littleporkchop
The One True Lord
Here is another fan fiction I found online.
Chapter 1
"Honey, wait!" his mother said, clutching her chest to console the aching heart inside.
She chased after him, dropping to her knees and resting her hands on his shoulders, the tears in here eyes indistinguishable from the pouring rain that pattered on their heads.
"Please, don't do this ? "
He held his head in shame, holding all his belongings in a canvas wrapped on the end of a stick he carried in his right hand, just like he had seen in the old Hannah-Barbera cartoons he and his father used to watch every Saturday morning. He raised his head, mustering all the courage he could find in his moment of weakness, and looked his mother straight in her tired eyes, puffed and sagging with the burden of mourning her late husband.
"I have to do this, mom. I can't stay here any longer." He was hardly audible over the intensity of the rainstorm.
She knew her pleading wouldn't do any good; she could see the resolve in her young son's eyes. She had to make one final, desperate attempt to prevent fate from taking the only thing she had left in this world.
"Mark Junior ? " she whispered, the words escaping from her lips into the vapor of the dewy air.
Mark flailed his arms to remove himself from his mother's grasp.
"Don't you dare say that name!" he said, the fire in his eyes burning moreso than ever before. For the only time in his whole life, in fact. He had never been surer of anything.
"I'm leaving, and I'm never coming back! I can't ? I'm sorry!"
Fighting his tears, he spun around and ran for the train station as fast as his little legs could carry him. He couldn't stand being in his quiet house in suburbia any longer. With each frantic leap he took, he could still feel the pictures on the wall, the memories of his father keeping pace behind him. This was the only way, he thought, the only way I'll ever have a chance at a normal childhood. His mother stood far away at the only home he'd ever known, looking across the rolling street, wondering if she'd ever see her son again. She knew he was really gone.
Chapter 2
He sat on the platform feeling the overbearing heat from the train's headlights on his damp clothes. It provided ephemeral warmth. Even with the meager allowance he earned, he still had enough money to cover a one-way ticket to a new land, somewhere he could begin anew. The towering locomotive came to a stop and its cabin doors slowly opened, as if beckoning him to board. Exhausted from his mad sprint across town, he flopped into the nearest seat, thankful for some respite. The leather seats clung to his wet clothes, but it felt good to finally be off his feet.
He closed his eyes and tilted his head against his seat, inhaling a deep breath. Don't cry, he thought, no more crying. Dad would want me to be strong.
He opened his eyes, feeling some of the heat from his tears dissipating. When his vision cleared, or so he thought, he noticed someone ? something ? smiling at him from across the aisle. The creature sprung up and walked toward him, making Mark's heart pound rapidly. Was this all a dream?
"Excuse me! It's now June 9 at 9:45 p.m., correct?" said the anthropomorphic cat.
Mark's jaw dropped. I've gone crazy, he thought. My father's death has actually driven me to insanity. The cat just smiled at him, pointy ears perked, and swayed to and fro as if moving to the beat of his own tune.
"Uh, yeah," Mark said hesitantly.
The cat bubbled with excitement.
"Thanks! It seems I forgot to set my watch this morning!" the cat said. "I'm just gonna plop down here across from you, if you don't mind."
Um, I do mind, actually, Mark thought. You're a talking cat. What have I gotten myself into?
"Can I ask your name?" the cat said.
Mark pondered for a moment. Hm, if I'm going to start a new life, I'm going to need a new name! But what name should I go by?
"Uh, you can just call me ? The Villager," he said, staring out the window.
"Whoa, cool name!" the cat said. "Where are you headed, Villager?"
"Actually, I'm not sure. Anywhere far away from here."
"Whoa, adventures sound like tons of fun! I have a map if you want to take a look."
"Yeah, sure." The cat shuffled around his pockets for his map and passed it to Villager.
"What's Hometown like?" Mark asked.
"It's great! You should check it out."
"Well, I guess that's where I'm headed."
