What Shines

What Shines

When I saw Timmy I knew he was special. In my long life I’d seen lots of little boys come and go but he was different. Never had I felt this way. He shined.

My wife Beth passed away last year. She had always helped me to keep me on track, to not allow my dreams to run away with me. When she was here, they stayed small and inside my head. But now with my daughter grown-up and on her own, and with Beth in the ground, my dreams grew big. Too big to only live just inside my head. Now they walk around.

They aren't solid like you and me. They're kind of Technicolor in that sort surreal bright way people and things were shot in old movies. Some are just the opposite: more like a thick shadow. Sometimes I think they are a kind of ghost. Sometimes I think they are my feeble brain indulging itself. Either way, they help the time pass by.

Timmy would sometimes come over and I would offer him a piece of sweet candy . At first he wouldn’t take them because I was a stranger. I told him,

“How can I be a stranger when I live only a couple of houses down from you?”

Then I introduced myself, and he told me his name. That was how my bright, shining boy and I became friends.

Time moved, the way it always does, slow in moments and fast the next. One night, Timmy played a game of Hide and Seek. I offered him a place to hide, promising that no one would find him. I said,

“While you wait for them to find you, you can help me eat this candy.”

Timmy smiled bigger than any six-year-old could and came into my parlor like a moth caught in a sticky shiny web. As he sat behind the coats in the closet, Timmy ate my special candy and began to sleep. When the small boy woke, he was in my secret room tied to a cot. I told him that we were going to play another kind of game. My hands, my mouth explored his young, pink skin. Each wiggle a delight. Each sound a song.

Thick inky shadows stood all around; some dancing, some whispering in my ear. I looked down at Timmy, now, still as a stone. My hands red and wet deep within, searching. Like a sweet, ripe apple I plucked it from his chest.

In a mason jar filled with formaldehyde, I carefully slipped my new and shiny treasure into its new home. Now the jar sits under my bed. The last thing I ever hear before I sleep, and the first thing I hear when I wake, is the beating of Timmy’s shining heart.

Word Count 465