The Trunk

I've discovered recently (as have you, I bet) that my writing style tends toward the dark and discordant and emotional. In an effort to correct this course and lighten my writing, I have made a new reading list for myself that doesn't include quite so much dystopian fiction. This is my first attempt at something a little closer to the Young Adult Adventure stories that I want to write. 

Let me know what you think.

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She was probably right about it being a bad idea. She usually was. But bad idea or not, he really wanted to know, and this was the only way to find out. And that was the reason Pan found himself squashed into a corner, behind a dusty old couch and pretending he didn’t need to breathe at all - because if he started sneezing now, everything would be ruined.

The loveseat was practically an antique, and Pan suspected it hadn’t been moved from that spot since it had first been brought into existence by whatever colorblind personage had decided it was a good idea to make such a terrible thing. The rug under the loveseat was half scratchy wool and half dust, and it was hard to tell which was which.

Suddenly, the door opened, and light filled the room. The boy closed his eyes, trying to make himself even smaller. His body was completely hidden by the couch, of course, but the sheer number of rules he was breaking to be in here was finally becoming real to him. If Pan were caught, he would be sentenced to kitchen drudgery for a month at least, or worse.

The door closed again, and for a moment, there was silence. Just as he was starting to wonder if anyone had come in at all, there was a sound, as of a person quietly sighing. Then, footsteps. Quick, light footsteps. A rattle and the click of a lock being opened. The scrape or metal against metal. And a creak - hinges turning on rusty pins.

Pan’s heart was in his mouth, thumping excitedly as he cautiously lifted himself, fraction by fraction, so he could peek over the back of the ancient, dusty loveseat. The trunk was open. A thrill ran through him, and he strained to see what was in it. A slender figure bent over the trunk, wrinkled brown fabric covering the curved back, long legs folded into a kneeling position. At this angle, he couldn’t see what was in the trunk, and he couldn’t see the figure’s hands or hair or face, so he had no idea who they were.

One slim hand lifted something from the trunk. At first, Pan didn’t understand what he was seeing. It was a smallish object, about the size of an adult’s fist, and shaped a bit like an egg. It was dark red, and rough looking, with sharp angles and planes. It was only as the object caught the light of the lamp, throwing it back like glittering red fire, that he realized what it must be. A stone. A real live jewel. The person set the stone carefully on the rug, and moved things about in the trunk a little more before they closed and locked it again.

Then the person picked up the stone and stood. In the moment before they turned toward the door, and Pan had to pull his head back down to avoid being seen, he saw blonde hair in a long pony-tail, flipped haphazardly over the person’s shoulder to get it out of the way. Then Pan saw nothing but the dusty yellow-green fabric of the loveseat until the room went dark again and the door closed.