A short pointless story based off of an extensive argument/discussion I had with one of my roommates[be aware that this is going to be revised based on my whim so check back if you feel so inclined]
We are trapped in a glass bottle on the corner of a dark mantle piece. once we were the hobby of an old father who found his only wonder, in the reflections of his son's observant amber eyes, while he constructed a miniature ship around us. He unknowingly gave us shelter, warmth and meticulous attention and care. Though it was all for his son, it brought us comfort to think that he loved us just as much. The old man returned to us in our most difficult hours; in times of darkness and cruel neglect. He would prop us on his desk in the stillness of the night, and with his tools he would deconstruct our dying vessel under lamplight. His work would stretch along for hours until the sun returned, but a newer and more glorious ship would always have formed around us in wake of his efforts. And each time he rebuilt, his son would be there across from him, gazing in bewilderment. We were loved.
Years went by. Days became shorter and then longer again. And as the days grew in number, so did the boy. Now he was taller and wider, almost the size of his father. The old man looked different too, worn and weathered by the years he made his own. As we watched time pass from the center of his home, atop the mantle, we saw the most change came in his face. His smile had faded leaving mere traces of his happiness on the corner of his mouth. The boy's wonder, which once fueled the father's love, had been withered by the resistance of time.
One day the father sent the boy away. The boy believed in a battle fought far away and convinced the old man that he must lend his life for the cause. The old man did not want the boy to leave, but he saw something in his son that had been lost long ago. The man held his son tight in his arms, as if it was the last time their paths would cross. He watched him for a long time after he disappeared out the front door, and then went to his chambers to rest. His heart was shattered to pieces, but the wonder his son held in his smile formed a weak binding around the fragmented pieces.
Months later the received notice that his son was killed by the people he was trying to save. It was a horrible accident, there was nothing that could be said to changes his fate.
His father never forgave himself. He walked past us every day on his way back from the spot where he watched, hoping that the boy would come walking proudly through the front door. The carpet was stained by tears in that spot. After many days he finally noticed us again. He looked with soft sullen eyes as we sat in his leathery grip. He suddenly tensed up, his brows crossed and his fingers squeezed tightly around the bottle's neck. He hoisted us above his shoulder, preparing to smash us against a wall cluttered with photos and memories lost. His gaze met with his son's, just a child, eyes full of wonder. We were placed upon the mantle behind a picture frame portraying something much less painful than us. He would, for the rest of his day's, never see us again. We are now alone, and no one will rebuild us when we are broken. As another night falls without lamplight or the bright eyes of a child full of wonder to guide us, we only have the dust covered glass bottle to hold us. We will continue past those who create us until this mantle rots and gives way to our end.
