To Galaxies and Stars
By James Thibeault
In a moment we could forget the uncertainties of now and accept reality that was never quite real. The pine trees
waving their branches. Horses poking their head from the red barn. Snow covering the county like thick icing on
cake. All the light posts glimmering. Roads routed with stamping footprints. The town resuming its daily pleasures of
laughing and loving. We wanted to stop this—it was our choice. We felt guilty hesitating. My son held the final puzzle
piece in his tiny hand and said “I can’t.”
After three hours and two melted candles, Kevin and I sat at the kitchen table with a near complete puzzle. The
power died that afternoon and until the blizzard passed no one dared to touch the fallen power lines. At first I
checked my stocks with the remaining battery life on my laptop while Kevin flew his model train through the air. I told
him that trains can’t fly, but Kevin said puzzlingly, “But I already laid the invisible tracks.” When the night began
leaking through the windows and the battery committed suicide to avoid its foreseen truth, I told Kevin we were
heading upstairs.
“But it’s only six.”
“I know it’s six, but it’s time for us to go upstairs.”
“But I can stay up later; I took a nap after you screamed at the TV turning off.”
“I wasn’t screaming.”
“Can we play a game?”
“We don’t have any power.”
Kevin’s flying train crashed into the ground. He laid invisible tracks on the carpet and steered it away from me. It
was a horrible answer. We both knew it.
“Fine. What do you want to play?”
“Astronauts!”
“Something reasonable, Kevin.”
“What’s wrong with Astronauts?”
I opened the closet where the games were kept. A hundred coat hangers shook as the door abruptly opened. Once
overstuffed, she seized what had filled it: every coat for every mood. I peered at the top to check what games she
left, saw nothing, and shouted, “Oh Jesus, she took the games too!” Kevin tilted his head upward, pretending to see
the top of the closet. “Is there anything to play?” I reached my hand into the darkness and groped until I felt a box. I
pulled it down and gave it to Kevin.
“The only thing that’s left is a puzzle set with no top.”
“Do we need the top to do it?”
“Well no, but we can’t tell what the picture is.”
“That’s okay.”
Kevin carried the box to the kitchen table and before I could grab candles and light the room, he scattered pieces
everywhere.
“There’s a red piece, I bet it’s a dragon!”
“I doubt that.”
“Can we find out?”
“Kevin it’s...”
“Then tell me what it is.”
I stared at the scrambled pieces, but couldn’t solve the enigma. I sighed and sat down beside him. Kevin shimmied
with excitement and clapped his hands. We worked intently for hours. Frequently, Kevin guessed the puzzle’s identity.
“These pieces are gonna make a pirate ship.”
“It can’t be a ship. I made a barn with snow over here.”
“Oh.”
Soon, we architects designed the town. However, the more we progressed the sadder Kevin looked.
“Is there any room for a dragon in the snow?”
“No.”
Kevin stopped trying. I pressed to see what the pieces revealed. When we arrived at the final piece I gave it to
Kevin, but he couldn’t do it. That last piece confirmed the image. The possibility of a dragon or a ship would die and
a picture of a boring town exposed reality. I realized at that moment it was never a quaint country town, but pieces of
cardboard slivered and splitting. I told Kevin to drop the piece and grabbed him by the armpits.
“Alpha one, this is ground control. All systems ready.”
Kevin giggled.
“Fasten your seatbelts and prepare for takeoff.”
We shouted together.
“Three, two, one…”
We launched into the air and flew away from the snowy town. We soared into the skies, to galaxies and stars. We
traveled from planet to planet until we landed on one with a blanket and bed.
James.M.Thibeault@gmail.com
James Thibeault is the Lead Screenwriter for Flying Cloud Animation,
www.cloudanimation.com.
By James Thibeault
In a moment we could forget the uncertainties of now and accept reality that was never quite real. The pine trees
waving their branches. Horses poking their head from the red barn. Snow covering the county like thick icing on
cake. All the light posts glimmering. Roads routed with stamping footprints. The town resuming its daily pleasures of
laughing and loving. We wanted to stop this—it was our choice. We felt guilty hesitating. My son held the final puzzle
piece in his tiny hand and said “I can’t.”
After three hours and two melted candles, Kevin and I sat at the kitchen table with a near complete puzzle. The
power died that afternoon and until the blizzard passed no one dared to touch the fallen power lines. At first I
checked my stocks with the remaining battery life on my laptop while Kevin flew his model train through the air. I told
him that trains can’t fly, but Kevin said puzzlingly, “But I already laid the invisible tracks.” When the night began
leaking through the windows and the battery committed suicide to avoid its foreseen truth, I told Kevin we were
heading upstairs.
“But it’s only six.”
“I know it’s six, but it’s time for us to go upstairs.”
“But I can stay up later; I took a nap after you screamed at the TV turning off.”
“I wasn’t screaming.”
“Can we play a game?”
“We don’t have any power.”
Kevin’s flying train crashed into the ground. He laid invisible tracks on the carpet and steered it away from me. It
was a horrible answer. We both knew it.
“Fine. What do you want to play?”
“Astronauts!”
“Something reasonable, Kevin.”
“What’s wrong with Astronauts?”
I opened the closet where the games were kept. A hundred coat hangers shook as the door abruptly opened. Once
overstuffed, she seized what had filled it: every coat for every mood. I peered at the top to check what games she
left, saw nothing, and shouted, “Oh Jesus, she took the games too!” Kevin tilted his head upward, pretending to see
the top of the closet. “Is there anything to play?” I reached my hand into the darkness and groped until I felt a box. I
pulled it down and gave it to Kevin.
“The only thing that’s left is a puzzle set with no top.”
“Do we need the top to do it?”
“Well no, but we can’t tell what the picture is.”
“That’s okay.”
Kevin carried the box to the kitchen table and before I could grab candles and light the room, he scattered pieces
everywhere.
“There’s a red piece, I bet it’s a dragon!”
“I doubt that.”
“Can we find out?”
“Kevin it’s...”
“Then tell me what it is.”
I stared at the scrambled pieces, but couldn’t solve the enigma. I sighed and sat down beside him. Kevin shimmied
with excitement and clapped his hands. We worked intently for hours. Frequently, Kevin guessed the puzzle’s identity.
“These pieces are gonna make a pirate ship.”
“It can’t be a ship. I made a barn with snow over here.”
“Oh.”
Soon, we architects designed the town. However, the more we progressed the sadder Kevin looked.
“Is there any room for a dragon in the snow?”
“No.”
Kevin stopped trying. I pressed to see what the pieces revealed. When we arrived at the final piece I gave it to
Kevin, but he couldn’t do it. That last piece confirmed the image. The possibility of a dragon or a ship would die and
a picture of a boring town exposed reality. I realized at that moment it was never a quaint country town, but pieces of
cardboard slivered and splitting. I told Kevin to drop the piece and grabbed him by the armpits.
“Alpha one, this is ground control. All systems ready.”
Kevin giggled.
“Fasten your seatbelts and prepare for takeoff.”
We shouted together.
“Three, two, one…”
We launched into the air and flew away from the snowy town. We soared into the skies, to galaxies and stars. We
traveled from planet to planet until we landed on one with a blanket and bed.
James.M.Thibeault@gmail.com
James Thibeault is the Lead Screenwriter for Flying Cloud Animation,
www.cloudanimation.com.
New Hampshire Writers Flash Fiction
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| James Thibeault To Galaxies and Stars |