Poof

We created a whole world that fell apart. It was just as we placed the characters in their places, the words in their mouths, the clothes on their bodies, that they were taken away. Just as we built the buildings, designed the vehicles, heard the sounds, they all vanished. We put the laughter in the air, set our characters on a mission and knew the troubles that would blow their minds, make them laugh and make them cry. We fell in love with the setting, the friends and the enemies, the hilarity that we blanketed the story in as we wrote.

         And then it was all gone.

         Just like that.

         Poof.

         I remember the day that they all were killed. It was like losing my best friend. It was like losing the start of a new life, a life that would grow and grow and grow. It was losing the start of a new life. It was losing a story. It was losing the laughter that we shaped the story out of.

         I remember how people laughed at us. âOh, yeah, I stole it, ha ha,â they would say. âNo, seriously, I threw it away.â

         And for a long time, we believed them. We hated them, hated them for throwing the characters as far as they could be thrown, tearing the words from their mouths, ripping the clothes off their bodies. We hated them for collapsing the buildings, crashing the vehicles, cutting off the sounds.

         We hated them for taking our laughter away from us. We hated them, and when we learned that they hadnât even known we were working on a story before we lost it, we hated them more.

         We tried to make the characters again. We still knew their personalities, but the colors of their clothes had faded and they didnât know what to say. We were frustrated because every time we started building the city again, it would crumble to the ground and we would have to restart. Again. And again.

         And that was all just under one year ago. 300 days ago, we must have just been crying over the deaths. At the beginning of the school year was when we were tricked the worstâ¦when the construction of our barrier of hate was finished with a final brick thrown unceremoniously in place. When we knew they were lying. When we knew they didnât care anything about our story. The root of our laughter.

         We searched and searched and searched and searched, hoping our teacher would find it over the summer when she repainted the classroom, sending messages to the janitor and to our old teacher, begging them please please please please if you have found it, if you have found it give it back.

         But itâs gone.

         Long, long, long gone.

         But if you happen to come across a purple folder with the words Boxes written on it upside down, with twenty pages of slightly crumpled writing in itâ¦let me know.