Hi Everyone,
It’s been awhile since I’ve posted anything to Thingly Things, and I apologize for that. My day job was a little hectic there for a while and I didn’t have time to work on my writing. However, stepping away from this has given me some time to think more about what sort of content I can create here and how to be more engaging with those who seem to enjoy these Things.
I have plenty of ideas and a few friends who are interested in co-creating some content for Thingly Things. What does that mean? Hopefully, an upgrade to the visual art accompanying posts and the addition of audio content for older posts and new ones.
I’ll be going back to posting new content on Sundays, and I am adding the option for subscribers to support the work with a small monthly donation. Nothing is going behind a paywall. This will just be a way for readers to show their appreciation. Besides, if even one person is kicking in $5 a month to this Substack it will serve as a source of accountability that I need to stick to the publishing schedule of Sunday posts and make (nice?) Things for y’all.
Like today's Thing. It's an introduction of sorts for a character who will appear in future Things of Story. This little vignette is a glimpse into his past and an omen of his future.
I hope you all enjoy this Thing. If you do, please subscribe and share. You liking, commenting, and sharing is what really drives new people finding Thingly Things.
So for that, thanks for all the Things!
-M.E.
There was a room.
There is always a room.
The room was cold. The room was dark. The room was quiet.
In the room, there was a boy.
There is always this boy.
The only thing he could hear was his own ragged breath. The only thing he could see was a door, outlined in a flickering amber light. All he will ever want is to go through that door.
Sometimes, he saw the shadows of feet under the door. Usually, it was her. She'd stand at the door for a moment before coming in, silhouetted by a light that hurt his eyes. He never saw her face, but he knows her shadow well. He craved it. The times when she only stood outside the door sobbing for a long time hurt him the most. He wanted to call out for her, but he learned early on that his cries changed nothing. He could only wait for her and wish to be taken through that door.
But this time. This last time. She came into the room. She closed the door behind her and stood there for a moment. Slowly, she walked over to the boy on the floor. She changed and cleaned him as best she could in the dark. Then, holding him to her breast, she fed the child. His little arms reached out weakly to hold on to her. Her skin was soft and cool and a treasure to him. Even the rough scabs along her thin arms were beautiful to him. This embrace was all he knew of love.
She would hum this song while she held him. This whispered glory, it was joyful. It hinted of color and light he had never seen, and the boy would nod off to the melody rising from her chest.
A door opened and slammed shut. Not the door to this room. A door elsewhere but nearby. She stood up quickly, jarring the baby from the precipice of a peaceful nap. Her breathing became rapid. Her heart raced. Her skin warmed. Heavy footsteps approached. A heavier voice barked.
She placed the boy back onto the thin blanket on the floor and hurried to swaddle him. Picking him up again, she brought him to a box and placed him inside. Placing the lid loosely over the child, she shushed him.
Not that the boy ever made a sound.
She left. The light from the opening door threw her shadow high across the wall and ceiling above the boy, where he could see it through the gap in the lid. She looked back. And then the door closed on that precious shadow.
She howled like the wind. The heavy voice boomed like thunder. Together, they rose into a storm.
The boy did not have words yet. He couldn't understand what they said. The boy did have feelings. He understood something of the fearful rage in their voices. The sound of their battle came to a crescendo with a loud crash. The heavy voice barked something. The heavy footsteps walked past the room. The light on the other side of the door shifted strangely. Glass smashed on the wood floor. The light behind the door flared brighter. The heavy footsteps sped away, through that other distant door, and faded into nothing.
For a time, the boy could only hear his own ragged breath. He strained to hear her voice, her footsteps, her song, her sobbing; anything! Then came something like a whisper. A hungry murmur. The air became thick and a light started to fill the room. The whisper became a roar and the light became a sun in the once dark room. Fire climbed the walls and licked at the ceiling.
In the smoke there was a voice. It was not heavy. It was not hers. The boy did not have words yet, so the voice gave him one.
"Please."
For the first time, the boy knew light.
And warmth.
And pain.
As the fire threatened to consume his body, one wish consumed his mind: To go through that door.
Any door.
Every door.
And then, as the smoke swept him up in a murmuring cloud, he did.
So now he does.