Chapter 3
The rain relented when he hopped of the train. It was now a warm, sunny day, and he saw even more furry critters waiting for him upon his arrival. What was this strange place?
"Ah, you must be the new mayor!" one little pup cheered.
"Wha? No, I'm not ? "
"Welcome to Hometown, mr. mayor! We've been expecting you!"
There were eagles, hamsters and rabbits all around and applauding. Who are these people? Before he could question any further, the little girl pup, dressed in a forest green sweater, interrupted.
"I'm Isabelle! I'll be your assistant as we work to make Hometown the best it's ever been! Here, I'll show you to your office at Town Hall!"
She took him by the hand and started running toward town, The Villager struggle to keep up with her furious steps. He wanted to interject, to ask just what was going on in this cockamamie village, but at the same time he felt a sense of respite; he was in a place where everyone immediately accepted him. Isn't that what he's always wanted?
Isabelle skid to a halt, kicking up some dust in her wake.
"Well, we're here! I'll show you around."
Isabelle opened the door to the cozy cabin while Villager tried to catch his breath. He looked around at the nice furniture and he started to feel a little better.
"Here's your desk, mr. mayor!" Isabelle said, pulling out the large leather chair for him. "Go on, give it a try!"
The Villager dropped his knapsack and climbed into the comfy chair. He lay his arms on the armrests, and a smile crept across his face. I could get used to this, he thought.
"So, mr. mayor, we'd better not waste any time! What would you like to do first?"
A little distraught over being thrust into a role of authority just minutes into moving in, The Villager was left speechless. He was talking to a dog, after all.
Isabelle's face drooped a bit, sensing the Villager's befuddlement.
"Um ? we can work on anything you want! Just say the word, and it's done!"
Hearing this, the Villager began to realize just how much power his mayorship provided him.
"A-anything?" His demeanor began to perk up a bit.
"Well, sure! I know our townsfolk have been begging for a coffee shop for ages now, and we could use more exhibits for our museum. Oh yeah, and it has been looking a little drab around here lately, so we could use a fountain or something to liven the place up ? "
"Whoa, OK, slow down," the Villager implored. This was all too much to take in at once.
"Oh, sorry," Isabelle said.
"No, it's OK. Hmm ? " The Villager said, rapping his fingers on his desk. "Well, if everyone wants more public works projects, maybe we could start out small. How about ? a park bench?"
"That's perfect!" Isabelle's eyes were now gleaming. "Let's go find a spot to construct it right away!"
Chapter 4
And so, as time passed, and with each monument constructed, with each expansion to his home, he became drunk with power. So focused on extrinsic rewards was he that he personally chopped down every fruit-bearing tree in Hometown to make room for streetlights and sculptures, transforming the once verdant village into a desolate wasteland. Where once he wrote thoughtful letters to his neighbors and made appearances at their birthday parties, he now spent all his time consternating behind his big desk over what material possessions he could accrue. His selfishness forced most of his neighbors to move away, which was fine by him, because that means their homes wouldn't occupy valuable real estate. And, for a while, his manhunt for every knickknack and type of building filled him, but his despotism could only carry him so far. Soon, the rush of acquiring new goods no longer quelled the aching in his heart.
Chapter 5
The Villager sat in the black leather chair, the Mayor's Chair, feeling the squeaking against his body as he plopped into it.
"So, mayor," Isabelle said. "What can I help you with today?"
Villager kicked his feet up on his desk, lighting his cigar and embracing its smoky goodness.
"I want to build another bridge," he said, the smoke funneling through his nostrils. "I can't stand the inconvenience of having to walk all the way across town just to get to my office."
"But, Mr. Mayor," Isabelle replied sheepishly. "Um, we already have three bridges on the river. If we build any more, our citizens won't have any room for fishing!"
"Damn it, Isabelle!" The Villager howled as he pounded his fists on his desk. "We're building another bridge! And, and ? " he had his hands on his head now, as if he were trying to pull his thoughts straight from his skull. "I'll pick seashells all night if I have to! I'll wrangle as many hammerhead sharks as necessary to provide for this town!"
