Ayame
Weeping Willow Pines.
A one shot detailing an interesting idea I thought up, along with a terrible excuse for a plot, with deus ex machina for side dishes galore.
I am going to revise it; I wrote it for school just today, because I liked the idea of a nice dummy, instead of the usual homicidal, power-crazed, or just plain creepy ones in fiction.
The ending also does not make sense and refuses to be changed. Oh well.
The man limped down the sidewalk, the dummy limply under his arm as it always was, trailing a grocery bag that was about to burst. He hobbled into his house, a large old place, and settled in front of the fireplace on a comfortable chair.
“Nice weather we’re having, eh,” he commented drowsily to his dummy, a remnant from his days in ventriloquism.
“Why yes,” the dummy responded in its slightly shrill voice, delighted by the good weather. “It’s pleasant, for autumn.” The dummy had always been eager-to-please and amiable in his performing days, and he still held his childlike glee.
Yet people disliked the man and his old house, muttering that he was cranky and somehow sinister. Especially the dummy, as if the dummy compelled him to sometimes shout at children or be bad-natured. They hated and feared the dummy most of all, despite his innocence. But the man, though he acted gruff and grumpy, was a kind fellow who really was lonely. The mailman, for example, had suggested that he get a kitten, but the man just laughed and told him that the dummy was allergic to cats. And so it was.
The man poured the dummy a cup of tea absently, thinking of the good weather. It would be nice to have a picnic out on the lawn, though it was a very early morning, in the front yard, where birds were putting on musical productions, leaves were doing acrobatics trying to jump off trees, and the sun was smiling good-naturedly down on it all. It was a glorious morning, so he lugged out a table and a faded tablecloth, along with chairs, and scolded the dummy for not helping.
“You’ve got to pitch in more,” he groaned as he positioned the table. The dummy just smiled agreeably.
The man lumbered into his house to fetch some bagels and jam, but halfway there forgot what he was coming in for and stood, bewildered, in the kitchen for a good minute until he remembered.
He then got the items, strode out into the front yard, and set them down on the table. Then he realized that something was wrong.
The dummy was missing! He had been stolen, the man knew. He, with effort, looked under the table. He searched the yard, checking under every pile of leaves and in every single patch of grass, worried for the dummy.
“He’s never wandered off like this before,” the man commented worriedly, and decided to call the police.
Unfortunately, the policeman thought he was crazy. The man’s inconsistent claims of the dummy having been stolen, and how he “wasn’t one to wander off” alarmed the police officer, so he decided that he really should come to the man’s house, because he was obviously a bit delusional. So the police officer humored him a bit and arrived.
It was clear to the police officer from the man’s ramblings that he actually quite probably had been stolen as a prank. It was the sort of thing that the boys in the neighborhood might do, the sort of prank the police officer knew quite well. Since it was a beloved dummy, and technically stolen, there was a report.
The man searched frantically, but there was no sign of his friend. Everyone in town thought he was certainly mad, and even thought that the dummy had walked off by itself and was now on a reign of absolute terror. Four days and nights passed, with the town a bit apprehensive and the man impatient and distraught. Every morning the paper boy was far too nervous to come to his door, and meekly dropped the paper on the lawn and sped away. On the fourth morning he didn’t show up at all. No one could blame him, even his boss, who gave him a break, even though he was the laziest boy in the neighborhood, and people often complained about his late deliveries.
On the fifth day, the police were hardly closer to finding the dummy. It was a puzzling case, and people were taking bets on what had happened.
None of them were right.
The man spent his hours alternatively searching and spending time staring into cages of cats at the animal shelter. He felt like a traitor.
Billy Ashworth felt guilty. After all, he had stolen the dummy in the first place, as a prank. But now the police were looking for him, and his own father was taking bets on who stole Mr. Mifflin’s precious dummy. It was shame, of course, worse than his mother badgering him about his tardiness, worse than failing a spelling test. And when Billy Ashworth was forced to ride to Mr. Mifflin’s house each day, hands white against the handlebars, and deliver the paper, he nearly burst. He had to do something about it. It was only a prank he had played, not some huge crime. And Mr. Mifflin was less happy than he had been when he lugged the dummy around.
The dummy really scared Billy, with its blank staring eyes and knowing smile. He had to get rid of it, so he devised a plan. He would ride up to Mr. Mifflin’s house on his paper route, put the dummy back where he had taken it from, and drive away. No one would ever know; he would be just another boy out on his paper route, smilingly delivering papers. He’d hide the dummy in a crumpled-up sweater along the way. To Billy, it was the ideal plan.
The next morning, Billy surprised his mother by being on time. He hurried out the door, got on his bike, and arrived at the ancient house, noting that Mr. Mifflin’s car was gone. Perfect! He quietly slipped into his yard, where the table from the earlier tea party still stood. He was leaning down to leave the creepy dummy in his chair when he heard a car door shut. Billy gasped and whirled around to face Mr. Mifflin, holding a cat carrier. They both gaped. Then Mr. Mifflin hobbled forward, very, very slowly. He looked Billy right in the eye as he took each step.
“Get off my lawn,” he growled, and pointed. Billy nearly jumped, then ran, only too eager to obey. He hastily pedaled away, horrified.
The man smiled, looking down to the dummy, still holding the cat carrier. Then he walked inside happily, carrying both the carrier and the dummy. He had known that the dummy wasn’t the type to run off.
