The Story of Peter Grey Parker

He awoke from the restful numbness of his dreams. Determined to be a good boy for his mommy, he tidied up his room and made his bed. He did it well. As well as his fluffy haired, seven year old self could. It was a weekend and he was hungry. However, his family was sleeping and he did not want to wake them up. A minute passed as he waited, bored and lonely.  He got out a toy. It was a quiet toy because his family was still sleeping and he is such a good boy. Not just a quiet toy but a single toy. Peter remembered with jaded precision that his mommy wished he and his sister would play with just one toy at a time. So he played with a puzzle that he liked. It was made of hand-carved thick wood, painted in shaky sunshine yellow strokes and innocent blue fingerprints. One might wonder at the careful attentiveness and unusual care he gave the sturdy interlocking blocks of colored wood but it was easy to see that he treasured it and took it out often by the worn down condition of its container. In fact, so familiar was he with the puzzle that before much time passed, he managed to connect and disconnect its pieces several times.

Swiftly though, morning hunger crept up on him. The quiet boy treaded softly to the kitchen so as not to wake his family. Peter knew how to make toast and he knew how to make cereal. He could even pour the milk sometimes. What he did not know how to do was reach the toaster or the milk. They were all higher than he could reach.  He thought of dragging a chair over but was afraid to wake his parents and little sister. So he waited, waited and waited. After all, he is a good boy.

Eventually he heard someone stirring and his mom, in her bathrobe that was as vivid as a cloudy day, came to the kitchen. She saw him as if he just awoke,

“Peter, have you been up long?”

“No,” he lied though he did not know why.

“Are you hungry, would you like pancakes?” She heard his enthusiastic yes’s and started cooking. He sat himself at the table and watched her tie up her curly amber hair and hummed a song he did not know as she whisked and cooked. Soon, a warm aroma occupied the room. She tipped the pancakes unto his plate and glimpsed how, with artistic appeal, her stepson commemoratively decorated his breakfast. Peter had grabbed the blueberry, strawberry and maple syrups, made sloppy zigzags and lines, created eyes from bananas and teeth from walnuts. She was not sure if he just liked to play with his food before he ate it or if it was because he and his grandfather had ritually ate pancakes together each morning. Either way, he always ate them. Peter’s pancake art was devoured.

Her husband and young daughter just woke up as she poured more batter onto the pan. They ate with gusto and soon sister and brother went off to have an adventure. She tackled through the toys, pressed Peter to play some dashing knighted hero and herself the damsel in distress. Bedecking herself in princess garb and jewelry and he in gray armor; they fought pirates, dragons and prehistoric dinosaurs. It was a close call but after what seemed the battle of ages, Peter just barely managed to rescue the princess from these various life threatening dangers. Wary with his noble efforts he stumbled around the array of toys his sister insisted on getting out. With a quick glimpse of the room, he was struck with the realization that he forgot to clean up the room throughout the day. Gloom seemed to slither out from the numerous toys and clutched at him with their pessimistic shadows. Peter was at a loss. Methodically, he starts to tidy up until his sister notices and demands to leave the toys out. Wanting to be considered a good boy, he keeps cleaning anyway and a fight ensues. His mom enters the room, observing the mess and seeing the fight she scolds them both and tells them to,

“Clean up this mess,” then promises that they will all have lunch after.

So he cleans. His sister removes some jewelry that had gotten entangled and halfheartedly helps. Nearly finished, she runs off to her mommy while Peter puts the last few Lincoln logs and picture books away.

Lonely.

He gets out his puzzle again. As he puts it together he remembers his grandpa’s withered hands that carved the blocks. They always shook slightly until he grasped a sturdy block of wood and with unexpected grace carved. He created with what he coined as ‘magic’, unexpected creations, sea monsters, portraits and even puzzles. Painting them was a different process. To his papa’s dismay, instead of thoughtfully painting them to increase their market value, grandpa insisted on Peter’s help. He always did and he always helped. A week after the puzzle was completed his grandpa died. Peter was old enough to understand the concept of death but at the same time was not. As much as he loved his puzzle it was not enough.

He gazed about the room in despondency. His eyes alighted upon something colorful on the floor. It was sister’s necklace. A wooden circle painted in pink and dotted with two complementary colors, blue and yellow. He knew it was wrong. He knew he should not do it. He continued to stare at it. Like a watermelon, a pressure was swelling up inside of him, pushing itself into his limbs, reaching through his bloodstream to his pulsing heart. Without realizing that he had walked over to the necklace disentangled it and with a covert expertise, pocketed it. Once he felt its weight securely in his pocket the tension shed away as if it never existed. He no longer felt quite so lonely.

Yet, an immediate guilt followed his relief. He was trying so hard to be a good boy. He knew he must be extra good for the rest of the day. He had lunch and dinner with his family. He was especially careful to bring up his plate and keep the dinner cloth clean. He was unobtrusive during the bedtime movie and let his sister pick it out. At night, Peter changed into his pajamas and waited, clenching his necklace under the blankets. His mommy came to say goodnight, his papa came to read him and sister a story. They all went away. Peter waited, waited and waited. Through the darkness and guided by his nightlight, he crawled underneath his bed, pulled out a box and hurriedly stashed the necklace. It made a faint clunk when it hit the other objects hiding his secret. He tried so hard to be a good boy but after all, he was just a bad boy.

So I wanted to apologize, after writing it, I realized that there are hardly any elements of the game included. I at least could have named the sister Scarlet, the father Mr. Brody Parker and the step-mother Mrs. Something White Parker. I really feel like it's too late without creating a massive upheaval of what is already written so...It would have been a completely different story. Here's to the hope that I follow the next guidelines much better. As always, please judge the elements, style and perspective harshly and critically. Thanks!