I'm still working on my novel but it has been pretty slow going so to prevent myself from becoming rusty, I figured I might just write a short story. So since I'm feeling a tad poetic, here is something that just came to my mind. Forgive me if there is errors, I'm literally just writing this as I go along.

So, without further ado, here it is!

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Beautiful Tragedies


Yellow confetti. Let me just start off by saying that whoever invented the system of mass producing confetti shooters needs to be shot.

Especially yellow confetti. It was that time of year, Christmas, and the house was practically buzzing with activity.

Tiny, slobbery, and sugar induced munchkins were rocketing throughout the household, each one of them enchanted by their gifts.

Confetti was rocketing throughout the household as each toddler shot off his confetti gun immediately after it was taken out of the stockings and I could see the invisible beads of sweat form on my wife's face as she watched her previously elegant and clean house getting slowly conquered by the sugar & confetti maelstrom of Christmas spirit.

She emanated an ancient type of beauty, one that was not easily overcome by age and she looked lovelier than ever with her olive eyes and ebony hair that managed to retain its elegant color.

Time left small creases of smiling and laughter on her face but this merely seemed to compliment her slender and gracious figure. Her nose was a small cute little thing and was accompanied by a small curt little mouth that seemed to be constantly illuminated with joy and wit.

Her mouth was currently formed in a small twitch of annoyance, but in a rather motherly way which shone that even though our children were tearing up a carefully ordered household, some things could pass.

Jack, the youngest of the children, was a shy boy and was not brave enough to join the others in their hyperactivity as he sat alone at the other end of the living room. With a personality that was much wise for his age, he smiled softly as he gently opened each of his presents individually. Even when he opened the hand stitched sweater that his grandma sowed for him, instead of merely throwing it to the side like much boys his age would of easily done, he saw the true value of the gift and carefully folded it beside him with the care of a surgeon.

John and Jill, the two small twins were the main havoc cause as they skittered and skipped all throughout the house with speed that Mercury, the light footed messenger of the Gods, would have admired. Shooting their confetti shooters, they rocketed throughout the house as they bounded from one side to the house to the other and then back. Their childish grins lit up the house with an unmistakable pure innocence and happiness and they often frustrated Jack as they mistakenly kicked his carefully folded sweater.

And then there was Jacob, the middle child. Not much older than Jack yet younger than John and Jill, he traversed the Amazon Rainforest, trekkedthe Sahara Desert, and then sailed across the Pacific Ocean on a daily basis. Jacob had a limitless imagination as as he played with his imaginary friend, Blinky, I could sense that to him, Blinky was as real of a friend as you and me.

There was not a single hint of loneliness in his face and he laughed as Blinky told jokes and then proceeded to tell Blinky jokes. Slowly wheeling his wheelchair, being careful with his weak legs, he showed no sign of bitterness or anything of the sort. He merely just didn't have it in his little heart. Laughing as Blinky told another apparently funny joke, I felt a small tear well up in my eye. Wiping it away before the children noticed, my wife merely nudged me so I knew we both felt the same.

As the snow slowly piled outside of our cozy cottage, soon I began tucking in the children.

Jack always enjoyed historical stories before he went to bed, thus I took him to a tour of Rome in its Golden Age, all the way through its beautiful roads lined with happy shopkeepers to the bloody yet glorious Coliseums that towered over the cities like monuments built by the Gods themselves. I told him about Julius Caesar and all the mysterious charms and mysteries Rome held back then.

John and Jill, being the older children, were in the phase were they liked to show their age by tucking themselves before they go to sleep with a childlike triumph beaming from their faces whenever they went to bed by themselves.

And then there was Jacob. Jacob was a peculiar child because instead of me telling him stories, he told me stories before he went to bed.

He would enlighten me on how him and Blinky single-handedly fought off a Space Gorilla Martian as they pioneered across the Space Frontier. I would hear of the dry heat that would bake the bones in the Wild West as he and Blinky rolled into the local Tavern for some hard liquor. But then they would discover that Outlaw Ozz was in town and it would end up into a legendary gunfight as Blinky and the Outlaw squared off in a test of deadly marksmanship.

Today's story was about his conquests throughout the untamed forests of Colonial America and how he and Blinky fought the savage Indians, pioneering the American movement. At the end of the story, however, he asked me a question he never asked before.

With glazed eyes from fatigue and with a sleepy yawn, he managed to stay conscious long enough to ask me one thing.

"How come you never have had imaginary friends dad?"

With a beaming smile and a chuckle, I responded "I've used to have a lot of imaginary friends actually."

"A lot..."



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This now marks Day 183 of the psychological treatment of Mr. Stong. I don't even know if we are getting through to him. All he has been doing is just gazing into that snow globe ever since the fire. I don't think he will ever be able to fully psychological recover from the death of his wife and three children. We might just have to name him a hopeless case. But perhaps what will haunt me forever is that he seems happy. He laughs, he smiles, and he seems thoroughly satisfied lost in his imaginary world. Are we wrong to try to separate him from his bliss? After all, who are we to tell him that this living hell is reality and that his snow globe is imaginary. What is wrong with letting him dream? In a way, it is a beautiful tragedy.

He may never regain his sanity but at least he will be happy.

At least he will be happy.

Case Report Closed~