I am going to revise it; I wrote it for school just today, because I liked the idea of a nice dummy, instead of the usual homicidal, power-crazed, or just plain creepy ones in fiction.
The ending also does not make sense and refuses to be changed. Oh well.
The man limped down the sidewalk, the dummy limply under his arm as it always was, trailing a grocery bag that was about to burst. He hobbled into his house, a large old place, and settled in front of the fireplace on a comfortable chair.
“Nice weather we’re having, eh,” he commented drowsily to his dummy, a remnant from his days in ventriloquism.
“Why yes,” the dummy responded in its slightly shrill voice, delighted by the good weather. “It’s pleasant, for autumn.” The dummy had always been eager-to-please and amiable in his performing days, and he still held his childlike glee.
Yet people disliked the man and his old house, muttering that he was cranky and somehow sinister. Especially the dummy, as if the dummy compelled him to sometimes shout at children or be bad-natured. They hated and feared the dummy most of all, despite his innocence. But the man, though he acted gruff and grumpy, was a kind fellow who really was lonely. The mailman, for example, had suggested that he get a kitten, but the man just laughed and told him that the dummy was allergic to cats. And so it was.
The man poured the dummy a cup of tea absently, thinking of the good weather. It would be nice to have a picnic out on the lawn, though it was a very early morning, in the front yard, where birds were putting on musical productions, leaves were doing acrobatics trying to jump off trees, and the sun was smiling good-naturedly down on it all. It was a glorious morning, so he lugged out a table and a faded tablecloth, along with chairs, and scolded the dummy for not helping.
“You’ve got to pitch in more,” he groaned as he positioned the table. The dummy just smiled agreeably.
The man lumbered into his house to fetch some bagels and jam, but halfway there forgot what he was coming in for and stood, bewildered, in the kitchen for a good minute until he remembered.
He then got the items, strode out into the front yard, and set them down on the table. Then he realized that something was wrong.
The dummy was missing! He had been stolen, the man knew. He, with effort, looked under the table. He searched the yard, checking under every pile of leaves and in every single patch of grass, worried for the dummy.
“He’s never wandered off like this before,” the man commented worriedly, and decided to call the police.
Unfortunately, the policeman thought he was crazy. The man’s inconsistent claims of the dummy having been stolen, and how he “wasn’t one to wander off” alarmed the police officer, so he decided that he really should come to the man’s house, because he was obviously a bit delusional. So the police officer humored him a bit and arrived.
It was clear to the police officer from the man’s ramblings that he actually quite probably had been stolen as a prank. It was the sort of thing that the boys in the neighborhood might do, the sort of prank the police officer knew quite well. Since it was a beloved dummy, and technically stolen, there was a report.
The man searched frantically, but there was no sign of his friend. Everyone in town thought he was certainly mad, and even thought that the dummy had walked off by itself and was now on a reign of absolute terror. Four days and nights passed, with the town a bit apprehensive and the man impatient and distraught. Every morning the paper boy was far too nervous to come to his door, and meekly dropped the paper on the lawn and sped away. On the fourth morning he didn’t show up at all. No one could blame him, even his boss, who gave him a break, even though he was the laziest boy in the neighborhood, and people often complained about his late deliveries.
On the fifth day, the police were hardly closer to finding the dummy. It was a puzzling case, and people were taking bets on what had happened.
None of them were right.
The man spent his hours alternatively searching and spending time staring into cages of cats at the animal shelter. He felt like a traitor.
Billy Ashworth felt guilty. After all, he had stolen the dummy in the first place, as a prank. But now the police were looking for him, and his own father was taking bets on who stole Mr. Mifflin’s precious dummy. It was shame, of course, worse than his mother badgering him about his tardiness, worse than failing a spelling test. And when Billy Ashworth was forced to ride to Mr. Mifflin’s house each day, hands white against the handlebars, and deliver the paper, he nearly burst. He had to do something about it. It was only a prank he had played, not some huge crime. And Mr. Mifflin was less happy than he had been when he lugged the dummy around.
The dummy really scared Billy, with its blank staring eyes and knowing smile. He had to get rid of it, so he devised a plan. He would ride up to Mr. Mifflin’s house on his paper route, put the dummy back where he had taken it from, and drive away. No one would ever know; he would be just another boy out on his paper route, smilingly delivering papers. He’d hide the dummy in a crumpled-up sweater along the way. To Billy, it was the ideal plan.
The next morning, Billy surprised his mother by being on time. He hurried out the door, got on his bike, and arrived at the ancient house, noting that Mr. Mifflin’s car was gone. Perfect! He quietly slipped into his yard, where the table from the earlier tea party still stood. He was leaning down to leave the creepy dummy in his chair when he heard a car door shut. Billy gasped and whirled around to face Mr. Mifflin, holding a cat carrier. They both gaped. Then Mr. Mifflin hobbled forward, very, very slowly. He looked Billy right in the eye as he took each step.
“Get off my lawn,” he growled, and pointed. Billy nearly jumped, then ran, only too eager to obey. He hastily pedaled away, horrified.
The man smiled, looking down to the dummy, still holding the cat carrier. Then he walked inside happily, carrying both the carrier and the dummy. He had known that the dummy wasn’t the type to run off.
