A Star Who Danced with the Moon

Tool Shed

Word Count: 483 words.

A young boy walked into a Tool shed, a red light glowing from his hands. He sat on a bench and pulled close to the worktable, gently placing the red light on the wooden surface before him. A hand crept for a nearby toolbox, drawing it closer. The red light was welded back together, a crack no one other than the boy would have seen beneath the dazzling light. By then, it was late into the night.

He came back the next week, red light in hand and snacks to keep him from hunger as he worked on the light. The crack was bigger this time, but still not enough to be seen over the dazzling light by any other than the boy.

A young boy who is not quite so young anymore walked into a Tool shed, red light in hand. The crack that had grown into a break was a radiating darkness in the bright but long since dazzling light. He sat onto the worn bench and once more pulled the toolbox closer, wear and tear showing on its red sides. The boy pulled out a magnifying glass, looking deep into the break. His face was marked by a small frown and saddened eyes. When he had looked carefully at this newest disruption on the surface- many white scars from previous trips to the Tool shed lingering on its surface- his hand searched the for the rest of the tools he would need, and fixed the break.

Its not too much later before the boy begins to run to the tool shed, red light in hand. Breaks are coming in pairs of two and slashes of three. Slashes are harder to fix, but usually he can do it. Practice has made him able to make it at least look like it had never happened.

Another few nights come and go.

Tears come down his face as his hand reaches for the toolbox, only to be drawn back. He shakes at the thoughts crossing his mind. Tonight, the box is left alone.

"I give up." He's defeated for now. He's drained of the energy to fight the cracks and the breaks and the slashes. He knows the light might shatter tonight, but he's too tired to keep fixing it every night, only to have it broken again the next morning. What's the point, anyways? They'll never stop- he's known this for a while.

Quietly, he decides he's not coming back again. He whispers 'I'm sorry' to those he loves, and grabs the light sitting on the table.

He feels relief once his face is not illuminated by red anymore, and pieces of glass that once formed a worn, sad and broken heart fall to the floor, a bodyslumping against the table where it had worked on its heart night after night,only to have it broken once more the next morning.