Author Games: Circle

Task Two | 11-20 Entries

11 // CAMDEN FISHER

Freesia laxa; the flowering freesia symbolizes trust and perseverance.

*

The small white cottage was the color of curdled cream, but it was comfortable all the same. Ivy had already crept up the trellises and claimed it's spot near the windows, while blossoming flowers brimmed around the front door and back gardens. Bumblebees gently hummed from one bloom to another, collecting pollen and fertilizing the plants.

The small boy was the color of a white rose, and he had managed to situate himself on the one small bench in the garden. It's stone was crumbling apart - had been for the past couple of decades - but the scholarly boy didn't seem to notice. If he did notice, he didn't mind.

His eyes blinked behind spectacles, though his gaze was fixated far beyond the nimble cat lolling at his feet. A notepad was open on his lap, mindless scribbling adorning the paper. The pencil that had adorned it was still in his hand, though it's eraser was being rigorously gnawed between the boy's front teeth.

"That's bad for your teeth, you know."

"It's only bad if you chew on the metal bit?" The sentence was framed as more of a question than a retaliation, but the boy still did not look over.

"On any of it. What have you observed today, my boy?"

"Lots of stuff. But Friday keeps distracting me."

The cat, who had been diligently pawing at the young boy's shoelaces, guiltily met the older man's gaze.

The man clucked his tongue at the animal, and pointed towards the door. "Friday. In, you blasted creature! We keep you around for the mice, not our clothing."

"He's okay."

"I know, I was teasing." Friday slunk back inside all the same, seeming quite disappointed at this turn of events.

Once the feline had dragged himself all the way inside, the man shut the door and seated himself beside the scholar on the bench. "What are you writing?"

"Just stuff."

"Can I see?"

"I guess."

The man frowned as the notepad was passed over. The script of any six year-old is not easily-read, and this young boy's hand was no better. Perhaps, the man had thought fondly, it was even worse.

"On second thought, how about you read it to me. You like reading, don't you?"

"Yes." The young boy began to read aloud the words he'd written, his eyes never leaving the page. On a couple of occasions, he turned the page or flipped the book upside down or sideways or some other direction that had not seemed possible moments before.

The man listened.

When the boy was quite finished, he smiled amiably. "That's very interesting, isn't it? Do you know why the bees are most attracted to the snapdragons and larkspur?"

"Because of the hidden nectar."

"Right you are, my boy. Have I ever told you how smart you are?"

"Yes, Grandpa. Lots of times."

"Well, I'll say it again: You're a very smart boy, Camden. I'm proud of you."

Camden didn't smile, or acknowledge the comment, instead looking out at the asters and the zinnias.

His grandfather sighed, burdened by the boy's own troubles without having to hear them. He asked anyways. "Is something wrong? You're unusually quiet today."