Author's Note: Written for Creative Writing, so the research is minimal. Enjoy nonetheless.

Dust Motes

A young boy sighed heavily as he walked through the door onto the sod-covered floor of his house, thinking of something to do. I wish Charlie Tampton was around. He was always good at playing pirates and Indians, the eight-year-old thought gloomily as he made his way to his room.

The red curls of his hair shined dully in the sunlight as he trumped absentmindedly around, imagining the dust motes swirling through the air were pirates materializing from nowhere. They leered at him evilly with their knives stuck between their teeth, and their swords stuck into their tatty sheaths, which barely clung to their belts. Immediately, the boy presumed a fighting stance with an invisible sword stuck in his hand, pointing threateningly at the pirate. “As the admiral of this ship I declare war on you to keep my cargo,” he roared at the figure only he could see then suddenly stepped forward to slash the air and fight the dastardly crew before him.

“By God, you heathens, I will smite you fo—“

“Lil’ Sam? Little Sammy, are you home?”

Samuel Clemen’s eyes widened at the sound of his mother, Jane’s voice, echoing through their few-roomed house just outside. Tucking in his shirt and smoothing his hair, he was just in time for presenting himself and smiled angelically at his mother as she entered with his two older sisters. “Hello, mama,” he said with the brightest smile and rushed over to her from the other side of the room.

“Little Sam, dear, I need to go to the store to pick up some groceries,” his kindly mother said then continued in a sterner tone. “You be good while I’m gone. I don’t want to hear about you setting the house on fire.”

“Yes, mama,” he responded obediently with the same, bright smile. It fell to a gloomy scowl once his sisters and mother had walked out the door. His pirate game was ruined, he would never be able to play it now. So, again, he took to pacing the sod-covered floor of their room trying to put his bored mind at ease.

It was several minutes later when the family cat Mr. Jenkins ambled into the room looking none the worse for wear that Sam had his object. The dark brown fur stuck up in every direction with mud clinging to it and spiking it. The only attention the cat showed was a sleepy half-stare in Sam’s direction as he ambled to another room. But in that stare Sam could see a clear fluid leaking from the cat’s eyes as though he were crying, but cats didn’t cry.

Frowning worriedly Sam followed the cat into the other room and said, “Mr. Jenkins, are you sick? Here, let me go get the cough medicine mama always gives me.” Sam dashed from the room to the small medicine cabinet where he rifled through the bottles before coming on one that was scratched, but still sturdy with a stopper that came off easily. Then he ran off to the room Mr. Jenkins had disappeared in and soon fished up the disgruntled cat out from under bed then picked him up and hauled him out with only a protesting yowl from the cat. Setting up a chair near the shelf where the medicine sat he put the spoon in and dug out a teaspoonful then said to Mr. Jenkins, “Open wind, Mr. Jenkins. This will make you feel better. Somehow the boy managed to pry open the animals jaws and still keep the majority of the medicine within the spoon, and finally poured it onto the cat’s mouth.

With a great scream the cat nearly shredded Sam’s shirt before he finally got away and shot outside with an energy unlike that of a sick cat, if he’d been sick to begin with. Grinning to himself Sam said, “See, Mr. Jenkins? It fixed you up right away. I’ll remember to use that next time.”

With a satisfied grin Sam put away the medicine then ran outside with equal energy, pretending he was a thief being chased by the police.