school, and after filling three large cardboard boxes with the things he’d found, Lucky sorted the contents and gave them all away. He took pens,pencils, erasers, and markers to a local day-care center. He took the rest of the stuff to the Goodwill store. The people were happy to get the items. The voices remained silent. And Lucky enjoyed giving things away.
The two times he found a wallet, he took them to the lost-and-found departments of local stores. He knew better than to turn in anything valuable at school. That’s what had gotten him into trouble in the past. You can only hand over so many wallets before people start to think you’re a crook.
But there were plenty of stores and other places with lost-and-found departments, so that wouldn’t be a problem. He was nervous the whole time he had each wallet with him—especially the one that had been cleaned out of cash—but he’d managed to take care of them without getting in trouble. It looked like his days of being called a thief were over.
Then, last February, because of overcrowding at his high school, the ninth graders had been moved to the new middle school. The instant Lucky walked in, he heard faint whispers. They seemed far off. But there were dozens of voices. Maybe even hundreds.
Between classes, he searched the halls, trying to find lost objects. There was nothing. The building was brand
new.
But the voices grew louder every day. Whispers became cries, and then shouts. He found a nickel, two pencils, and a pen. But none of that made a difference. By the third day in school, the noise became a distraction. By the fifth, it had become unbearable. He couldn’t concentrate in class. People stared at him like he was crazy. He hated that more thananything. He tried to stay home, but his parents made him go to school.
The worst voices seemed to rise up from the floor. In the middle of shop class on Tuesday afternoon, Lucky couldn’t take any more. Even the shriek of two lathes and a table saw couldn’t drown out the voices.
He grabbed a hammer from the wall rack, knelt above one of the spots where the voices rose, and started smashing the floor. Chips of concrete flew up in his face. He felt a slash of pain as a fragment cut his cheek, but that didn’t matter.
He kept hammering. The shop teacher shouted at him to stop. But Lucky didn’t care. The teacher was just one voice among many. Too many.
He struck harder. The concrete cracked and crumbled. Something small and green jutted out from one of the fractures. With shaking fingers, Lucky grabbed it. A toy soldier. A stupid plastic toy, no bigger than the first joint of his little finger. He dropped it in his pocket, silencing it. One less voice in the hundreds that filled his head. He kept hammering and found another soldier in the concrete. Lucky realized they were spread through the school, calling out to him from everywhere. There’d never be silence until he got them all. Why had they done this to him? Who would have buried all those soldiers?
He’d have to break up every inch of concrete in the school. It would take forever. He didn’t care. He knew he could keep hammering forever if he had to. He raised the hammer and smashed it down. Raised and smashed, again and again. There was more shouting around him. Lucky was shouting,too. Crying out with each blow. Swearing at the voices. Swearing at the idiot who had strewn lost objects into every square yard of the school. His throat was sore from shouting. His cries became hoarse barks. Sweat spilled down his face, mixing with the blood on his cheek. The wound burned, but he didn’t care.
Someone grabbed his wrist. They tore the hammer from his hands, though he tried to hold on. He struggled to grab it back. It was the only thing that could save him. People pushed him to the floor. He screamed and fought. He kicked and thrashed. There was a sting in his arm.
And then peace.
flinch dwells on
the future
WHEN HIS SET ended, Flinch headed to
The two times he found a wallet, he took them to the lost-and-found departments of local stores. He knew better than to turn in anything valuable at school. That’s what had gotten him into trouble in the past. You can only hand over so many wallets before people start to think you’re a crook.
But there were plenty of stores and other places with lost-and-found departments, so that wouldn’t be a problem. He was nervous the whole time he had each wallet with him—especially the one that had been cleaned out of cash—but he’d managed to take care of them without getting in trouble. It looked like his days of being called a thief were over.
Then, last February, because of overcrowding at his high school, the ninth graders had been moved to the new middle school. The instant Lucky walked in, he heard faint whispers. They seemed far off. But there were dozens of voices. Maybe even hundreds.
Between classes, he searched the halls, trying to find lost objects. There was nothing. The building was brand
new.
But the voices grew louder every day. Whispers became cries, and then shouts. He found a nickel, two pencils, and a pen. But none of that made a difference. By the third day in school, the noise became a distraction. By the fifth, it had become unbearable. He couldn’t concentrate in class. People stared at him like he was crazy. He hated that more thananything. He tried to stay home, but his parents made him go to school.
The worst voices seemed to rise up from the floor. In the middle of shop class on Tuesday afternoon, Lucky couldn’t take any more. Even the shriek of two lathes and a table saw couldn’t drown out the voices.
He grabbed a hammer from the wall rack, knelt above one of the spots where the voices rose, and started smashing the floor. Chips of concrete flew up in his face. He felt a slash of pain as a fragment cut his cheek, but that didn’t matter.
He kept hammering. The shop teacher shouted at him to stop. But Lucky didn’t care. The teacher was just one voice among many. Too many.
He struck harder. The concrete cracked and crumbled. Something small and green jutted out from one of the fractures. With shaking fingers, Lucky grabbed it. A toy soldier. A stupid plastic toy, no bigger than the first joint of his little finger. He dropped it in his pocket, silencing it. One less voice in the hundreds that filled his head. He kept hammering and found another soldier in the concrete. Lucky realized they were spread through the school, calling out to him from everywhere. There’d never be silence until he got them all. Why had they done this to him? Who would have buried all those soldiers?
He’d have to break up every inch of concrete in the school. It would take forever. He didn’t care. He knew he could keep hammering forever if he had to. He raised the hammer and smashed it down. Raised and smashed, again and again. There was more shouting around him. Lucky was shouting,too. Crying out with each blow. Swearing at the voices. Swearing at the idiot who had strewn lost objects into every square yard of the school. His throat was sore from shouting. His cries became hoarse barks. Sweat spilled down his face, mixing with the blood on his cheek. The wound burned, but he didn’t care.
Someone grabbed his wrist. They tore the hammer from his hands, though he tried to hold on. He struggled to grab it back. It was the only thing that could save him. People pushed him to the floor. He screamed and fought. He kicked and thrashed. There was a sting in his arm.
And then peace.
flinch dwells on
the future
WHEN HIS SET ended, Flinch headed to
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