Aghast, Isabelle backed away slowly, the hot tears in her eyes reflecting with the dim light of the desk lamp. The helpless look on her face pierced right through the Villager's madness, reminding him of that day so long ago out in the rain, when he fled from home and left his mother in tears. He began to tremble and fell to his knees.
"Isabelle," he said with exasperated breath, "Please, forgive me!"
His sniffling turned to weeping, and his weeping turned to blubbering. Each tear dripped from his face and splattered against the lacquered pinewood floor, erupting like shard of glass. Isabelle, still reeling from seeing her boss, her mayor, her friend, a pathetic, broken man, removed her shawl, knelt down beside him and draped it over his back.
"Mr. Mayor," she said, "What's gotten into you lately?" Everyone's been worried sick about you. You've been working way too hard. Maybe you should take a vacation, yeah?"
"There's nowhere else for me to go, Isabelle," he said, turning head away. "This village is all I have, and I've brought it to the brink of calamity! My greed has ruined yet another life!"
"Another?" Isabelle asked, furrowing her brow.
The Villager heaved a heavy sigh. He had never spoken of his mother to anyone in Hometown, but, now, his life in shambles, he figured he couldn't possibly sink much lower.
"My mother," The Villager said. He reached into his pocket and produced the picture of her he didn't dare display on his desk or at home.
"I ? " He could feel the lump forming in his throat. "I ran away. And now I'm here. I don't even know who I am anymore ? " his voice trailed off.
"Maybe you should visit her," Isabelle said. "I'm sure she misses you a whole lot. Time heals all wounds, ya know."
The Villager slumped to the floor, his whole body limp.
"What would I even say?" He could hardly make out with his face pressed against the floor.
"You could tell her you miss her," Isabelle said. "She's only a letter away!" She tried to lighten the mood, but The Villager was too depressed to even feign excitement. He collected himself, stood up and headed for the door.
"I'll think about it," he said, the sunlight creeping through the open doorway as he left the office.
The walk from his office to his house was a lonely one. Despite the brisk autumn breeze blowing gently on his face and the brown and red leaves crunching beneath his feet, he couldn't feel anything on the inside. He stopped to sit on the bench overlooking the river to clear his head. He stroked the smooth oak beneath him, wondering what it had all been for. All these monuments erected, all these shopping centers booming, but what had it all been for? Why did emptiness still consume him so?
"Heya, muscles!" he heard someone chirp. It was Cousteau, the yellow, spotted bullfrog with a moustache that would make any man jealous. "Say, I haven't seen you around in a while. I hope you've still been doing push-ups every day!" He chuckled as he plopped beside his friend on the bench.
"Say, guy, you don't look so good," Cousteau said. "Something eatin' you lately?"
"This isn't how I wanted my life to end up," The Villager said. "I thought by moving here, I could start a new life and be happy. But now, I can't even remember who that person was." He looked off into the distance.
"Well," Cousteau said with a chuckle, "I know who you are!"
"Oh yeah?" The Villager replied with a sneer. "And who would that be?"
Cousteau hopped up on the bench now in exuberance.
"Why, you're the second strongest guy in all of Hometown!" he jeered, giving the Villager a friendly punch in the arm. He couldn't help but smile.
"The point is," Cousteau said, "you can be anyone you want to be! If I wanna be stronger than T-Bone the bull, well, I just gotta bench press as hard as I can!"
And then it all clicked for him. He leapt out of his seat.
"Yeah," the Villager replied. "You're right! I don't need any of this stuff. I've been letting my material possessions cloud my judgment so long, I've forgotten what it's like to be alive!"
"I don't need this silly banana-split hat!" He removed it from his head and tossed it into the river with all his might. "And I don't need these steampunk glasses, either! Hiiiiya!" he exclaimed as he hurled them overhead.
