• The world would crush under his feet! No threat meant a thing to him! No man, beast or force could oppose him! He was...Me-

    "Tom? Tom? Tom! Tom Byron!"

    "Yes, mother?"

    "We have to get going. Are your shoes on yet?" The boy, thus far addressed as Tom, looked at the ant in its cup, bustling about searching for something among the white plains of the styrofoam. He set his friend down on the desk, and stood.

    "Well? Where are your shoes?" His mother asked, hands-on-hips, glaring. "You'd better get a move on, buddy. We can't be late. He's only going to have one funeral."

    He nodded, and reached under his bed for his left sneaker. Shoving it on, he took the right one from his dresser, and teetered out of the room.

    To the funeral. I didn't even know him. And now I get to go to this weird place and avoid people, so they don't ask if I'm ok, and no, ma'am, I wouldn't like a glass of gatorade. Or a shrimp. Look, I'm quite alright, Let me be alone. Tom hobbled down the stairs, single-shoe-ed, and muttering to himself. As he rounded the landing, he was face to belly with father.

    "You don't plan on leaving the house like that, do you?" His eyebrow raised.

    "No, father," he replied, as he set his hand on the wall to steady himself as he put the shoe on.

    And instantly took it off of the wall, for he knew if he was caught touching this wall, there would be no end to his grief, no finish to his sorrow, no light in the tunnel. According to mother.

    She rounded the corner, having conversations with herself. Well, one would assume herself, since you cannot expect people to talk to you while they jog about a house away from you, saying things you would in no way care about.

    "...starts at 3:00, so we need to get going, but I can't go without my purse, where did I put that, maybe upstairs, with the car keys, so I'll have to go up anyway, but then so does..."

    She wandered back out. The father rubbed his temples, and stepped into the garage.

    Tom followed, and opened the garage door.

    Warm sunlight filled the garage, forcing Tom to squint a bit as he felt for the car door handle. The old hinges squealed and creaked as he pulled it open, and pushed into the warm interior.

    It always smells like old milk in here, he thought, as he watched his father pace and listened to his mother's exaggerated footsteps resound from the kitchen.

    After what seemed hours, she burst through the door, keys and purse successfully in hand, and climbed into the car. His father had given up pacing a bit ago, and was asleep in the passenger seat.

    "Tom? Are you ready to go?" She asked, peering around the headrest.

    "Yes, mother." She nodded, and started to back the car up.

    The old vehicle rolled from the enclosure, allowing the interior to flood with bright light. the rumble of the garage door closing was mingled with an adolescent's cries for attention.

    "Miss! Miss Byron! Wait, Miss Byron! I have a candygram for you! It's from a Senior Douglas Byron! Miss Byro-OOMPH!" The teenager's voice was interrupted by his own woosh of escaping air, and the thunder of denting metal. The car stopped, and mother, Mrs. Byron, looked white as a ghost.

    "Mom? Did you just hit-"

    "Shut up!" She climbed out of the car, and walked around to the rear, where the young man was trying to get up, lacking a breath from the car's impact.

    "God..I'm so sorry! Are you alright?"

    The teenage nodded, slowly regaining air into his lungs. After several moments, he wheezed, "Candygram. Byron. You." And handed a card with a large box over to her. She looked down at it.

    April fools!
    Love, Grandpa Byron

    She looked up from the message to the teen, then to the old man leaning on a van in the street, laughing.

    "I guess you wanted a funeral for someone after all!"