The Sweet Spot
Max would find himself carefully walking down the creaky stairs of the house he lived in with his family. They didn’t check on him much, so he would find himself wandering. His mother would yell for him but never get up and look, his father when home would call for him but put off checking things out for just a few more minutes. Max was 9, and he was forcing his body to go down the stairs. His spine stiff, and his legs could barely operate, he raised one rigid arm up, bent the elbow toward his head on the stair railing to scratch his head. It always seemed to itch near the beamer and loose wires. Each step cried for mercy and finally he made it to the landing of the basement. He could never remember why he would go through so much trouble to get down here.
There was one room in the basement, therefor there was only one door, Max and his stiff legs humped over to the door, his leg always got caught on the door mat which simply read “Beauty.” He went through the door as always and fell over some boxes that always seemed to be permanently waiting for him. Max was growing bored and would soon give up on the adventure. But through a crack in the blinds he saw another door in the corner to another room. He crawled all the way over to it and threw his stiff arm up the handle, turned it, and entered. As he crawled in he felt all of his limbs loosen, he could turn his head without making a kink in his neck and he could think a bit more without any screeching sounds causing headaches. He stood and looked around but saw nothing, he felt a switch on the wall and flipped it. When it came on he saw the grey walls, the grey door was turning into what he would call Brown, as it was written on the door. The molding around the door turned what he would call white as it was labeled so, the letters were carved in to not be forgotten. The soft carpet floor was labeled blue, painted in white. At last he began to remember.
He picked up a notebook, sat in the corner and with each page came back a memory. Green, Red, Magenta, Orange, Purple, Blue, Green again! There was a box in the corner and when he opened it he found liquids labeled paints, he used sticks with hair to paint pictures on the remaining open spaces on the wall. Next to what was labeled as the moon, he painted a big yellow fireball he called the son. With each splatter of paint a little piece came back, he wrote above the son, “Pray.” This was after he turned another page of the notebook and came upon these words.
“Fire in the sky never fade for long,
I hope for you every night before bed.
I hope to walk and I pray to think when I can
One day you will come back for good
And the world will make sense again.”
Each time, Max remembered the words, he always remembered why he came down here and it was always worth it, though he did not understand, it was too amazing to even question within his young mind. He closed the green book and in white letters painted “The Sweet Spot.”
Some time must have passed as Max awoke in the corner of the Sweet Spot better rested than he could ever remember being. He had to get back upstairs though did not want to, ever. He put everything back nice, flipped the switch, grabbed the door handle turned it and rushed into the room, slamming the door behind. He made it to the boxes, stubbed his toe fell down, crawled back to the dark landing. As he got up his spine stiffened, each leg would now cramp if not moved properly, same with the arms and neck. His head perfectly upright, straight forward. The perfect posture of every human being. He then marched slowly up the stairs unsure of why he had come down there in the first place, the back of his neck tingling with electronic pins stabbing deep, relaxing. He marched up to the kitchen turned past his mother who was pouring a drink. Past his father who was drinking a drink staring at a screen. Past his sister who was sitting at another screen in another room.
When he finally got to his room he walked in, past the screen that he could not turn off, and sat next to the window. He stared outside to dreary grass, dark streets and distorted people walking by, all under a plain bright sky. He had this brilliant idea, but could not remember it, when he tried really hard his head seemed to rattle with pain, when he tried just a little it was like he was clawing at a leaf in a pond, each memory drifting away, ripple in a pond, he could remember something, just never what.
-EJ Browne
A Short Story Selected From "B-sides and Rarities: Re-Writes and Tragedies" One day to be published soon.
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