"Thank you, my friend!" he exclaimed, planting a powerful kiss on the frog's forehead through the thin film of music on his skin.
"Uh, yeah, sure bud!" Cousteau said, confused.
The Villager ran into his house and pulled a piece of parchment paper from his golden table and began to write his letter.
"Dear mom," it began. His hands quivered once he realized what he was doing. What comes next? He looked around the room for inspiration, anything. He had Master Swords, Arwings, model astronauts and everything one could ever imagine. But confound it all, none of it meant anything!
"Ah, I know!" he said. He continued writing:
Here is a trophy I won for coming in first place in the fishing tournament. I hope you like it. It's very nice here, maybe you could come visit sometime?
Now, how to end it? There was only one way, he thought:
Sorry,
Mark
He finished penning it and wrapped his trophy in the polka dot wrapping paper Fauna had given him for a gift.
He stepped outside, tucked his letter and package in the mailbox, and waited. He wanted to go outside and take his mind off things, but he couldn't concentrate on anything but the letter he had just written, the first step toward getting his life back together. He lay back in his elegant rococo bed, hand behind his head and staring at the ceiling, the metronomic chomping of his pet piranha plant his lullaby.
He was awoken by a soft knocking at the door. He jump up from his deep sleep and looked at his alarm clock.
"Dear me," he said rubbing his eyes. "I must have taken a note from Teddy and went into hibernation! Three days have passed!"
Still groggy, he suddenly recalled the letter he had written days before, and all the heart-wrenching events that had led up to it. Was that all a dream? He scuttled out of bed, hair unkempt and all, and walked to the door. He opened it, the brightness of the morning sun gleaming through, and there she was.
"M ? mom?"
She was older now, with strands of gray interrupting what was once a glowing auburn hair, and her face was that of someone who lived alone and was tired of trying to find things to do to keep herself occupied. Still, when she saw her boy's little face, she knelt, bones creaking, and held it in her hands.
"Hello, son," she said, a faint smile creping across her face.
Chapter 1
"Honey, wait!" his mother said, clutching her chest to console the aching heart inside.
She chased after him, dropping to her knees and resting her hands on his shoulders, the tears in here eyes indistinguishable from the pouring rain that pattered on their heads.
"Please, don't do this ? "
He held his head in shame, holding all his belongings in a canvas wrapped on the end of a stick he carried in his right hand, just like he had seen in the old Hannah-Barbera cartoons he and his father used to watch every Saturday morning. He raised his head, mustering all the courage he could find in his moment of weakness, and looked his mother straight in her tired eyes, puffed and sagging with the burden of mourning her late husband.
"I have to do this, mom. I can't stay here any longer." He was hardly audible over the intensity of the rainstorm.
She knew her pleading wouldn't do any good; she could see the resolve in her young son's eyes. She had to make one final, desperate attempt to prevent fate from taking the only thing she had left in this world.
"Mark Junior ? " she whispered, the words escaping from her lips into the vapor of the dewy air.
Mark flailed his arms to remove himself from his mother's grasp.
"Don't you dare say that name!" he said, the fire in his eyes burning moreso than ever before. For the only time in his whole life, in fact. He had never been surer of anything.
"I'm leaving, and I'm never coming back! I can't ? I'm sorry!"
Fighting his tears, he spun around and ran for the train station as fast as his little legs could carry him. He couldn't stand being in his quiet house in suburbia any longer. With each frantic leap he took, he could still feel the pictures on the wall, the memories of his father keeping pace behind him. This was the only way, he thought, the only way I'll ever have a chance at a normal childhood. His mother stood far away at the only home he'd ever known, looking across the rolling street, wondering if she'd ever see her son again. She knew he was really gone.
