The Lost Things

The short tale of the Lost Things that yet lives on.

Lost things are often left trodden underfoot. Through our ignorance, the ones that once belonged grow only more aware of their peril- the slow evanescence of their existence.
    Tell me, what good is a story if it cannot be heard? What good will disappearing do amongst those that have never seen you? In utter truth, there are legends written and breathing amidst us all, and they grow by the day. They grow with each minute, each thought, and one lives within us all- never to be published, always to be lost.
    Such things as stories often dwell among the lost things, the mental equivalent of a treasure among the blankets of mold and dust upon the attic floor. We all wish for our stories to be remembered or cherished, but this is often only accomplished by our children before it is once again stuffed into the attic. We don't wish for it to happen, but it must- room is needed for all the newly awakened stories being writtten below, and so, we are cast out.
    Tell me, if a book isn't read, does it still come to life? Does a story dare breathe on its own, without pen nor author to guide it? Can it live happily in the attic, rolling and reveling in its own hidden gem?

       This is the story of the Lost Things.


                          Boy

     Truly the most lost among us all is a simple human boy, abandoned for a crime he never meant to commit- his own birth. Once, he used to live among his own kind, but left in favor of the world beyond the dirty window panes. Left with nothing, he wanders through street and river alike, seeking nothing but happiness for his own.

                     Clover

       A four leaf clover, a true hidden gem amidst the rest of the surrounding grass and leaves, all reaching for the sky. "I am the tallest," the little clover seems to boast, although it can never seem to be seen or found. A sea of green reaching for the immaterial sea of blue- one little drop to ride above the rest. One day, it will be plucked from the sea easefully to be passed on from grandfather to child.
    
                          Ring

     There once was a time where the ring used to gleam upon her fourth finger speaking of the love of another. Now, it sits in the dusty corner, only bringing sharp jabs of broken shards of memories. His smile, his look as soon as she dared say yes, the way he had so often laughed when all felt on the verge of ending. Him.
     Found then torn away- she tentatively picks up the ring she had once cast off, newly shining as if it contains every star in the sky.

                      Marble

      There sits a piece of my old collection, one of the most beautiful things I had once believed to have ever seen- a bag of marbles with colors alight. There, there sits a shard of something once easily surrendered, but now something we long for- so dear. We reach and we turn the old, faded marble in hand and wonder, "Is this the key to yesterday?"


    There lives a story amongst everything, and so they will continue to live on. All stories will one day be forgotten among the Lost Things, but they continue to breathe and change. This isn't the end of the Boy or the Clover or anything for that matter- its just a small, almost invisible, piece. Tiny shards of our stories lie everywhere for anyone to pick up and wonder- and so, we are vulnerable yet rescued from being trampled to dust.

Reviews

[Jetta Zippora]

Wow. Breathtaking, friend. Every word just flows and it is a beautiful, beautiful story. I'm excited to read more of your work. Lovely write.

[corvus]

This was absolutely amazing - perfect concept and great execution. I really enjoyed it. I loved the way you began the story, and ended it to. I can't find a single fault in it. Well done.