Sullen Boy - a short story

[D-Trix]

in my english class last semester, my prof. gave us the option of writing a short story in lieu of a final paper. this is what i wrote. i was trying to encorporate the vague, disjointed style that were used in some of the later stories we read for the class and i think it turned out pretty well. i don't know what the prof. thought of it but my guess (based on known test grades and my course grade) is that she gave me a B. my grandmother, of course, thinks it deserves an A and submitted it to the New Yorker's ficiton section. i suspect its true worth lies somewhere in the middle.

i like feedback of all kinds - feel free to be as harsh as you want, my feelings won't be hurt so don't hold back.

to anticipate several questions that you'll probably have when you're done: this is only autobiographical in the vaguest possible sense; and no, i won't tell you what it is. you're welcome to guess, though.

~Ted

EDIT: stupid Word! every time i copy/paste out of Word, all the punctuation gets turned into silly characters like Õs or ?s. should be fixed now.


Sullen Boy
by Ted Burnham

I
He is a sullen boy.
He only smiles for her. She likes that. She likes being the girl who can make him smile.
He has to be careful not to smile for anyone else. Especially other girls.
She wonders how else she could make him happy.
They become close. He smiles more.
They kiss. He laughs. She has never heard him laugh. She becomes his girlfriend.
Time passes. The smiles start to fade.
She tries harder. There are days when he does not smile at all. She has trouble sleeping.
There is so much pressure. Pressure to keep being that girl who made him smile. She swallows the changes like bile.
She feels trapped. She wants to tell him. "But," she tells her Mother, "I just can't hurt him."
Her Mother gives her a look. She wishes she had eyes like her Mother's. They are greener than her own. They know her better than she does.
She nods. "Ok."

II
In the aftermath, she pauses.
"Yeah...well."
He remains silent, speechless; staring into the corner. His desk is in the corner.
It is in his desk, in the top drawer. Waiting for her to leave.
She pauses again. He says nothing.
Eventually she gives up. Clears her throat, makes an excuse. He doesn't answer. She stands, goes to the door. She turns and pauses a final time, but his eyes have not left the desk.
She leaves.
He sits for some time. Ten minutes, two hours. He doesn't notice.
It calls to him.
He crosses to the desk, fumbles in his pocket for the key to the top drawer. His is the only key.
He takes it out, holds it in his lap, feels its weight. More time slips by.
He is about to lift it when his Mother knocks. Startled, he scrambles to put it away.
His hand shakes as he turns the doorknob.
"Is everything OK," his Mother asks, "She left in such a hurry."
He shrugs.

III
A week later, the summer ends. At his Mother's request (the fifth repetition), he begins to pack up his things.
He leaves his desk for last. There is a week of dust on it.
Again he fumbles with the key, but the drawer is not locked. He pulls the drawer open violently, takes it out, examines it carefully.
Nobody has touched it.
Suddenly it shames him. His eyes burn to look at it. It becomes a block of ice in his hand. He wraps it in a sweater and buries it at the bottom of a duffel bag.
His parents help him pack the car. He makes sure to load the duffel bag himself.

IV
Back at school, things are different. He is among friends, at the start of a new semester.
He can smile for anyone.
He takes a long time to unpack. Weeks go by and still the duffle bag is half full in the corner. He tells himself that he is keeping his options open.
Returning from dinner, he sees a poster for the first campus-wide dance. Luau! Tonight from 10 - 2 in the Student Center lounge! The poster is covered in palm trees.
He searches his closet for the ridiculously orange Hawaiian shirt his uncle gave him for Christmas last year. He has to lean over the duffel bag to reach the hangers. The shirt isn't there.
He calls his mother. The shirt is not at home. "Did you look in that big duffel bag?" his Mother asks.
He digs through his dresser a second time. He has trouble opening the bottom drawer because the duffel bag is in the way.
He is sure that the dance would have been lame anyway.

