Friday Fiction: The Halflife Of Popcorn Art

Heads will roll

Photo by Nik on Unsplash

Here’s a Friday Fiction, written by another of my author friends.

Howard is one of my supporters, and took up my subscriber challenge to “Write Your Own”. (I also have a post open to everyone.) The image of the Lego heads was his chosen inspiration. I love the way our imaginations can latch onto a sound, an image or a smell, and the next thing we know a story, scene or poem is evolving. For this piece, I enjoyed his Carver-esque simplicity, yet the tale still gives us things to ponder. Enjoy! Karl

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The Halflife Of Popcorn Art

Young Errol stared at the photograph on my computer screen – a popcorn pile of yellow Lego heads posed as art. Their stamped expressions, from fierce determination to glee, glared about with true detachment. “Are those dead guys?”

“No, they’re just a bunch of heads.”

“Where are their bodies?” His eyes were earnest. His question was real. He knew these faces.

“I don’t know. Maybe they’re waiting around for bodies. Maybe they’re not built yet.”

“I want to make them people.” He spoke with careful, single words, building sentences like Lego walls. I. want to make them. people.

“You do? That’s a lot of people. What would you do with them?”

“Play with them.”

“Where would you put them all?” I adjusted him on my lap, his diapered butt a reminder of the speed lines flowing backward from this instant.

“ I. put them in my. fire truck.”

“Oh. That’s a good idea. You have some people. I think there’s two people on your nightstand. In your room. We played with them last night, remember?”

“I. go get them.”

He climbed down from my lap and ran, not walked, off to get his people. He would come back with two Lego figures sporting work helmets and face shields, radiating joy that his desires were now anticipations. Then he would want his fire truck, outside on the patio. I would send him to get it. He would run then, too. So light on his feet. Not yet tethered to this earth. Such energy. Such potential. I could see my next moments stretch in front of me like sweet cool grass in summer. I would get down on the floor, my knees would protest and my back would shriek. And it would be worth it. I looked around for my stool.

***

The boy pulled at his mother’s leg. Two eggs popped in butter, yellow eyes gazing up. “Come. Come.” He looked up into her face.

“I’m making your breakfast. What do you want buddy?”

“Come. See Pops. Come.” She moved the pan from the stovetop and followed him into the study. Pops lay on the floor, his chair tipped sideways. He could have been lying in his bed. His mouth was slack. His eyes were closed. Two Lego figures, with work helmet and face shield, lay on the stool beside him.

“Look.” Errol pointed at the screen. “Dead guys.”

© Howard Coward

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About Howard

Howard Coward resides in as many places as he can get away with. He enjoys long strolls through his past, sunny views of his future, and spends too much time fixing things he should have taken better care of in the moment. Formerly he has not written screenplays and stage plays, but lately has been not writing novels. He does write short fiction.