate. It was storming outside, and I could hear the raindrops beating the roof above my head.

"Mom, can we go out now?" I asked again, popping my head up hopefully.

But of course, I got the answer I'd expected: not until I finished my spelling page. Worried that the water in the street might dry up before I got a chance to go out, I pressed on and worked as hard as I could to finish.

Finally, my sister Kate and I were done – we stood by the front door in the entry way, waiting impatiently for my mom to finish tying on our red rain ponchos.

"I get to be the dog this time." Said Kate. "You're the cat."

I agreed – but not without much whining first. It was a favorite game of ours to go out in the rain and pretend to be a cat and a dog, struggling for survival. We often clambered up on street-parked cars so we wouldn't be swept into the gutters. I have no idea why this amused us, but it did. First, however, we grabbed paper triangles, two Lincoln Log pieces, and two lengths of yellow string. If there was anything better than "cats and dogs", it was making little boats to pull along behind us in the gutters. Of course we had to do what our older siblings did - it made us feel like big kids.

I opened the door and nearly got knocked over with the gust of wind that came with it. Kate and I gathered ourselves up and stepped out, waving to Mom as the door closed.

I grinned when I saw the scene before us – our neighborhood had been transformed. The entire street was flooded – water was climbing up driveways, coating the trees, and pouring down in sheets from the heavy black clouds hanging just overhead. Everything was muted, except for the splashing of the water as it hit pavement. All the color of things seemed to have been washed away with the rain – everything had a gray fog over it. It looked like God had switched from vibrant acrylic paints to gray and green watercolors. If only I could paint that well.

Every once in a while a car would pass, acknowledgeable only by the vague headlights floating through the mist. Light from the streetlamps wavered when the wind changed the direction of the raindrops.

Kate and I spent all afternoon – and part of the evening – in the rain; numb, of course, but we didn't care. I remember thinking that I could have almost swum in the street.

Finally, Mom called us in for dinner. Kate still had her boat but the gutter had eaten mine. That was okay, though, because we took turns with hers after that. We were both cold, but I think I was the only one whose shoe laces were actually frozen stiff.

After taking hot bubble baths and changing into warm clothes fresh from the dryer, Kate and I curled up with hot chocolate and a Disney movie. I was getting a bit of a cold but it didn't matter much. I was cheered by the thought that maybe it would keep raining till tomorrow.

The Little Red Hitler: How it Really Happened

As we all know, basically everything is open for interpretation. However, all stories should stem from the truth. All people of good standards should agree with this. Unfortunately, this simple truth of life has been stretched and bent – and sometimes, it just breaks. Such was the case with the Little Red Hen.

My name is Pig. No sarcastic jokes, please; I actually am, in fact, a pig. It's not my fault that the writer of the original story was unoriginal in names. I could make up a name for myself, true, but I leave the business of telling lies to certain chickens around the joint. I lived on a farm with a few other animals, and we usually all got along fine. We split up the chores evenly and usually sang a song or two while doing them. Life was fine and dandy until a red hen came to roost here. She changed everything.

The Red Hen basically took over the place. Within a day she had everybody doing twice their usual work – while she herself took none of it. There was no more singing; no more late night poker games. She seemed to have put an embargo on fun, and somehow nobody had the guts to stand up to her. I mean we're just animals, right? So we all coped as best we could, grumbling only when she wasn't around – nobody wanted their eyes getting pecked out or anything.

And then – oh joy – the clucking Hitler hatched a few eggs and out popped the fuzzy yellow Nazi chicks. Now the work was tripled, as we also had to make food for the fiends. This was getting too out of hand.

One day, the Hen was out making her rounds to check up on our progress building a monument. (It was a statue of a large Hen standing above countless, unimportant barn animals, who all seemed to be taking the "Heil-Hitler" stance.) She bent down, examining a grain of wheat. Then she looked up at us and barked an order. Everyone dropped what they were doing and looked up.

"This wheat shouldn't go to waste!" She clucked. "Who will bake some bread with it?"

There was silence in the barnyard.

"WELL?"

"I—I will?" stammered Cow.

"I—I'll help?" stuttered Horse.

I third-ed it, and we set to work. We slaved away all day, planting the wheat in the field... every day after, we took care of the grain, lest it should freeze up or dry up or some otherwise horrible thing that would cost us our jobs. Soon, the wheat grew into a tall, yellow stalk.

