© (Herbal) Osaka-neechan

Summary: There is a child on the swing who stares at the piece of a sky above him, and the man beneath the oak tree who watches him. Years have gone by— and perhaps it is time to go home?

Complete genre: Reflective

Perspective: Third person present progressive

The corner where the author rots:

This was written after struck by an unusual thought: What if a child someday asks me to tell them a story?! So in the shower I began spinning a story like this, although I’m quite sure the child would want to hear a familiar fairy or folk tale.

I am also rather sure that grown people, let alone children, may have a difficulty understanding this piece fully. It may be because my writing is still the rough around the diamond— meaning that it has way too many comas and awkward phrases strung together to make enough sense, but I will keep working on it and will one day master it. :D

But I grew rather fond of the story I had thought up. This is not my finest piece, but I decided it was short and simple enough—for me—to type it up and finish its trim in two days. I’ll most likely go back and revise it much more after this is uploaded.

I have to admit, the core of this piece did originate from a scene from the manga series Saiyuki, by Minekura Kazuya. It was during Gojyo’s childhood, in which his mother abused him for being a half-demon, and his brother told him this:

“You don’t have to cry.

“You don’t have to cry…

“You don’t have to.”

This also centers itself around a young man and a boy—but like that scene in Saiyuki, this is meant to be reflective, not pornographic, so keep this author’s known perversion (if you’ve happened to have read any of her works in FanFiction by chance) out of your thoughts. -.-;;

The story is original—if vague—on the account that the back-story of the boy and man is not explained in detail. I’ve often made pieces like this: short and central to an idea, but not elaborate on what surrounds that idea.

D: I always want to be serious of what I write and how I write it. I should write a more elaborate piece someday. I will, I know it, but hopefully this will suffice for now. If anything is too off, please mention it. -.-;; My grammar structure is known to die while I focus on perfecting the grammar itself. And my many attempts at using my own artful and stylistic approaches usually get regurgitated, so if the extra flair like this: “Wait— hey—!!” instead of “Wait—hey—!!” is too bothersome at some points of the story or in the overall piece, that is also worth the mention. :P

››;; Regurgitation is not a taste of mine, yo—so go ahead and comment and criticize.

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REACH A PIECE OF SKY

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The boy sits still on his swing. Fists grip its metal coils, which remain cold, regardless of the logic that he’d held on for some while.

Years, the man calculates from a distance away. He leans against the trunk of an oak, large and encompassed in warmth from a radiance of sunshine. Its leaves, bountiful by the thousands, rustle softly, then louder— louder as the wind orchestrates in its spiral, slipping from crack and gaping hole.

The man has watched him for nearly as long. The man has watched for years… not for always. But it seems like always, by now; it seems like he is the boy’s splintered toy left behind. Nobody notices him, of course— nobody notices him watching, in melancholy— except the boy, but he barely ever glances at the man beneath the oak.

He stares at the skies today, a vibrant summer blue, and has done so for hours. He has done so for hours… not for always. Although it sees like always, by now; it seems like he has watched the sand that his toes cannot reach for always, appearing a ghost.

The boy is a ghost.

Everybody sees him. All the little children who run amongst each other, who swing high to and fro by his side— they see him. The parent who pushes his child, the parent who watches hers— they can see. Those passers-by who linger in the park can see him, too. And often he is spoken to— by the child, or the mother, or by some defeated man. But at times, when the boy stares at summer blue skies, he gives them no response— only ears that listen with a pinch of voidance.

This is most times. He does not speak often, and it confuses many an individual when he does— surely but childishly, his short interventions a ramble by the expectation of adults.

Large brown irises are vacuous as he stares. There is some intrigue he does not show by watching the clouds— empires in the sky— drift round, in the cycle of a day he cannot rip away from.

He does not notice that the man has moved as evening falls, as lamp lights pool in yellows all across the park, as the cicadas hide their intentions in an archaic song, as the last of the children’s footsteps patter away. Not until there is a disturbance in his piece of sky does he take notice; not until the man looms in front of him, a tall, inscrutable figure whose lips are thin and tendrils as wild as the constant glimmer in flaring pupils.

His gaze follows as the man slowly crouches in front of him.

“I’m waiting for my brother,” the boy says, immediately. His voice is docile; his statement murmured and detached.

The man does not speak for awhile. Light sinks around them, more and more, in oranges drained to pinks and purples slipping to grey.

Then he says, evenly: “Do you want to go home?”

There is a creak of motion from the boy’s swing, and a small, chubby hand grips its cold metal coil tighter. “I’m waiting for my brother,” he repeats, even quieter.

Cicadas thrum, filling the holes in a silence, and hands are on his shoulders, larger and bony, and strangely warm. The man is too close, too warm, and the boy jerks back. The swing sets off on its own, lightly.

“I am your brother,” says the man, solemn.

The boy shakes his head fiercely.

“No.” The boy is looking down, like he had for always, before. When he was sure he’d missed his brother walking by, calling for him. When he decided that he’d look to the skies instead from then on. “No. You’re not my brother. I’m waiting for him. I’m waiting for my brother.” he says again.

He is swinging, but he does not realize this. After that long time— after all those years— he eventually forgot to swing— forgot how to swing— forgot why he sat there, forgot why he stared. The swing does not tell him that his legs pump back and forth. Long missing their purpose, the metal coils that never gain heat stay as meek as they can.

Then, the man slowly lifts a hand, and cups the boy’s face. Then, the boy is not so vacuous anymore, shying and blinking and mouthing some inaudible stammer, gaze back on the man and startled for it.

It is nightfall when the man says, gently, “You don’t have to go home.”

Both hands are now tightened around the metal coils. The boy thinks: he likes this cold, where it does not burn. Burn burn burn from flesh and metal, like it used to— sometimes, often. He likes it here, where he is not alone, ever; where there is a piece of sky above him, always.

But the boy hesitates, and shivers a bit. It is warm, too warm. That nice and mellow warmth he has forgotten, that warmth he leans his head against a bit.

And then the boy remembers.

The man stares at him intensely, fingers shifting lower from a shine of wavy black, falling back to touch skin once more.

“You don’t have to go home.” the man repeats in a whisper.

There is a glimmer in pupils that dance, as alive as the man once was, when he swung the boy on his shoulders and ran laughing through the park.

The boy smiles softly.

The next morning there is no ghost in the playground, and the swing goes back and forth alone, its metal coils engulfed in the heat of a palm’s grip.

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END

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