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Book written by rbrock02

The Hopeful Thought

A journey into thought...

Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the house, not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse. Except of course, the mind in the bedroom above who’s thoughts it just can’t get a hold of. An entire lifetime plays out in the theater, as the popcorn of thought starts to heat up and with it, tickets are being sold. “One for you Mr. Doubt, one for you Mademoiselle Worry, of course, reserved seats for you Mr. and Mrs. Constrictive-Anxiety. I’m sorry little one, we’re sold out, why don’t you go play with all the other hopefuls in the arcade! There you can play the machines until the bigger machine eats you alive! Transformation! Fun right?! What do you want to be when you grow up? You know, I’ve heard there's a booming market for depression instigators nowadays. That’ll surely reserve your ticket.” The Hopeful then sulks down the hallway, sliding its hand across the brick wall, thinking to itself how miserable it must be to have been so unimportant. It peers into the arcade, sees
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the sunken faces and river of tokens as they feed into their falsities and pseudo-happiness. The Hopeful knows what happens all too well, the others play and play until one moment they are tender enough to be consumed. Like a shish-kabob! What a funny word. It reaches for the handle, but upon grabbing it, the Hopeful realizes. No. It wants to be more than a funny word, or one of the pictures on the food pyramid it saw in P.E. class. Instead, the Hopeful bends the handle upwards, no more of its kind will be trapped here. With an impenetrable sense of justification, the Hopeful starts to glow, the radiating aura like a lighthouse signaling to the sea, “follow me” it says. After all, to be afraid of the dark, there must be darkness! Or, maybe not. Just as dark as the corner with the carved dog statue and the Buzz Lightyear action figure is the curtain. Not the blue ones that the dog tore down, but the kind of eerily smooth silk. The kind you find in the projector room. The Hopeful, unlike
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his predecessors, is not made of tin, does not have a tail, and most certainly does not lack a heart. Upon reaching the projector room, another hand reaches simultaneously for the handle, a shadowed thumb, crinkled and stiff, begins to push the lock in. The Hopeful acts, decisively, with no anger, just a chuckle. With this laughter, the beacon grew brighter, as the now shrunken disembodiment shrivels like an earthworm. How sad it thought, remembering the summer days outside, feeling guilt for the composters he could not save. With the curtain so close, the Hopeful’s light is sucked into the silk. Just like they said in school! A black hole! The Hopeful, once again decisively, takes a hold of the fabric. As the hand disappears into the darkness, sudden bits of fear creep in like those horrific crickets in the basement. With no idea of who or what is on the other side of the curtain, the only idea immediately becomes Darth Vader. What if it is Vader? I can practically hear his breathing.
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Just then, the Hopeful grabs the wheel, and together, it and the child swing the curtain open. The only breathing is coming from the projector, no Darth Vader here. No one at all here actually. Just a projector? This is worse than that Avatar movie! The Hopeful, feeling elated, finally gets to see the film that all the important ones do. But upon peering down through the nearly invisible glass, all the Hopeful feels is horror. All of the ticket holders, in rigid metal chairs, hooked up like the hospital where you got your tonsils removed. From the tubes, a colorless liquid pumps into the projector, fueling it with sick and twisted motivation, or lack thereof. In this moment, the Hopeful understands its destiny, and in this moment of enlightenment, it rips the projector from its hinges. It then stands on the control panel, kicking away tapes dripping with this putrid liquid, and bursts into pure light. The light billows through the glass, which shatters and becomes stars, twinkling in
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Plot twist

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