Now, the Hen said, it was time to cut and thresh the wheat. Donkey joined our crew and we set to work again. The Hen sat down on her lawn chair and sipped her lemonade, watching us all the while.

"Now who will take it to the mill?" She demanded, when it was threshed.

And surprise surprise, we volunteered; because we knew perfectly well that the "?" at the end of her sentence was really just a stylized "!".

It continued in a vicious cycle. Once the grain was ground into flour, she "suggested" we make bread dough. Next we had to bake the dough. She grew more cantankerous with every task she assigned, until finally, the last one came.

"Now... this bread needs to be eaten." She looked up at the four of us, and I nearly had a heart attack when I thought I saw a smile.

"You—You mean us?" I asked hopefully. But apparently, not tactfully.

Hitler grew outraged. "YOU?!" She screamed. "You ingrates! Never! I will feed this bread to myself and my chicks! How dare you think you deserve it?!"

"With all due respect..." Cow said nervously. "We did make the bread..." And right then, we all knew he'd gone too far. The Hen flew at him in a rage... I hear he still wakes up at night screaming. The rest of us turned tail and fled, leaving the monument half-finished, in search of another – safer – barn.

Now when we went to the authorities to have this maniac committed, what do you think they said? That they had heard from a reliable source that we were of no help at all, and that she had perfect right to eat her own bread. Imagine!

Well, we were all very upset to (say the least) that our good names had been ruined while this deranged twit was looked upon thereafter as a martyr. So, I took it upon myself to write this, the true story. Because while the truth may be bent every day, it very rarely exceeds breaking point in such a way. And when it does, the wrongs must be righted.

I comfort myself, however, in looking back at the 1940's, and remembering the devastating end that Hitler's domain came to... it gives me great hope for the future.

Thus far unnamed.

Lou Morris watched the steady stream of smoke rise from his half-spent cigar. It spiraled upward through the dark room, lingering slightly a foot or two above his head. He was lost in thought.

Maybe someday he'd have somewhere better to go than this dim, musty bar. Maybe someday he'd get a job. Or maybe a girl. Maybe someday he'd quite smoking. He stopped there. That was a lot of maybes.

But for some reason, even though the opportunity to answer his "maybes" was here, Lou hesitated. Sure, opportunity had never been so pretty, but he'd left her kind for a reason.

"Mr. Morris?" She was asking.

"I'll think about it."

She looked like she was about to protest – probably about to say there wasn't time to think. That was partly the reason he'd said what he said. But no argument came up. She just nodded and stood up. Lou didn't move.

"Here's my card." She said. "Come see me at the office if you make up your mind."

"No home address." He said, scanning the card. "What, don't trust me?"

She didn't smile; didn't laugh. Just raised an eyebrow and said "good day." At least she wasn't cheap like the usual girls. That was one point in her direction.

Yessir, opportunity hadn't looked that good in a long while. In fact, Lou had had his mind made up since her first sentence. But agreeing right away would've seemed like he needed her. And Lou Morris didn't need anyone.

Except maybe...

"Chuck. Top me off, will ya?"

Pretentious: The Indignity of an Irony

Pretentious never quite knew just why his parents had named him Pretentious. Nor did he ever learn to understand what it meant. He only knew that while other children in his class could write their names on colored paper with green crayons, Pretentious couldn't remember how to spell his own name until nearly third grade. And by then, he was all but too old to use green crayons. This gave a gentle melancholy to his countenance. For whenever the girl at the next desk asked him a question, such as, "I'm Petunia. What's your name?", Pretentious could only shift his weight to his other leg, writhe in awkwardity for a moment, and then shrug, letting out a long sigh of relief that meant the moment of pain was over. For now.

Petunia, the lovely little red-headed girl who lived down the street, was, as her name suggested, simple yet elegant. Her books never fell out of her backpack in the hallway. Her knees were never scabby. Her lunch pail was never packed with watercress sandwiches and pickle juice. And above all, her name made perfect sense to Pretentious.

Every morning when Pretentious walked to school, he kept precisely four yards behind Petunia, who walked precisely (as best as Pretentious could reckon, anyways) six yards behind the rest of the school children. She walked alone, quietly reading a book to herself. Pretentious couldn't read and walk at the same time. He had tried once. But when he tripped over Precocious, he realized that it was for the birds.

