2The Boy and the Magical Spoon
Tears run down his mud covered face, he leaps his way up towards the soft patch of dirt. Bright green grass covers the mound. Hills cover the horizon, as he stumbles up the thinning grassy slope, dry grainy grime gets under his nails and insatiately ruins his black shoes. He gives another great big push and forces himself up upon some sort of summit. Nettles scorch his bare legs red, his black shorts gets covered in some sort of mud.
'MMOOOOTTTHHHHERRRR!' tears burn his blue eyes, hands clenching onto the weeds and some strands of nettle. The boy draws back down and cries, he suddenly stops and breaths heavily. His eyes focus on a faint glimpse of a glossy substance, and then he releases his clench on the nettles and begins to dig the grimy soil.
A rusted spoon meets his gaze.
He eagerly plucks it from the ground and recovers it as if it's his long lost friend. He smears the mud off the spoon, to see a tanned brown that's been in the sun too long.
'I wonder what this little spoon is doing here?' he asks himself. His willpower made him rise to his feet, a determined face replaces his tears.
He's going to clean the spoon and make it a home.
The boys legs rapidly shift steps as he tries not to stagger down the holey hill. Nettle blister his bare legs even more and he sheds no tears. He enters a patio with concrete slabs, weeds grow in between the gaps, he then runs down to a door, his hands cling to the sliver doorknob and prises it open. He goes in only to be greeted by women wearing black dresses and men smoking heavy cigars; before he could escape upstairs he heard a voice call out his name, he notices it immediately and freezes on the spot, a man emerges from the over-flowing crowds of people, wearing a tieless suit, his shirt is crumpled and you could really tell that he was at some point crying and grieving.
'John! My boy!' the man crouches to the boy, trying not to burst into tears 'John, my boy, where were you?' the man looks at his shins and calves and pulls a face, 'You should stay inside my son.' John shook his head.
'No, I don't want to Father,' John looks to the ground, 'I want to wonder around, I will be living here after all. Mother died and we have to live here.' The man pulls another gloomy face.
'You have her eyes . . .'' he dreamily says, he snaps out and looks at the boys face, 'You'll be living here with Uncle Ben; I have to go to London and work.' He convincingly says to his child. John nods and his father jumps back to feet, receiving more sympathy then needed. John wonders into the living room, more people cry and hug each other in grief. He dashes up the stairs with hard feet and enters a mucky bathroom.
The toilet is stained in strange black stuff and in the corners of the floor; mould grows there in a greenly revolting colour. John grabs onto the rotting wooden stool and pushes it up against the newly planted wood which the basin is fastened onto. He firmly stands onto the wooden stool and leans in onto the basin, he twists the tap and cold water comes squirting out, soothing his itches from the nettle stings. He plugs the plug and the cold water rises inside the basin, washing the grimy sand from his nails. The clean water immediately turns into mud and grime he scrubs the spoon hard and eventually he extracts the spoon from the grim water, he pulls on the plug hard and leaves the room as it is.
He enters his bedroom and sits on the bed, in his swelling hands lay the spoon.
'I think this is brass.' He whimpers, grasping onto it, a weak smile coves his feeble face 'I'll polish it, and make it better, it must be feeling ill by sleeping in the ground.'
He jumps off his bed and hops downstairs like crows eating bread. Once down, he opens a glass cabinet and gets a wired feeling cloth and a glass jar with strange substance inside, ''POLISH'' is written across the jar in big bold letters, when John's stubborn fingers are compressed onto the jar, he instantly dashes back into his room and locks the door.
John crawls onto the bed and holds the spoon in his hands; he firmly puts it on the bed, he unscrews the cap and smears the cloth in the even weirder substance, and rubs gently on the brass spoon. After a while of rubbing, the brass gleams and tints in the light, impressed with his work he inspects the spoon critically to only notice a strange pattern engraved on the head of the spoon, '' '', he then flips it over to the spine of the spoon, to only read;
''May your dreams be with you''.
An image of his Mother instantly struck into his mind, he remembers laughing with her, eating with her, and even the very same lines once crossed her very lips. Not wanting to remember anymore John holds the spoon by its head and rubs the strange patterns, holding back the tears.
Before he could even blink, purple sparkles glitter out of the patterns, and a man with a black beard and a turban which covers his head appears out of nothingness. His eyes seem to be closed, as if he is in some sort of trance.
'Wow. Who are you mister?' the boy holds the spoon harder and looks at the man who's floating.
'I am the genie of the Spoon; I thank you for saving me.' The Genie puts his hands together as if he was praying, 'I shall grant you one wish.'
Words crossed his lips without a second thought, 'Can I please have three hours to play with my Mother, before her sprit goes to heaven?'
The Genie didn't nod, or speak any magical words; he just floated there and slowly vanished into nothingness.
This made John frown.
'John . . .' the familiar voice made him squeamish inside, could this be her? Could this really be his Mothers spirit? He turns around. It's the moment of truth.
He sees the clear and beautiful face of his Mother; he really does have her eyes. Her smile becomes more real, her ever flowing gown doesn't seem to have any dark points, shadows refused to exist. 'Hello my boy.' She opens her arms out to him.
'MMOOOOTTTHHHHERRRR!' tears burn up again, he vaults forward and hugs his Mothers spirit.
After his three hours of fun with the person who gave him life, the spoon was never found again. To this day, John lives knowing that the spoon is in capable hands. Allowing pleasure and joy to each founder that thinks it's anything but the ordinary.
If you find a brass spoon you'll never know if a genie lives inside of it, but, if one does, you better treat it well.
The End.