Tyler.

A mass of smoke, escaping the pink, retired, lips. A sigh to accompany the brief moment until Marcus draws back on the cigar. A yawn follows, and Marcus slaps himself kindly with his non-dominant hand. He needs to write, he has to write, he wants to write. He places the cigar on a tilt and grabs a pen. He writes the words, “I’m sorry.” Dashing the words out, he writes “Tyler.”

The sun dipped its warm presence calmly through the round window of the attic, sprawling over the planks and claiming its territory. Dust dazedly danced and made way for Marcus as he approached a box. Marcus crouched and pulled the box toward him. He delicately slipped the lid off, revealing a stack of torn pages. Trinkets and mementos resided around the stack. A trilling feeling emerged; excitement of the forgotten. He stood up, turned his back to the window, and began to fling the contents out. Papers dashed one way, the trinkets and mementos another. Matchbox cars initiated a race, tooting their joyous revival—the race pre-emptively ended (after not even a metre of coverage). Bouncy-balls jumped and were halted once they reached the other side of the attic—silence was reintroduced. A smile revealed itself on Marcus, as he admired the journey of his younger years.

“Hey!” a voice cried. Marcus looked around and then back at the papers on the floor.

“I’m on the floor. I’m under a tree-house drawing and some writing. Dear diary, I saw Lucinda today—” The voice was cut off, as Marcus hurriedly scrounged through the mess of papers.

“You found me!” the poor drawing of a soldier in a straw hat said. Marcus grabbed the page and stood up with it. He turned around and held it out in the sunlight. The drawing depicted snow-capped mountains and scattered trees.

“Ahhh, yes, please keep me in the sun. I haven’t felt its true shine in a long time,” the soldier relaxedly said. Marcus watched as the soldier waltzed around the bottom of the page, and set up a spot where he could lie down. The soldier looked back after he had lain down and put his arms behind his head.

“You don’t remember me, do you? I am an amalgamation of your original imaginary friend.”

*

Marcus took the piece of paper down into the living room. He put the paper on a clipboard and leaned it against a bottle. Marcus sat on the couch facing the soldier. He began adjusting the cushion behind him and looked back.

“Comfortable?” the soldier asked playfully.

“Who are you?”

“I am Saint Lieutenant Loggs. I don a straw hat, and I am one good soldier!” Loggs smiled and bowed his hat toward Marcus. Marcus’s face was bland and he nodded, acknowledging what the little drawn soldier said.

“We used to play hide-and-seek together. We used to dream of the future—you had, I had (maybe),” Loggs added. Marcus huffed and murmured to himself. The living room’s lights dwindled dimly above.

“I still don’t remember. I’m sorry.” Marcus motioned to grab the clipboard.

“Wait!” Loggs spat out. “How about you make two cups of tea. I know something that will remind you. Pronto, pronto, good sir!”

“O-kay…” Marcus withdrew his hand and sat up. While Marcus went to the kitchen to get the drinks ready, Loggs ran from the bottom of the page all the way toward the top to get to the mountains. He climbed over and was gone from the page completely. Marcus entered the living room minutes later, sat down, and placed two cups to the side of where the page was. He analysed the page and couldn’t see the soldier anywhere.

“Loggs?” Marcus squeaked out, his eyes ran over the page many times.

“Just a moment, please!” a voice thundered out. A diminutive figure in the distance got closer, and it was Loggs, running toward the bottom of the page.

“The drinks?” Loggs asked.

“Yea, right there,” Marcus signalled.

“Beautiful work, chap.” A scarred hand appeared, and broke through the left side of the page taking the cups.  It happened quickly and Marcus’s face went cold.

“Okay, now you,” Loggs jeered. The same hand reached out, grabbed Marcus’s hand and face-to-face, Marcus was with the soldier. He was depicted like a real person, like Marcus, but drawn with pencil. Everything in the world was drawn with pencil. It looked better in the world than observing from beyond the page. The eyes of the soldier were intricately detailed with blood vessels faintly seen. The straw hat was amazingly tall. Pieces of straw stuck out more than others and it happily drifted in the wind when it said hello.

“Your hat, it’s like Van Gogh’s,” Marcus uttered.

“I am a fan, but I like to think he borrowed it from me. Now, follow!” Loggs swiftly set off toward the mountains with the two cups in hand.

“I live beyond the ranges here.” The two clambered up the mountain, Loggs dealing with the drinks and ascending. Some tea sprinkled out as Loggs climbed above Marcus.

“My bad. May need a refill when we get to mine.”

Once they reached the top, they trudged through the snow. Marcus stopped behind Loggs and admired the view. He saw a cabin, farm animals, and a forest further beyond.

“How does it all exist?”

“You made it—you and Tyler did,” Loggs said. The two began the descent, quiet for most of it. Marcus arrived at the front door of the house and opened it. Loggs walked in and handed him his cup of tea.

“Make yourself at home.” Loggs went into the small living room where the fire grumbled. Marcus followed, noticing the picture frames on the mantlepiece above the fireplace. It was Marcus as a boy; some were with his friends and family.

