Birthday on The Moon

First Edit, Part 5

The tin taunted him without saying a word. It defied logic without evening to know what that word meant. It was elusive and yet it had no legs. Adrian took the tin, it did not resist and broke the seal, unscrewed the lid and peered within. A deep, dark void started back at him as he saw nothing but his reflection. His young face peered back at him.

"Paint," he said as he broke the anticipation, "red paint," it became trivial. Maybe it is a joke, he thought to himself, so it going to the moon. He dismissed the tin and closed the lid. Nothing may have changed for him as he got back to his reading and feeding his curiosity. But everything changed for the tin; it was in a new home, more light and more elbow room, but the paint itself: it was changing on a molecular level.

As Adrian continued to read word by word the atoms, electrons and protons charged into battle. A chemical war was commencing within the paint and changing the very fabric of its reality. Chaos was spreading throughout the paint, but Adrian could not see, hear or care for it, as he slid it to one side and ignored it.

Woody too was none the wiser - relaxed in his bed, seemingly meditating without a care in the world. Too relaxed to care for adventure, too at ease to care for the moon and enjoying the sunshine from the bright summer morning. He was home and that meant his comfortable bed. Nothing could tear him apart from the important business of doing nothing.

Adrian was slowly returning to his world as the day went by, turning through the pages like a book starved librarian for more knowledge and wisdom. He was beginning to put the whole thing behind him and soon he would either return the paint or throw it away in the bin, depending on whether Grandpa forgot about it or not. The moon? What a silly idea he thought anyway. He continued reading. But the tin did not forget, it stood there motionless but it began to rumble in Adrian's mind. Like an earthquake: the deep foundations of his mind were being shaken to their core: what was it, was the first bit of resistance to fall. His curiosity would soon flood that part of his mind to keep it from caving in on itself. A curse of curiosity taking root. What was it made from, he thought as the earthquake was breaking through the barriers. What was it for? The tin invited Adrian to find out more and he could not take it off his mind. The paint said nothing but Adrian wanted to know all it had to say. He wanted to focus on the Ancient Greeks and their adventure, but he stopped and turned to it. The Peloponnesian war could wait; this could not.

"Paint?" he said, with a disgusted look not wanting to be bested by a small, metallic pot. He did not know what to do, but he knew what he wanted to know. He dipped a finger into it: it felt like paint. Looked like paint. Dried like paint. It even sounded and tasted like paint - as he was rather curious to get to the bottom of this.

"Nothing," staring at his paint-covered finger. He dipped a pencil into it. "Nothing," he said again to himself, only Woody was listening. Rather unimpressed and he was starting to lose interest. He dropped a small staple in it and watched. The paint was red, dark, deep and void. It may have been like other kinds of paint, but it was the black sheep of the paint family. He stared into it and it stared back. Adrian's curiosity was slowly being quenched and losing appetite in his latest endeavour.

"Nothing," he concluded, unimpressed and realising that his curiosity had hit a dead-end. He returned to his normal life. The staple sank to the bottom and the pencil dried in the sun on his desk. As they would not or could not return to their normal lives, little did they know that this would be the turning point in their career as office stationery. Whizz! A small noise came from the paint, leaving small dots of paint around the pot as a clue. Adrian stopped and turned towards the crime scene, interrupting his latest adventure, pausing his life to see what happened. Analyzing the scene as something moved into, or worse, out of the tin. He leaned closer to look at the droplets on the desk. Another droplet landed beside them from above. Touching the droplets with his finger; it was the same as the paint. He did the only thing possible: he looked up slowly. There above him was the staple, covered in paint and stuck to the ceiling. It had shed its former life as just a staple.

"What?" jumping from his seat and waking up Woody, standing and staring at the staple above. It wanted to stare back but was getting to grips with its new life. Standing on the desk to reach for it he tried to pull it down and bring it back to earth, but it would not budget. Like a rebellious rock, it remained resting right on top of him. Looking at the pencil, which was sunbathing on the desk without a care in the world, he took it and dipped more of it in the paint. He waited and watched. Stopped and stared. Leaning forward from his seat; it was the tin's turn to make a move. Whizz! It leapt from his desk and went straight to the ceiling. No hesitation. No delay. No nonsense. Even Woody was amazed now. The pencil and staple had started a new life as ceiling stationery, leaving behind the oppressive desk and the cramped living conditions for an open plan, spacious ceiling with a view of the entire bedroom and its books. Their friends were jealous.