V
He hears footsteps and glances toward the open door.
She walks by.
His breath catches in his throat. He scrambles into the hall.
It must be her - cascade of chestnut hair, the sway of her hips - but there is something else, a casual slant of the shoulders.
Of course she wouldn't be here, thousands of miles from her school.
The girl turns the corner and is gone. He wonders if she has the same green eyes. He waits in the doorway until her footsteps fade away.
She seems so close.
He closes his eyes. A flood of memories is squeezed out in tears.
He stumbles blindly into his room, tripping over the duffel bag. He sobs harshly. He kicks it. Clothes tumble out.
He sees orange near the bottom. He pulls out the revolting shirt.
Beneath the shirt is a sweater.
It is poking out from behind one of the sleeves.
He pulls it out, sits at his desk, stares at it. Déjà vu. He wonders if things will be different this time.
He is about to lift it.
He lifts it.
More footsteps. His door is open. He drops it into the top drawer of his desk.
He tries to wipe his eyes.
She walks by again. She is wearing a grass skirt. She turns green eyes on him.
He smiles through the tears.
She smiles back. He sniffles.
She steps into the room. "Are you Ok?"
"I'm fine," he croaks.
She takes a tissue from his desk, dabs at his face. "So why are you crying?"
"It's nothing," he insists. He takes a deep breath. "Really."
She notices the shirt clutched in his hand. "Put this on." He obeys. "Now let's see a smile." He smiles for her. She looks away, suddenly shy.
She takes his hand. "Let's go dancing."

VI
A month goes by.
Three days have passed without a smile. She cries herself to sleep.
She meets him after class. He is talking to a girl. He is laughing.
He sees her. Her eyes look especially green. He stops laughing.
They spend the rest of the day together. They do not speak.
She leaves his room suddenly, just before midnight. She does not say goodbye.
He opens his desk, takes it out. He lies on his bed, stares at the ceiling.
He knows what she will say tomorrow. Maybe he shouldn't give her the chance.
He presses it to his head. He tries to think of a reason. He lies there for an hour, maybe more.
He wonders if he might be wrong. He can always wait until after.
He slides it under his pillow. He is keeping his options open.

VII
The next day, she avoids him. And the next. And the day after that.
He feels it under his pillow every night. He does not know what to do.
She cannot hide forever. She tries not to make eye contact. They do not speak.
He smiles for her anyway.
He is a sullen boy.

[Bumblebee]

I honestly like this short story! Not only because I usually write crap, but because I can somewhat identify myself to some of the situations within the story and all. I think it shoulda' got an A; B+ at least; but I dunno how the grading policy works there.
So yeah; great story man! That style you were going for works best for this kind of topic.

[Sakura]

No words can express how good that was. I liked it very much. ^^ Pleeeeeassee write some more :3

[Sperrit]

Very good, D-Trix. I like the way you tease the imagination. What was the hidden thing? Sure, we all have a good guess, but we'll never know. Great stuff, man. I love it.

Join the Fun

[D-Trix]

thank you! i have some other stories from high school that i'll post later, but i other than Sullen Boy i haven't really written anything in a long, long time.

i should have said before, that i'm very interested in what people think 'it' is. so please throw out your guesses, whatever came into your head as you were reading. but it still holds that i won't tell you, even if you guess right.

and seriously, tell me there's at least one thing wrong with it. especially in a story like this, the specific phrasing of each line matters a lot. i know i'm not totally satisfied with many bits and often times the only way to identify exactly what needs to be changed is to ask others.

~Ted

[Therin]

Very very nice. It it a gun? or perhaps a knife?

[Selrahc the Evil]

I really like this story. I like the dark and lonely feeling it gives off. I can relate to some parts of this story.
I give it an A++++++!!!!!!!

[BWS-1]

That's a bit sad, but I like it.

[Sperrit]

It's very sad, but that makes it poigant.
I'd guess it's either a weapon or a momento. I'd lean towards a momento personally.

Join the Fun

[Aindriahhn]

I get the idea it's a gun...

Very cool feel.

Amazing prose.