Flash Fiction Piece- The Toy Maker 9/12

 

The Toy Maker     

By Katherine Lawless      

The toy maker sat at an old wood table. It was covered in bits of dried gray clay and water stains and flecks of glaze and stray brushes. The man worked by the light streaming in from the door at the top of the basement stairs. It was the only source of light. Dust and dirt filled the air. Every now and again the man would break into a hacking cough, bending over to clear thick brown mucus from his lungs. The toy maker’s arthritic fingers sorted fired clay figurines into two piles. Glasses perched on the tip of his nose, he inspected the army-men carefully.

Bubbles had formed in one’s torso: it went to his left.

The soldier’s stance was perfect, legs planted, shoulders back: he went to the right. 

A face had warped from thermal shock: it went to his left. 

The soldier pointed his gun, ready to fire, ready to fight: he went to the right.

The toy maker continued on and on, sorting out disappointments. He thought about the boys that would see them in the window, longing to charge the brave men to the front lines. He thought about the boys that would see their courage and tenacity and strength. He thought about the pennies being saved to buy just one. He thought about how every penny had to be worth it and so he sorted good from bad. 

The leg of one of the soldiers had cracked. From where the limb was broken off, the toymaker could see just how hollow his creations were on the inside. He stared down, eyes wide in fish eye lenses, brow furrowed. He traced the sharp edges of his failure with his finger. Sighing, he placed it to his left. Finally, the sorting was finished. 

Carefully and cautiously, he carried the good soldiers upstairs. It was warm upstairs. As the sun began to seep into his thinning skin, he felt his muscles seize, tighten, contract. He shuffled towards the window where he placed the troops in perfect lines. They bore guns. They bore grins. They bore no weight on their shoulders. The toymaker set them out in front for the world to see, for the world to love, for the sun to shine on. 

The toy maker turned around, gently waving towards the cashier, before limping back towards his workshop. He took his time dragging his lame foot down the stairs. And as the light got dimmer, and the air got thicker, his shoulders relaxed. He stopped before the table. He picked up his rejects, his failures, his men. Cradling them in his arms, he shuffled towards his bed, which was kept in the corner with a simple lamp and a nightstand and his shiny medals. Carefully and cautiously, he placed each soldier on his bedside table, in his own personal collection. The man without the leg had to lean on his companions for support. The toymaker flopped down on his mattress, having expended all his effort. He traced the cracks in his ceiling with his eyes. Closing them, he listened for the chime of the doorbell and  customer's footsteps. He couldn’t hear any and he hoped his hearing was getting worse.

The toy maker turned on the lamp. A dim glow spread out across his sheets and the dusty walls and the broken army-men.