Chapter 2
He sat on the platform feeling the overbearing heat from the train's headlights on his damp clothes. It provided ephemeral warmth. Even with the meager allowance he earned, he still had enough money to cover a one-way ticket to a new land, somewhere he could begin anew. The towering locomotive came to a stop and its cabin doors slowly opened, as if beckoning him to board. Exhausted from his mad sprint across town, he flopped into the nearest seat, thankful for some respite. The leather seats clung to his wet clothes, but it felt good to finally be off his feet.
He closed his eyes and tilted his head against his seat, inhaling a deep breath. Don't cry, he thought, no more crying. Dad would want me to be strong.
He opened his eyes, feeling some of the heat from his tears dissipating. When his vision cleared, or so he thought, he noticed someone ? something ? smiling at him from across the aisle. The creature sprung up and walked toward him, making Mark's heart pound rapidly. Was this all a dream?
"Excuse me! It's now June 9 at 9:45 p.m., correct?" said the anthropomorphic cat.
Mark's jaw dropped. I've gone crazy, he thought. My father's death has actually driven me to insanity. The cat just smiled at him, pointy ears perked, and swayed to and fro as if moving to the beat of his own tune.
"Uh, yeah," Mark said hesitantly.
The cat bubbled with excitement.
"Thanks! It seems I forgot to set my watch this morning!" the cat said. "I'm just gonna plop down here across from you, if you don't mind."
Um, I do mind, actually, Mark thought. You're a talking cat. What have I gotten myself into?
"Can I ask your name?" the cat said.
Mark pondered for a moment. Hm, if I'm going to start a new life, I'm going to need a new name! But what name should I go by?
"Uh, you can just call me ? The Villager," he said, staring out the window.
"Whoa, cool name!" the cat said. "Where are you headed, Villager?"
"Actually, I'm not sure. Anywhere far away from here."
"Whoa, adventures sound like tons of fun! I have a map if you want to take a look."
"Yeah, sure." The cat shuffled around his pockets for his map and passed it to Villager.
"What's Hometown like?" Mark asked.
"It's great! You should check it out."
"Well, I guess that's where I'm headed."
Chapter 3
The rain relented when he hopped of the train. It was now a warm, sunny day, and he saw even more furry critters waiting for him upon his arrival. What was this strange place?
"Ah, you must be the new mayor!" one little pup cheered.
"Wha? No, I'm not ? "
"Welcome to Hometown, mr. mayor! We've been expecting you!"
There were eagles, hamsters and rabbits all around and applauding. Who are these people? Before he could question any further, the little girl pup, dressed in a forest green sweater, interrupted.
"I'm Isabelle! I'll be your assistant as we work to make Hometown the best it's ever been! Here, I'll show you to your office at Town Hall!"
She took him by the hand and started running toward town, The Villager struggle to keep up with her furious steps. He wanted to interject, to ask just what was going on in this cockamamie village, but at the same time he felt a sense of respite; he was in a place where everyone immediately accepted him. Isn't that what he's always wanted?
Isabelle skid to a halt, kicking up some dust in her wake.
"Well, we're here! I'll show you around."
Isabelle opened the door to the cozy cabin while Villager tried to catch his breath. He looked around at the nice furniture and he started to feel a little better.
"Here's your desk, mr. mayor!" Isabelle said, pulling out the large leather chair for him. "Go on, give it a try!"
The Villager dropped his knapsack and climbed into the comfy chair. He lay his arms on the armrests, and a smile crept across his face. I could get used to this, he thought.
"So, mr. mayor, we'd better not waste any time! What would you like to do first?"
A little distraught over being thrust into a role of authority just minutes into moving in, The Villager was left speechless. He was talking to a dog, after all.
Isabelle's face drooped a bit, sensing the Villager's befuddlement.
"Um ? we can work on anything you want! Just say the word, and it's done!"
Hearing this, the Villager began to realize just how much power his mayorship provided him.
"A-anything?" His demeanor began to perk up a bit.
"Well, sure! I know our townsfolk have been begging for a coffee shop for ages now, and we could use more exhibits for our museum. Oh yeah, and it has been looking a little drab around here lately, so we could use a fountain or something to liven the place up ? "
"Whoa, OK, slow down," the Villager implored. This was all too much to take in at once.
