An Old Dog Called Skip and the Boy Who Loved Him

The following is a work of fiction. Any names or events sharing similarities to those contained within this work are purely coincidental. Or something. Seriously, don’t go freaking out on me, it’s just a short fiction story I wrote to get my writing engine greased again. Enjoy.

An Old Dog Called Skip and the Boy Who Loved Him

I looked down at the photocopied strip of paper that my instructor had handed me.

“Tested.”

It was still same as the previous five times I looked. I wasn’t sure if I was expecting it to change or if I just didn’t want to live with the hand dealt to me. As my instructor headed back to the front of the classroom he gave out his instructions in his usual fashion. “On the slip of paper I just randomly distributed to you is the topic of your final writing assignment. No word limit and due at the start of class next week. No exceptions. And I mean that. That’s all for today. Have a nice week.”

I shook my head, packed my things and quietly disappeared through the murmur of students preparing to leave the classroom. My instructor gave me a slight smile as I was leaving, almost as if his “random writing assignment” was given to me on purpose. I meekly smiled back and left the classroom.

“Tested?” I thought with a bit of anger. “What the hell does that even mean?” I slowly limped to my car wondering if this writing class was worth all the effort I had been putting into it. Sure, I had always had the dream. Become a famous author! Be loved by the world! Of course, the fame would be the after effect, right? My real purpose was to entertain people, wasn’t it? But I was getting on in my years. And who the hell became a famous author after taking an adult community college class, anyway? Maybe I just don’t have it in me, I thought as I put my rattling old car into drive.

Twenty minute later, I pulled up to the quaint apartment I had been living in for the past fifty years. Never did buy that home my wife and I had dreamed about. I opened the door to find a few envelopes waiting for me. Picking them up, I headed to the living room and greeted my wife. I wasn’t expecting an answer, but it was an old habit and those sure do die hard. She was awake, but Lord only knows what was going through her poor mind. I tossed the envelopes on my desk and planted a kiss on her forehead.

After preparing her for bed, I slowly made my way to my desk and flicked on the old lamp that had been the closest thing I had to a conversation partner for the better part of thirty years. It clicked at me with its usual fury but this time decided it didn’t want to give me any light. I wasn’t sure if I could blame it. Walking to the closet to get a new bulb I stopped and looked at a faded purple stain on the carpet. “Ah, grape juice,” I thought as I continued on to closet. “Last thing we talked about was me spilling grape juice,” I murmured almost wanting to pretend somehow this time noticing the stain would turn my night into something special that would give me the magical ability to write again.

After replacing the bulb I sat down and pulled out a piece of paper and a pen. Pretending I was able to spin the pen around my fingers, I thought about my writing assignment. “Tested.” A sigh escaped from the tired sack of flesh my heart called home. After two more attempts to roll the pen around my finger, I set it down and wondered if the assignment really was “random”. I couldn’t forget that look my instructor had given me as he placed that piece of paper on my desk. Letting loose another sigh, I decided it was time for an undeserved break.

I opened one of the envelopes and took a look at the enclosed bank statement. More money than I could ever manage to spend. Noticing an old photo of my wife on the corner of my desk I started wondering if she would have wanted me to use all of the money from the accident to buy that dream home. But it just killed me to think about deciding all those things without her input.

The blank paper started to eat at me. This is exactly what that instructor of mine wanted, I thought. Perhaps just forcing myself would be enough, I figured as I lifted what seemed to be the heaviest object in the world. “I can do this,” I said with a surge of confidence I hadn’t felt in years. “I can do this.” Finally with the pen firmly in my hand I let the tip touch the paper. No ink came out.

A week passed and nothing did ever come out of that pen.

Wednesday evening I sat my wife in front of the television as usual and prepared to go to my writing class. After turning on the television I turned to look at her and saw a smile come to her lips. I had no way of knowing for sure what caused that smile, but I hoped, no, I knew that it was because of me. I placed my arms around her and gave a hug with all the strength I could muster. “I miss you.”

Entering the bustling classroom I felt a surprising lack of shame despite not having written anything. Nonetheless, I lined up with the rest of the students who were handing in their assignments. When it was the turn of the young girl in front of me I couldn’t help but listen in on the conversation.

“It’s such an honor to take a class under such an accomplished author!”
“You’re too kind,” the instructor said with a believable sense of modesty. “I just love giving back to the writing community. It satisfies me more than any award ever could. I’m actually quite looking forward to reading yours, Janice.”

The girl, beaming with enthusiasm, thanked him and went to her seat. Finally my turn came and I approached the desk empty handed. My instructor gave an unsurprised look.

“Nothing again?”

“Nope. You know how it is.”

With a bit of a smirk he looked at me and said, “Well, sorry Dad, but I’m going to have to fail you again.”

“That’s okay,” I replied with a hint of pride in my voice.