Little Johnny was walking home from the bus stop. Up the street, up the hill, to his house, his parent’s house, a pleasant little ranch, on a cul-de-sac, on top of a hill.

Mom, Mom he said as he opened the door, breaking into a stride, an eager stride, as he strode up to his mom, ironing shirts, his dad’s shirts.

I won an award he said, I won an award.

His mom ironed, continued ironing.

For Creative Writing he said, for Creative Writing.

His mom ironed, continued ironing, but ironed slower, much slower.

That’s nice she said, and paused. That’s nice she said.

Little Johnny put his books down and turned on the tv. He was back now, in his head, only out of it for a moment, a moment of glory, not recognized, not realized. It was better in his head. Conditions were better, far more agreeable, more tolerable, he could sustain life in his head.

The tv blasted, blared. Input, stimulation, engagement. For his head.

His mom ironed.

His dad came home.

Honey dear, your son won an award today.

His dad heard her, ignored her. He saw Little Johnny, he saw through Little Johnny. He changed the channels.

Baseball.

Creative Writing dear, Creative Writing. The voice came from the kitchen, betraying repetitive motion.

Bottom of the ninth. Bases loaded. Two outs. Yankees behind, and at bat.

Johnny picks up the tv guide. When will the game be over Dad, he says.

Strike one.

Watch the game son, watch the game, his dad says.

Strike two.

Creative Writing dear, Creative Writing. From the kitchen.

Strike three.

Dad turns off the tv. Mom turns off the iron. Johnny picks up his books.

We’re cutting wood his dad says.

I have homework Johnny says.

We’re cutting wood his dad says.

Johnny puts his books down.

It’s cold he says. I have to get my jacket.

Johnny’s dad goes outside. Johnny goes to his room.

Five minutes. Ten minutes. Twenty minutes.

Your father’s waiting for you, Johnny’s mom yells. She’s cooking now. Supper will be ready soon, she says.

Johnny goes outside. To the backyard. The trees are grey and leafless. The sky is grey and lifeless. Birds are south, to warmer places.

Johnny’s hands are in his pockets. Johnny’s dad has the chainsaw. Hold these branches he tells Johnny. Between your hands he says.

Johnny looks at the branches, looks at the chainsaw.

Pick them up. A command.

Johnny hesitates.

He takes his hands out of his pockets and tentatively fumbles with the branches. He has mittens on and can’t grab them tight.

His father watches. Exasperated.

Mittens are for fruits he says. 

His mother is watching from the window. Creative Writing she thinks, Creative Writing.

Johnny picks up the branches and holds them between his outstretched arms.

His father lifts the chainsaw. Creative Writing he thinks, Creative Writing.

The chainsaw comes down, toward the branches.

Johnny closes his eyes.

The chainsaw connects, yanks the branches, twists the branches, pulls Johnny’s hands toward the moving blades.

A mitten comes off. Caught on a blade. It spins around the chainsaw’s arm, waving hello to the cold November air.

Creative Writing his dad thinks.

Creative Writing his mom thinks.

My fingers Little Johnny thinks.