literature

Daniel's Worlds

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Daniel's Worlds
September 27/07


Daniel had always been an unusual boy. At first his parents were worried. They would stand in the doorway of his room, watching the way he stared at shadows moving across the ceiling, his baby body motionless and unblinking in the crib.

"Is it autism?" his mother would ask.
"No, no, I don’t think so," would be his father’s reply, his hand squeezing her shoulder in reassurance. "He’s an observer; he’s just taking it all in."

And his mother would smile and walk into the kitchen to make a pot of tea. The spoon would tap against the sides of the cup as she mulled over her husband’s words. Her son was only a baby and he was already looking at the world through an artist’s eyes. He’ll be a poet, she would think to herself. Oh, I like the sound of that. Daniel the Poet.

-------------------------

On his third birthday Daniel’s cake decorations choreographed a song and dance for him.

The sugar balloons, an a cappella jazz quartet, sang "Happy! Happy! Birthday! To! To! You! You! You!" The icing rosettes shimmied up and down the length of the cake. The big candle shaped like a three played the trumpet very loudly, because he wanted to be Louis Armstrong.

Daniel’s parents hadn’t understood why their son laughed and clapped so gaily when they placed the chocolate cake in front of him. They couldn’t see the sugar-coated music number unfolding before their son’s gleaming eyes.

Just as they hadn’t seen the plays that the shadows on his ceiling had made for him when he was a baby: plays with shadow pirates battling sea monsters between the huge, crashing waves, plays with silhouetted damsels in distress and brave knights on proud steeds.

It was so wonderful. Daniel wished his parents could see the things he saw. But whenever he stopped to watch a new, magical little world, they just cocked their heads to one side as if they found his staring habit to be a cute quirk. But, frustrating as this was, he much preferred the patient bemusement of his parents to the school children’s reactions to him.

On the first day of kindergarten, during his first ever recess, Daniel stood by himself in the shade of a large tree. He looked up from the tips of his shoes, where an ant was executing some impressive cart wheels, and glanced around the schoolyard. It was with a mixture of contentment and sadness that he realized everyone was happy and playing with their new friends. Daniel hadn’t made any friends yet.

He thought that, earlier that morning, a girl named Teresa had seen him quietly giggling at the scissors’ knock knock jokes. He guessed that she had told everyone in the class what she saw, judging by how they looked at him and the way they whispered behind their hands when he walked past.

At the final bell, Daniel decided not to take the bus, and walked instead. He’d been teased enough for one day.

When he arrived home, his parents saw the lonely, dejected look on his face and kept asking if something was wrong, if there was some reason why he hadn’t taken the bus. Daniel smiled a small smile and told them that he had just wanted to look at the leaves. Even though his mother and father exchanged a silent, disbelieving glance with each other, both decided not to press the issue. They stood with their arms crossed and watched Daniel as he went up the stairs, his backpack thumping against each step.

The next morning, Daniel’s father came into his son’s bedroom and gently smoothed the boy’s hair away from his forehead, murmuring the same greeting as always,

"Open those eyes, little man. It’s a new day."

But the day seemed to be much of the same thing. Only today, nobody mocked him. Nobody talked to him at all, in fact. Nobody even looked at him. So after a solo lunch and a solitary recess, Daniel thought he might as well walk home again and end his day alone, too.

But sometime between noon and three thirty, the September weather had become an unbearable, frostbitten cold, and Daniel only had a thin sweater with him. He would have to take the bus.

Daniel ran outside to his bus. Sitting by himself in its fairly neutral, unassuming middle section seemed like a much better option than being turned down over and over as he asked "Can I sit beside you?" to a stream of No faces.

Daniel set his backpack in the empty space next to him and turned to face the window. It was so wintry outside that the glass was fogged. He traced a stick figure into the pane, his warm fingertip leaving clear lines in its wake. A friend? He stared at the stick figure, willing it to come to life, to talk to him. But it didn’t. Even in his own magic alter-world, Daniel was still friendless.

"Can I sit beside you?" said a soft voice.

Daniel was startled. He looked up to see a shy boy maybe a year older than him, and moved his backpack so it was sitting at his feet.

"Thank you," whispered the boy.

The bus passed stop after stop, gradually emptying until only a handful of people remained. Daniel wanted to talk to the boy, to find something to say that would establish a common ground between them, but he could think of nothing. He slumped lower in the seat.

"Hello!" cried the boy beside him.

Daniel jumped, then grinned and turned to the boy, ready to return the happy salutations. But the boy was looking beyond Daniel, to something behind his head. Daniel turned again to the window and couldn’t contain the "Oh!" that escaped from his mouth. The little stick man he had drawn was doing jumping jacks and push-ups, counting them to impossibly high numbers.

"One thousand one hundred and twenty, ooh I feel the burn, one twenty-one, one twenty-two…"

The boys laughed. And suddenly Daniel realized something.

“Wait!” he exclaimed to the boy, then, lowering his voice, "You can see him?"
"Yeah! He’s really funny! Do you think he’s funny?"
"One thousand six hundred and three, six-oh-four…" lied the stick man.
"Well… yes I do! Do you see things like this all the time?"
The boy nodded.
"What’s your name?" Daniel asked.

"Paul," the boy replied. His former bashful demeanor returned as he looked away, avoiding Daniel’s eyes. A slow blush crawled up from beneath his scarf. "Maybe… maybe do you want to come and look around my neighborhood? I see lots of neat stuff…" he let the unfinished sentence trail off, his cheeks turning a deeper, more obvious shade of red.

"That sounds really fun… My name’s Daniel."

Paul found Daniel’s eyes again, having rediscovered his confidence. The pair got off at the same stop with little stick man trailing behind. All three were excited and beaming.

They ran through Paul’s neighborhood, observing, taking everything in: leaves leaped from tree branches, yelling "Now! Now!" before their red, red parachutes burst out above them; puddles turned into whirlpools, bugs jumping in for the ride; shiny candy wrappers used the sun to reflect flickering messages onto the sides of houses.

Daniel and his new friend ran on as the little stick man raced after them, breathlessly dashing from fogged window to fogged window as he tried to keep up. Eventually the stick man slowed to a walk and then stopped, bent over with his hands resting on his thighs. He heaved great gulps of air into his lungs. Daniel turned around to see if he was still following them, but was surprised that he had given up.

Daniel was about to encourage him to press on, to keep up, but the little stick man raised his hand in protest.

"Wow. You kids are… phew… really – oh, my – really fast," he panted, struggling to catch his breath. He exhaled heavily, regaining composure. "But listen, kid: just go. Don’t let me slow you down. For you, us magic things are a dime-a-dozen. But that?" he gestured to Paul, who was standing at a crosswalk waiting for Daniel. "That’s different. He’s different. He’s more… well he’s a person, for crying out loud!" he yelled. But his voice softened again, taking on an almost parental tone, "So… go on. Go do something different."

Daniel stood where he was. He didn’t want to leave the stick man.

"Come on!" shouted Paul from down the street.
“Go on,” said the stick man, quietly.

Daniel nodded. He turned on his heels and caught up with Paul. They were running again, their feet hitting the pavement with an echoing realness, each counted stride a new, impossibly high number in Daniel’s head:

One thousand one hundred and twenty, one twenty-one, one twenty-two

Final short story for creative writing class.


Thanks for stopping by,
Alie
© 2007 - 2024 niceparabola
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deebax's avatar
Loved it! I got to "He’s an observer; he’s just taking it all in." and from on then was hooked. Some people just see the world in a different way.