Drawings

By Paul Wat

Red stung my eyes as the sun shone in my eyes. “Go away,” I mumbled. Turning over, I suddenly felt no support under me as I toppled down onto the ground. Rubbing my forehead, I groaned. After a while, I finally got to my feet. Leaving my soft blankets behind, I stumbled to the base of the stairs, hanging on to the railing. “Another summer day,” I thought. I tugged on the handle to open the old wooden drawer and grabbed some cereal out of the cupboard. Ripping open the refrigerator, I took out a full unopened carton of milk. My hands fumbled with the lid clumsily, and I gave up, eating the cereal plain. Too lazy to clean my bowls, I sank into the nearby couch and let myself sink into the cushions. I squinted into the bright sunlight on my right and sighed. “Another boring summer day,” I thought.

Grumpy and still tired, I staggered down the stairs, and stared at the wall. I saw one of my childhood drawings of aliens and flying saucers. Smirking, I jeered at my childish drawings.

A sudden light bulb flashed in my head, lighting up the room. Leaping to my feet, I abandoned sleepyness, and slammed boredom into a closet. Paper and books flew, accompanied by abandoned action figures. Finally, deep in the void of the past, I reached for the old rusted metal box, cool to the touch, and freezing to my eyes. I carefully lopped off the lid to reveal markers of green, blue and red; pencils of yellow, orange, and purple, and pastels of pink, turquoise, and indigo.

In the evening, I sat back and admired my work. Monsters, animals and robots now roamed the wall. Then I thought, “Maybe summer isn’t that bad after all.”