A Child and His Toys

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Status: In Progress  |  Genre: Horror  |  House: Booksie Classic
A story of a young boy playing with his toys. The story builds as the child continues to play with the same toys throughout his life.

Submitted: February 03, 2017

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Submitted: February 03, 2017



A child sits on the floor of his parents’ room playing with his toys. He is maybe six or seven years old, it doesn’t matter much. The toys are what one might typically expect a boy this age to be playing with. There are building blocks and army men. Action figures; each with their own little imperfections which make them so perfect, a missing hand here, a medal broken in half but still attached there. The child has his favorites, and they often win the war.

It’s a great game; it can often last for hours. The child might start the war from some mundane excuse that any normal child would; an action figure might walk into the territory of the army men, or a dinosaur might eat a Lego minifigure’s parents. Then it begins, the slaughter, the carnage, the massacres, and the surprise attacks. By the end of the game only one or two figures remain, usually the favorites.

The spectators are enjoying he scene. The mother suggests that perhaps it is all a bit violent, and they should talk to their son about why there doesn’t have to be a war. The father might say that all boys at their son’s age enjoy war, that it is all perfectly natural. The father gleams that perhaps his son will become a great strategist some day, that perhaps he will have a terrific mind for chess, and thus for business.

To the child it is all the same, he simply enjoys the game. Something inexplicable to anyone except a child is happening when he sits down to play; sometimes he even has a friend or two over to make the war more spectacular.

The boy is now nine or ten. He enjoys basketball and hockey, and he is quite good at them. He has a strong group of friends; they talk too much in class for their teachers’ taste. Everything about the child is perfectly normal. When he is home on the weekends, or sometimes on weeknights he will still go upstairs to play with his toys. The thrill of sitting on the floor and taking control has not diminished. For some reason though he does not invite his friends to play this game anymore, perhaps he believes that they will not find it “cool” enough. It doesn’t matter, the boy enjoys the game and he wouldn’t miss out on sitting down to it. The parents don’t watch this playing much anymore. They know that their son likes to play games still. They don’t seem to know too much about what the scenarios for the toys are anymore, they don’t still pay attention to those details.

At age sixteen the boy gets his license. He tries to impress girls, and he doesn’t stay indoors on the weekends anymore. The days are filled with such important things to teenagers that other generations always mock them and tease them about. It is an exciting time to be alive to the boy. With all the new excitement and stresses that sixteen comes with it is nice that the boy cans till find a time to sit down and play with his old toys. There is something comforting in it. The scenarios are still mostly the same, though maybe a bit more creative: The action figures are making a political treaty, to end all suffering, when the dinosaurs prove to be traitors. Again the massacres of old begin. The boy still has his favorites; they are still the ones usually standing at the end. This is all kept a secret from the outside world; no girl would want to hear about it. The parents know their son still plays with toys. The father doesn’t find it very amusing anymore; he doesn’t think his son will become a businessman though. The parents simply let their son do what he wants, there isn’t any harm in it; his son just doesn’t want to grow up.

The man is arrested at age forty-two; the crime is murder. No one can seem to come up with a reason he did it. He does not have a violent past, he volunteers at the community center once every other week, and he has a wife and children of his own. Very little reason can be given. The police search his home for any weapons, motives, or other useful evidence. They can’t seem to find much. No police officer makes a note of the toys on the floor in the bedroom; they figure the toys belong to his five-year-old boy. They don’t recognize that the toys are old and worn down, that some of the figures are filled with tiny imperfections that make them absolutely perfect. Why would it matter whose toys they were anyway? Toys are just used for playing.

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