Written because I found all my old toys under the bed and had a memory rush. Starting off with Artemis and his son, Alexander from my fanfiction, Alexander the Great. This has nothing to do with the chapter fic, ATG. I will probably write more of these, using other characters, but with a similar idea. R&R please!
Alexander Fowl is not a messy boy, but around him, scattered to me, are about ten soft toys, laying limp on their sides or flat on their stomachs, legs sprawled. But to him, it’s an adventure, a quest. His pale blue walls become the bright sky, and the soft brown carpet transforms into the squelching mud beneath their feet. It’s all nonsense to me.
He crawls over to his bed and pulls out a shoebox. Taking the lid off, he fixes it to the side at a right angle then places a toy dog, a rottweiler puppy, inside.
‘I’ll just be a minute,’ he tells the dog, and scampers over to his chest of drawers to take a packet of tissues from it. He hurries back to the scene and takes out a tissue, tucking two corners into the dog’s collar. A cape.
He takes another toy, a creamy coloured lamb, and removes his watch to fasten it around the animal’s neck. He tucks another tissue into the strap, then sits it in the shoebox with the dog.
And the shoebox becomes a boat and the dog and the lamb are great explorers, discovering far off lands and the various other animals are dolphins, tigers, lions, imaginary monsters, whatever the fabric and stitching on them may tell me otherwise. He pulls another shoebox from under his bed. Samantha’s old Barbie dolls, toughened up, tribal symbols scrawled onto their faces with marker pens, all evidence of frilly clothes removed. They are the enemy. The newly nationalised French dolls are striking battle with the noble lamb and dog. They found the island first, but their boat has sank on the other shore, leaving them stranded. There is war. His narration brings the scene alive. Sloppy accents, bangs and blasts, war cries and weeping for his casualties of war.
They make peace, and sail back to Ireland, where a funeral is held for the losses. Buried in the shoebox, underneath the bed.
Where my childhood went, and never came back.