The Little Ones

Odd short story about a lonely man who spends his time making dolls, and the strange things they begin to do.

Sydney Carton stepped out of the taxi, and was instantly soaked to the bone. The weather in Greyscal had always been random, and was rarely the kind that inspired optimism or good-will, but in this moment, it was truly Hell. The clouds, which stretched farther than the eye could see in all directions, were as black as the loneliest night, and the rain they brought forth could force Niagara Falls to bow its head in shame. These were the days Sydney lived for.

 

He wasn’t like most men. His Earth did not revolve around the sun; the moon held no sway on his tides. He didn’t have friends, or lovers, or family. In his story there were no heroes, and no evil nemesis.  There were no coworkers, no bosses, no peons to push or be pushed by, only the figurines he fashioned from clay. They looked exactly like colorful shadows that lived around him, the Strangers, as he called them. In his mind they had careers, dreams, fears, but most importantly, deep, personal relationships with each other. He would talk to them sometimes, but of course, they could never talk back. They couldn’t even move. Normally.

 

Every once in a while, a day like this would come. A day when the men and women comfort themselves by their heaters, when cats and dogs huddle among each other for even a hope at warmth, when even the fish kept indoors would hide from the rain. Light would disappear, and at noon the streetlamps would be on as though the sun didn’t even exist. These were the days Sydney gathered all his figurines in a bag, and walked to the river’s edge. He would set them up in a perfect circle, all facing inward at each other, arranged according to their “personalities”. A man was always placed to the left of his lover, and she across  the way from her best friend, and so on. None of them were ever enemies. After setting them up precisely, he would curl up beneath a dead willow tree that had once grown along the waterfront, but had not yet fallen. He would sit there, and stare at them, sometimes for hours, as long as it would take.

 

Eventually, all at once as though some invisible man in the sky had un-paused reality, they would begin to move. It started with their hands, always. What had originally been mediocre clumps of clay at the ends of their wrists would separate themselves, and gain their own tiny, unique distinctions. More than once, he had even seen wedding rings form on their fingers. This miracle would spread from their hands up their arms, eventually moving through their entire form, bringing them to life before Sydney’s eyes. They walked around, and despite an inability to speak, they appeared to interact quite effectively, and exactly as he had thought the would in his mind. Lover with lover, friend with friend. 

 

For a long time he had never tried to approach any of his creations, his Little Ones, as he began to call them. He maintained his distance beneath the tree for fear he would frighten them, as he knew nothing could upset him as much as being rejected by the things he loved so much. One day, however, he outgrew his fear, and went to make himself known to them, hoping perhaps they would recognize him as some sort of creator, or parent, a thing to be loved. It was to Sydney’s deep dismay that this was not the case. In fact, he quickly realized the Little Ones could not even perceive his existence, let alone thank him for theirs. He was heartbroken at this, but he never stopped making them. They were all he had. They were much too important.

 

After some time of the Little Ones playing together, the rain would begin to lessen, and light would slowly return to the sky. They all noticed this, clearly, because it signaled their departure from Sydney’s life. It always happened the same way. They would stop whatever they were doing abruptly and look up together, though Sydney was unsure if they could truly see. Then, in the pair he had given them, lover with lover, they would turn, and walk down the river with the water flow. 

 

It always broke Sydney’s heart to see them go, he loved them all so dearly, but he believed that they had gone somewhere they were destined to be. Somewhere they could know happiness and a life he had never enjoyed. And so he made them still, putting endless detail into them, until he got so could he could put the rings on the brides himself. He would never stop this bizarre ritual of his. 

 

Sydney Carton loved his Little Ones.

Author's Note

The name Sydney Carton was originally used in Charles Dickenson's A Tale Of Two Cities, and is not my creation. Also, this character is totally unrelated to the one from that book. Please alert me to any spelling or grammatical mistakes, and please let met know what you think. Much love,
-Thor

Reviews

[Elizabeth Laughlin]

I loved this, especially the ending!! Your spelling/grammar is perfect, and I love the figurative language, such as the reference to Niagra Falls. The only thing I can really criticize is in the middle of your story. Truth be told, I got bored. You described a lot and put way too much words into too little action. If you fix this, and maybe don't spend so much time on a particular segment, this could be much better. I did enjoy the plotline even though it was kind of cliché.

[Marie]

This is a pretty good story, and I didn't find any mistakes. I remember Sydney Carton well from "A Tale of Two CIties". Interesting.