Been hiding in the forest with my wooden box of tricks. Well, I say it’s a box. It isn’t a box, really! Tato says it’s a crate with planks, a sturdy door, and a slant top roof to keep the rain off. I’ve never been inside. I see a skeleton with its long dangly spindly limbs standing legs akimbo, a sentry of death behind my box. Mama and tato were killed by a barbaric bomb that sucked the air out of their lungs and burnt them to a crisp. I smell their smoke in my nostrils and cough.
I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand: tired, cold, hungry, ill, dressed in rags. My dress is all rags, sticks and stones break my bones, cut my bare feet till they bleed. Wish I were home, warm, dry, not shrouded in this wicked, evil, chemical, smog. I have no home. I stifle a cough: gas makes me choke, wipe my mouth with my hand, hide in here, where they’ll never find me.
I’ve been hiding in the forest with my box of tricks since who knows when: hours, days, weeks?
I hear the sound of a door creaking ajar, roaring in my ears, voices in my head,
Step inside your box.
I wipe my mouth dry, ‘Stay away from me! Leave me alone!’
Step inside your box.
‘Don’t want to! Fraid you’ll lock me inside!’
Your box is safe, dry, and warm.
‘Why should I believe you, these days? Why should I believe anyone? They killed my mama, tato with a supersonic, hot, barbaric, bomb, hours, days, weeks ago. How do I know you’re not them? I’m only a child, a war child, an orphan. How am I supposed to know? I don’t trust you!’
Your box has food inside.
I prick up my ears, scaredy-cat, rabbit-in-the-headlights, ‘Sorry?’
I said, your box has food.
‘Food?’ I’m starving, my belly aches, trapped in the burnt-out city, hours, days, weeks, I hurt.’
Food, Big Mac, catsup, shoestring fries, pizza, fried chicken, cola, chocolate smartie ice cream.
‘Chocolate smartie ice cream?’ sounds delish, I lick my lips with thirst, my throat is sore n dry.
Your box has food enough for days.
‘I don’t trust you!’ I start to cry, get in all of a paddy-wadi.
Your box is safe, dry, and warm.
I stamp my foot, sticks and stones cut my feet, they bleed, ‘How am I supposed to know?’
Step inside and find out.
‘Don’t want to! Fraid you’ll lock me inside!’
Step inside, now!
I wipe my bloodied mouth with the back of my hand, tired, cold, hungry, ill, dressed in rags, ‘Stay away from me! Leave me alone!’
Been hiding in the forest with my box of tricks. I say it’s a box. It isn’t a box, really! It’s a crate with planks, a sturdy door, a slant top roof. The door parts. I see a chink of light. A ray of hope. I’ve never been inside. I see a skeleton, long, dangly, spindly, limbs, standing behind my box,
Do as it says, darling. I’ll always love you.
I smell her smoke in my nostrils, I cough, and wipe my mouth with my hand, I burst into tears. The door swings open. My box is jaune, brilliant light.
I step inside my time machine and leave this cruel world far behind…
For the Children of Ukraine
This is so sad. The repetitive statement of how long it could really make me feel sad for her.” Safe, dry and warm” I hate thinking about children in place where they do not have this. But cannot run and hide for the reality of it. Good story
Thank you so much, Fia, I wanted to express the tragedy of the thousands of children caught up in war – in this case trapped in Ukraine, her parents dead, relying on her imagined fantasies for freedom and escape, then Gaza, and Sudan, now Iran – why are we so inhuman towards those most vulnerable? HJx