Precocious was Pretentious' Jack Russell Terrier; a happy little dog with large ears and a very small tail. It was never determined if the tail came that way, or if it had had some help in diminishing to the little stub that now sat atop his behind. But it didn't matter. Pretentious loved him anyways. They were both misfits, and they both had long P names. That alone was enough to send a life-long appreciation whirling into existence.

Every morning, at precisely 8:01, Pretentious would bundle up and, with Precocious hopping reassuringly alongside, head out into the big wide world for yet another day. Each day faced new troubles and woes... but though Pretentious was never quiet jubilant, he never minded much. So long as he had Precocious by his side, and so long as he had the prospect of walking behind the lovely Petunia, every day was not a mishap – but an adventure.

And that was always something Pretentious could spell out for himself.

Dover and the Whistle

Dover sat at the window, watching the branches of a chestnut swing back and forth across the panes. Four raindrops had fallen when Mrs. McKiernan creaked the door open. Voices from the choir room drifted down the hall, shifting into a minor key as they hit the doorframe.

“Dover?” Her voice was near a whisper. “A letter for you. It’s from your mother.”

Dover sat up straight, almost as if on command, and reached up for the letter. Mrs. McKiernan handed it to him, and then sank out of the room as quietly as she had come.

The boy’s eyes swept eagerly across the page, his hands nearly trembling with excitement. But when he reached the first word of the second paragraph, he slowed. So that was it. He slumped back against the frosty window, still clutching the letter, and sighed. His heart sank back to where it usually lay, and his nerves settled. He squinted at the ceiling.

As the voices down the hall stopped, the door was suddenly flung open and Mr. Sloan emerged. He was a small but commanding man, his countenance quite similar to the funeral dirges he conducted during class. His way of speaking was quick, rather like a staccato note stuck dejectedly in the bass clef.

“So. Mrs. McKiernan tells me your mother is unable to have you come home this holiday. Is that so?”

Dover nodded.

“Did she give a reason?”

Dover shrugged, offering up the letter, which Mr. Sloan snatched up and read quickly. He sighed a long sigh, and then snapped to attention.

“You do realize you will be the only student staying through the holidays.”

The boy nodded.

“Some of the teachers will be staying. But we will all be very busy.”

Dover exhaled.

“Well. So be it.” Mr. Sloan turned on his heal and stalked towards the door, his shoes making a click-click noise as they met with the tiled floor. At the door, he abruptly turned. “Happy Christmas.” And he was gone.

Dover looked outside at the rain-soaked chestnut tree and wished, for neither the first time nor the last, that for once in his life he could have the voice to cry. It wasn’t that he couldn’t cry – there was nothing wrong with his tear ducts. But with Dover’s condition, if he began to cry, there would be no one to hear – and no one to comfort him. But he had begun to get used to it. He was used to laughing alone – he was used to crying alone. In his own silent world, he was his one companion.

He was used to it – but that didn’t mean he had to like it.

That night, Dover sat up in his dormitory and began to write a response to his mother’s letter – or at least, the part where she had asked what he would like for Christmas. The words “to be home” wouldn’t have meant anything. But Dover had thought long and hard about what he would do in this situation all year – and now, he had the chance. He penned the words, sealed the envelope, and went to bed. The boys in the other beds could only hear shaky breaths being drawn from somewhere in that dark room – they had no idea of the tears that accompanied them.

Three days later, on Christmas Eve, the post arrived. All the children had been packed onto a train the day before. Dover and a handful of teachers had stayed behind – none of whom were especially pleased with their company.

Dover had spent that morning at the same window he had been at three days previous. He liked to be by that large window. It never asked him questions in that apologetic tone – and it never expected an answer back.

The door gave a creak, and suddenly Mrs. McKiernan stood before him, a small parcel in her hands.

“Dover?” She said, looking at him with a sad smile. “This came for you. It’s from your mother.”

Dover jumped up and took the parcel from her. He tore off the brown packaging paper, disregarding the complete lack of a note, or even of any sort of festive wrapping paper. He sat down, holding in his little hands a wooden box, just over the length of his pointer finger. He smiled.

The lid slid off, Dover’s eyes caressed the inside view of the box – for there, sitting wrapped in velvet casing, was a little metal whistle. He pulled it out and put it up to his lips, blowing one single note. It was the first non-minor key to be played in that schoolhouse for years.

Henceforth, Dover was no longer silent. Wherever he went, he had a companion to articulate his thoughts.

He, Dover, the little boy from an unloving country household, had a voice.