"Oh, sorry," Isabelle said.
"No, it's OK. Hmm ? " The Villager said, rapping his fingers on his desk. "Well, if everyone wants more public works projects, maybe we could start out small. How about ? a park bench?"
"That's perfect!" Isabelle's eyes were now gleaming. "Let's go find a spot to construct it right away!"
Chapter 4
And so, as time passed, and with each monument constructed, with each expansion to his home, he became drunk with power. So focused on extrinsic rewards was he that he personally chopped down every fruit-bearing tree in Hometown to make room for streetlights and sculptures, transforming the once verdant village into a desolate wasteland. Where once he wrote thoughtful letters to his neighbors and made appearances at their birthday parties, he now spent all his time consternating behind his big desk over what material possessions he could accrue. His selfishness forced most of his neighbors to move away, which was fine by him, because that means their homes wouldn't occupy valuable real estate. And, for a while, his manhunt for every knickknack and type of building filled him, but his despotism could only carry him so far. Soon, the rush of acquiring new goods no longer quelled the aching in his heart.
Chapter 5
The Villager sat in the black leather chair, the Mayor's Chair, feeling the squeaking against his body as he plopped into it.
"So, mayor," Isabelle said. "What can I help you with today?"
Villager kicked his feet up on his desk, lighting his cigar and embracing its smoky goodness.
"I want to build another bridge," he said, the smoke funneling through his nostrils. "I can't stand the inconvenience of having to walk all the way across town just to get to my office."
"But, Mr. Mayor," Isabelle replied sheepishly. "Um, we already have three bridges on the river. If we build any more, our citizens won't have any room for fishing!"
"Damn it, Isabelle!" The Villager howled as he pounded his fists on his desk. "We're building another bridge! And, and ? " he had his hands on his head now, as if he were trying to pull his thoughts straight from his skull. "I'll pick seashells all night if I have to! I'll wrangle as many hammerhead sharks as necessary to provide for this town!"
Aghast, Isabelle backed away slowly, the hot tears in her eyes reflecting with the dim light of the desk lamp. The helpless look on her face pierced right through the Villager's madness, reminding him of that day so long ago out in the rain, when he fled from home and left his mother in tears. He began to tremble and fell to his knees.
"Isabelle," he said with exasperated breath, "Please, forgive me!"
His sniffling turned to weeping, and his weeping turned to blubbering. Each tear dripped from his face and splattered against the lacquered pinewood floor, erupting like shard of glass. Isabelle, still reeling from seeing her boss, her mayor, her friend, a pathetic, broken man, removed her shawl, knelt down beside him and draped it over his back.
"Mr. Mayor," she said, "What's gotten into you lately?" Everyone's been worried sick about you. You've been working way too hard. Maybe you should take a vacation, yeah?"
"There's nowhere else for me to go, Isabelle," he said, turning head away. "This village is all I have, and I've brought it to the brink of calamity! My greed has ruined yet another life!"
"Another?" Isabelle asked, furrowing her brow.
The Villager heaved a heavy sigh. He had never spoken of his mother to anyone in Hometown, but, now, his life in shambles, he figured he couldn't possibly sink much lower.
"My mother," The Villager said. He reached into his pocket and produced the picture of her he didn't dare display on his desk or at home.
"I ? " He could feel the lump forming in his throat. "I ran away. And now I'm here. I don't even know who I am anymore ? " his voice trailed off.
"Maybe you should visit her," Isabelle said. "I'm sure she misses you a whole lot. Time heals all wounds, ya know."
The Villager slumped to the floor, his whole body limp.
"What would I even say?" He could hardly make out with his face pressed against the floor.
"You could tell her you miss her," Isabelle said. "She's only a letter away!" She tried to lighten the mood, but The Villager was too depressed to even feign excitement. He collected himself, stood up and headed for the door.
