Four Strings By Zac Jones

I have to find my boy now. He left without me. I have to find him.

Outside the thunders shake the ground, and it scares me, but I have to go now, because my boy needs me. He will be scared too, and I should be there so he can play and be happy instead.

I wrap my strings around myself so that my handle is on my back and not dragging. I want to be presentable when I find him. He dropped me in the street. The street is full of dust and pieces of buildings. That one there is missing many pieces, and I can see inside it. No one is home right now.

I walk down the street, careful that no one should see me; that is against The Rules. A thunder comes close by and shakes me off my feet and I fall. Then the air is full of smoke. The world is gray. I stand up and walk again. I think the truck went this way; I can sense my boy.

This street has people in it, but they are all sleeping. I tiptoe past them.

There is the fountain we play in. Oh, happy times! I remember them. One time we chased the pigeons around the cobblestones. My boy laughed so hard I bobbed on my strings. Now the pigeons are gone, and the fountain pours into the square.

Another thunder, farther away.

Many streets later, so much thunder. One thunder rolls just in front of me and the street explodes, sending me flying so far back. I check myself. A bit of stone scratched my paint. I get back up and continue.

I can sense my boy; he is closer now.

Leaving the town, I start down a dirt road. I walk along the ditch so I cannot be seen. Every tiny step I take, the sense gets stronger. Soon I will find him, and we will play again.

Out here, the air is quieter and less gray. The thunder is far away. It is calm. But the day is growing late, and the nights are scary. The sun has nearly set.

There, I’ve found him!

I see the truck in the ditch. Someone has parked it upside-down. I wait to see that no one is watching, then I go on. The air here smells like thunder. Poking under the side is my boy’s hand. Perhaps he is hiding from the thunder? He must be sleeping. I don’t want to wake him; we can play when he wakes up. I unwrap my strings, straighten them out, and then slide into his palm. I am home now. I am here in his hand, where I belong.

© 2014 Zac Jones

Zac Jones is a reformed music major and part-time grocery clerk currently in college for nonspecific purposes. He lives in Jackson, MI.

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