A Short Story About A Young Boy Who Has Recently Been Orphaned But Doesn't Quite Know It Yet

"What difference does it make to the dead, the orphans and the homeless, whether the mad destruction is wrought under the name of totalitarianism or the holy name of liberty or democracy?" - Gandhi

This story is not about a girl but a boy. Definitely a boy. There is something slightly sadder about a boy who has lost his mother than a girl. The boy is maybe seven or eight. Old enough perhaps for him to acknowledge the situation but too young to understand the reasons for him being in the situation. He might be only just seven. Something like that.

The boy is in a town. A big town with a market. He has wandered off. He does that a lot. He’s an adventurous little boy and even though he loves his parents very much he tends to worry them when he does this but he does it because he is adventurous not because he is a bad son. He saw the red box again and wanted to get closer so he slipped away from his mother who was examining something at a stall. His father was talking to another man who he - the boy - didn’t know and who spoke a different language and the boy didn’t like that.

He sees the red box from time to time, always in different places like it is following him around. He has never been very close to it, it is always in the near distance. Today is the day he will get close enough to touch it he thinks. He will be slow, quiet., patient. He will sneak up on it so that it doesn’t disappear again. He turns round briefly to check that his parents are still where he left them and his heart skips as he turns back to find that the box has gone. No! It is there! It is still there. He slinks through the crowd which is easily done as he is slim and small and unobtrusive and everywhere around him is noise and shouting and no-one really cares about a small boy slinking through a crowd. Every so often the red box disappears from view and his heart does that funny skip thing again. He isn’t quite sure why he is so intent on seeing it, getting closer. If he were older and more eloquent he might be Curious or even Intrigued but right now he just Wants To Know. Behind him, behind the noise of people comes the familiar rumble of engines and he pays them no mind. He is closer now. He can see it quite clearly. There is a line of people at the box. They keep standing at it then walking away. In another world, in another life, the boy might think of the phrase ‘Curiouser and curiouser’. But this is a different world, a different life and the boy has never heard of such a phrase.

People are shouting now, somewhere behind him and the crowd has turned against him. People are always shouting he thinks. This is something he doesn’t like because he is a quiet boy and he likes quiet things and he actually thinks he is being quite brave by venturing into this crowd, to see, to explore. For every few steps he takes he is pushed back and he has to push through spindly columns of legs to make it through. By the time he is clear of the crowd he can see he has lost his way somewhat and the red box is somewhere else, over to his left - it has moved again! There are still people lined up in front of it and he stands behind them, patiently waiting for his turn to see. He is further away from his parents than ever now but he does not worry for he will always return and they have always found him before. He knows he will be severely disciplined for disappearing again but it will be worth it, he thinks, just to have finally reached his goal. It is less crowded where he is - everybody seems to have run over to the market but this is good because as we know, he doesn’t like crowds so much. There is a siren wailing now in the background although this doesn’t really register with him, so familiar is he with its sound. He is very close to the red box now, there is only one man in front of him. He is tall so the boy can’t see what he is doing but there is a thud and the man walks away.

Now he is finally here. The box is dirtier than it seemed from a distance. It is scorched with brown and black and graffiti although its primary color still dominates. It towers above the little boy with a humming light coming somewhere from within. It is cold to the touch which surprises him. He stands in front of it, frozen in uncertainty, not sure what it is, what to do. A girl, a young girl, although older than he is, comes over to him with a smile and slips something small and warm into his hand. She whispers into his ear and he understands and thanks her as she runs off again. The dirty coin is wet in his palm as he pushes it into the box and presses hard against the button that is so high he has to stand on tiptoe to reach it. His small legs strain against the ground as the button gives way and an old mechanical sound groans somewhere. There is that thud noise again and he can see something has fallen inside. He reaches in and withdraws the article with its funny writing all around it. If he could read he might understand more but he cannot so he turns back to market to find his parents and ask them what the squiggly white marks are. As he turns there is a roar up ahead of him and dust high in the air. The noise is as familiar to him as the siren but the dust in the air and the sight of the crowd running toward him, they are not and he flattens his back against the cold box as the people race past him, shouting and screaming. His parents will not be part of the crowd, they will not leave without him. He will wait, he thinks, until they have all gone, until it is quiet before he finds his parents again, his father, to ask him the meaning of the writing, the meaning of the words كوكا كولا