"I'll think about it," he said, the sunlight creeping through the open doorway as he left the office.
The walk from his office to his house was a lonely one. Despite the brisk autumn breeze blowing gently on his face and the brown and red leaves crunching beneath his feet, he couldn't feel anything on the inside. He stopped to sit on the bench overlooking the river to clear his head. He stroked the smooth oak beneath him, wondering what it had all been for. All these monuments erected, all these shopping centers booming, but what had it all been for? Why did emptiness still consume him so?
"Heya, muscles!" he heard someone chirp. It was Cousteau, the yellow, spotted bullfrog with a moustache that would make any man jealous. "Say, I haven't seen you around in a while. I hope you've still been doing push-ups every day!" He chuckled as he plopped beside his friend on the bench.
"Say, guy, you don't look so good," Cousteau said. "Something eatin' you lately?"
"This isn't how I wanted my life to end up," The Villager said. "I thought by moving here, I could start a new life and be happy. But now, I can't even remember who that person was." He looked off into the distance.
"Well," Cousteau said with a chuckle, "I know who you are!"
"Oh yeah?" The Villager replied with a sneer. "And who would that be?"
Cousteau hopped up on the bench now in exuberance.
"Why, you're the second strongest guy in all of Hometown!" he jeered, giving the Villager a friendly punch in the arm. He couldn't help but smile.
"The point is," Cousteau said, "you can be anyone you want to be! If I wanna be stronger than T-Bone the bull, well, I just gotta bench press as hard as I can!"
And then it all clicked for him. He leapt out of his seat.
"Yeah," the Villager replied. "You're right! I don't need any of this stuff. I've been letting my material possessions cloud my judgment so long, I've forgotten what it's like to be alive!"
"I don't need this silly banana-split hat!" He removed it from his head and tossed it into the river with all his might. "And I don't need these steampunk glasses, either! Hiiiiya!" he exclaimed as he hurled them overhead.
"Thank you, my friend!" he exclaimed, planting a powerful kiss on the frog's forehead through the thin film of music on his skin.
"Uh, yeah, sure bud!" Cousteau said, confused.
The Villager ran into his house and pulled a piece of parchment paper from his golden table and began to write his letter.
"Dear mom," it began. His hands quivered once he realized what he was doing. What comes next? He looked around the room for inspiration, anything. He had Master Swords, Arwings, model astronauts and everything one could ever imagine. But confound it all, none of it meant anything!
"Ah, I know!" he said. He continued writing:
Here is a trophy I won for coming in first place in the fishing tournament. I hope you like it. It's very nice here, maybe you could come visit sometime?
Now, how to end it? There was only one way, he thought:
Sorry,
Mark
He finished penning it and wrapped his trophy in the polka dot wrapping paper Fauna had given him for a gift.
He stepped outside, tucked his letter and package in the mailbox, and waited. He wanted to go outside and take his mind off things, but he couldn't concentrate on anything but the letter he had just written, the first step toward getting his life back together. He lay back in his elegant rococo bed, hand behind his head and staring at the ceiling, the metronomic chomping of his pet piranha plant his lullaby.
He was awoken by a soft knocking at the door. He jump up from his deep sleep and looked at his alarm clock.
"Dear me," he said rubbing his eyes. "I must have taken a note from Teddy and went into hibernation! Three days have passed!"
Still groggy, he suddenly recalled the letter he had written days before, and all the heart-wrenching events that had led up to it. Was that all a dream? He scuttled out of bed, hair unkempt and all, and walked to the door. He opened it, the brightness of the morning sun gleaming through, and there she was.
"M ? mom?"
She was older now, with strands of gray interrupting what was once a glowing auburn hair, and her face was that of someone who lived alone and was tired of trying to find things to do to keep herself occupied. Still, when she saw her boy's little face, she knelt, bones creaking, and held it in her hands.
"Hello, son," she said, a faint smile creping across her face.
