Artefacts
By Michael Vanderpool
Email: vanderpool dot michael at gmail dot com
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July 10, 2008
Arthur's young face was softly illuminated by the moonlight. On the shore of Lake Whitehall he stood barefoot; the fresh spring soil hugged his toes, or "little piggies" as his mother had nicknamed. The cold of the winter air still lingered enough to sting Arthur's hands that tightly grasped a wooden box. The scent of hickory flavoured the air around him as he carefully unlatched the chamber and glanced at all of its contents. A candle from his last birthday cake, he was sixteen; some chocolate residue stained its bottom. His mother had a crying fit on that day, her baby was becoming an adult, it reminded her of what it was like to turn sixteen and now her once youthful skin was beginning to sag away. A smile stretched across Arthur's face when he came across a photo of Abigail Connors, who took on the role his "first kiss". Her long brown hair was forever engraved in Arthur's dreams; they used to stay up hours strumming their guitars by a campfire in perfect harmony and spend the night laughing and singing together. On this photo was an unused condom (life isn't perfect). Resting comfortably adjacent to the photo was an old fishing bobber. Every Sunday afternoon Arthur and his father fished together on Lake Whitehall. They both never really enjoyed the act of fishing, it even seemed barbaric to them, and Arthur couldn't even spear the worm through the hook, instead he used bread crumbs so they could be spared. Arthur and his father just enjoyed eachothers company on those peaceful Sunday afternoons. Arthur's whole life was documented in these objects. He reluctantly closed the box, and placed it on the ground. He kneeled and shovelled the ground open with his hands. Arthur then tossed the box in the hole and reburied it.He left the lake, leaving the box to become part of the soil so that a tree might grow high and mighty.
About the author:
I'm a sixteen year old resident of Hopkinton, Massachusettes.
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