The Boy, Crying
The old woman, with gnarled hand, passed the dark vial over the threshold.
Inside the fount, a rank substance, vile, terrifying the young boy whose hands gripped it tight.
The giving of the vial was the final sign that the old woman was about to die.
The boy stood at the door, crying with his eyes wide open.
The boy had a bandage on the top of his head.
The old woman, with tall body and large scar crossing her face,
her gauzy, grey eyes focused on forgetting.
She pulled the bandage off of the boy’s head. From the foul wound protruded a string.
The old woman pulled the thin, wispy string and the little boy cried aloud in dismay.
She pulled at the string until a small, silver stick came out of his head. It was a rare instrument.
“You’re supposed to play it just once, fair and free!” the old lady shouted with authority.
“I can’t possibly be responsible for any mishaps!”
The boy was frightened, yet he dare not make a move.
“You’re supposed to play it now!” she frantically yelled, “Stop wasting time. Play or die and play well!”
The young boy stared helplessly sobbing, shaking, unsure.
And when he looked up at the woman once more…
Such an old woman, with her grey, saucer eyes and what frightening grin came then to her face.
The young man stared in salt-stained disbelief. She was so beautiful, his talented wife.
So he played the silver stick and he played it some more and he left the little boy crying there at the door.