“I haven’t seen these pictures in a while.”

“Now that’s an understatement,” Loggs laughed. He sat down in an armchair and enjoyed his tea. He held it close after a sip and watched Marcus slowly go around the wonderfully decorated room, breathing every last bit of it in. It was full of smiles, memories, and vibrant colours.

“Oh Milly,” Marcus whispered as he stared at a picture of himself around the age of nine, hugging his dog; eternally placed together.

“I really like that picture. You didn’t speak to me for a while, when I said no to Milly coming with us.” Loggs gulped the last of his tea and placed the cup down. He got up, stretched, walked over to Marcus, and admired the framing of life.

“All this,” Loggs motioned, “makes my wounded heart roar.” The crackling fire soothed the room with its ambience and warmth. Marcus held his cup with two hands, scanning every framed picture that filled every centimetre of the wall. There seemed to be no picture of himself after the age of fourteen.

“I wondered so often what you would look like after this picture. The latest and last in the collection,” Loggs pointed to a picture of a group of boys at a table; Marcus sat at the head of the table, his face consumed by a grin.

“I imagined frequently of what you would look like. The image that stuck, was that you would always look like that boy there—rosy cheeks, ignorance in your brow, smiling, laughing, curious about the world. Now, you have poor facial hair, lines ingrained on your forehead, and you seem to have the temperament of a mature man.” Marcus feigned a smile and took a sip of his tea—it was lukewarm.

“After that picture, I felt behind, I felt like I was drowning, slowly, every day. My mind lied dormant.” Marcus said, as turned around to face Loggs. Loggs launched into him, embracing his presence.

“I missed you, Marcus,” Loggs said, his face buried in Marcus’s shoulder. “I missed our fun, our adventures, our time. Why did you ever leave?” Sobs were announced from the soldier, whose size seemed to shrink as Marcus patted his back. After a few minutes, Loggs stepped back and bowed. He took his hat off and put it forth, then he placed it back. Marcus’s heart melted and seized during the hug. Loggs wiped his face, the tears disappeared, and he smiled—nodding with haste.

“May I interest you in biscuits?” Loggs asked.

“Could I please have a refill of my tea.” Marcus smiled weakly. Loggs took his cup, the other cup, and exited the room. Marcus’s eyes moved from picture to picture, his attention lasting mere seconds on each one. His brow was damp and his breathing sporadic. He felt unsure. He looked out the window and saw the sun going away. He walked back to the front door and turned around to see the kitchen, the kettle on the stove began to boil. He opened the door slowly and as the kettle pierced the surrounding area, Marcus bolted from the house, his hands flat and straight as they went back and forth; creating a rhythm. His mind was empty, his thoughts stayed back in the room, his heart violent, with a stung ego. Marcus ascended and descended the mountain and ran back to originally where he had been pulled in from. The sun was setting in the illustrated world over the sea. Even though the world was black and white—at least the sun held its jovial warmth as it said goodbye. Marcus collapsed in the field near a tree and wept—overtaken. Scratching at his heart and the intrusion in his mind was a room of grief. As he lied there, he took the appearance of a fourteen-year-old boy again.

“Are you okay?” a higher-pitched voice asked. Marcus went still and cleaned his face with his grubby hands. He sat up and saw a boy approaching him.

“What happened?” the boy asked.

“It was too much,” Marcus replied.

“Why don’t you play this time?” the boy hit back with a smile that scratched.

“No, go away!” Marcus stood up, eye to eye, and pushed the boy.

“Marcus, don’t do this. You can stay here. I did.” The boy held his arm by his side, after recovering.

“I wanted to grow up, Tyler.”

“Just stay for one last play. Please it would mean the world to us.” The voice fought its way into Marcus and repeated longingly. The boy walked backwards, moving away slowly and staring mournfully at young Marcus.

Marcus stared at the wall in his old room as he lay in bed, blankets consuming him. Sequences of scenes plagued him—the soldier, the illustrated world, the pictures. He turned onto his other side and faced the ajar door, where bits of light were welcomed in. He watched the light for tens-of-minutes, his eyes wide, not an ounce of sleep approached. Marcus blinked one eye closed and then swapped, repeating it numerous times. Bubbles of thoughts came and went. He imagined scenes of him, Tyler, and Loggs, playing outside in the snow. He remembered the times of eternal laughter, indefinite ignorance and sweet presence. When the time had come, Marcus moved on, Tyler couldn’t, and Loggs was forever saturated on pages and in stories. Opposite the bed was a table where a T.V. could be. Instead a straw hat sat, two tea cups, and a picture of two boys with a beagle; their arms wrapped around the happy dog. A note had been inserted in the corner of the frame: “of course, someone had to take the picture.” 

Marcus never minded his parents’ house again.

Written by H.R. Green

Hilel is an aspiring writer, who cannot get enough of storytelling. In the everyday he tries to consume himself in worlds that exist on paper and in his mind. Stories seem to be one rational topic in this insane world.