Nicknames for Sad Boys Echo the Longest
We’ve become the boys of the woods. The stars of an unplanned documentary. A small crew of camera men and a producer huddle around us at night hoping to catch us retreating back to our parents, to the well-lit hallways of our high school, to the anonymity of our social media avatars.
One of us went missing three days ago. And depending on the source, a farmer or hunter found a missing shoe or shell necklace or a ripped leather wallet. The missing boy wasn’t a part of our group, we’ve been clear about this, not calling him an asshole out loud, because we know how quickly this can turn against us. Already, we understand that we become more visible the longer we’re lost. The boy, often sullen, dressed in black, sneering at the way we carried our math books in the halls, now smiles out at us from each lamppost. We want to find him so we can disappear again.
On another morning, we four boys, fourteen, stand in a circle around the pile of logs, a match in our hands. The tents yawning open behind us, the sky bruised and coughing up clouds surrounded by a huddled woods blighted with moss. Shoes squeaking on the sodden leaves, last night’s rain dripping from above.
We move through the woods in lines, a snarl of whiplike tree limbs separates us, while each bright color amongst the greens and greys and browns of this undeveloped land sparkles like a clue, but the beer bottles, Dorito bags, and shredded ribbons are nothing but distractions, each a snare drum strike of the heart, that saps our energy, a little disappointment that leaves us listless, the search becoming less daytime drama and more of a chore like emptying the dishwasher. No one ever became famous for putting away a folded load of clothes.
And still we pursue this boy, each muddy footprint another failure, thinking it could be us, that if the circumstances were just right, we’d be just as lost. We wanted to prove that sad boys could be found. That violence wasn’t inevitable.
Lately, the producer separates us, tries to get in our heads, make us feel comfortable in talking about your darkness or your lack of money or social skills. Says there had to be signs. Secret Snapchats or a creepy blog. Eventually, we crack. We’re not used to this much attention, this lack of water and the lack of home cooked meals. We promised to keep the nicknames to ourselves, but the words came rushing out of us like spooked deer plunging through headlights on country roads. Can’t Come Cameron or Small Dick Devin, or creepy Chris, how it wasn’t just us, but all the kids, how it was easier to be forgotten if you acted like everyone else.
But now, with each sunrise we lineup to sparkle with concern, to be backlit, our skin wan, as we beg to say nicer things. We try to praise your stubborn spirit, your unique way of holding a pencil, the way you can draw on skin with permanent markers, the uncanniness of these drawings. The way we noticed you feeding stray cats in the alley between the hardware store and the grain elevator. Off camera, they yell at us, tell us to cut the bullshit, tell us that unless we find you, we’re nothing more than fame seekers. That the story is running dry, that anytime now they’ll be on their way to the next story unless one of us does something film worthy. Say that for legal reasons they can’t say too much, but if one of us wanted to disappear, too, that the rest of us could continue to be stars. That it only takes one. That one of us had to be fucked up enough to wander off, right?
If you’ve seen the movie, you know the formula, the way they broke us a part, made us distrust ourselves, each other, until the screen filled red with bloody noses, with bruised cheeks, and bent fingers. You know we lost even more than we ever found. That the original boy’s name rings hollow.
***
One man, forty, huddles in the middle of the woods, melting snow run-off glistening on skeletal branches, the greens and yellows replaced by browns and grays, the sun refusing to light his way, as he plants new footprints, looking again for the invisible boy he used to be.
Tommy Dean is the author of two flash fiction chapbooks and a full flash collection, Hollows (Alternating Current Press 2022). He is the editor of Fractured Lit and Uncharted Magazine. His writing can be found in Best Microfiction 2019, 2020, 2023, Best Small Fictions 2019 and 2022, Harpur Palate, and elsewhere. Find him at tommydeanwriter.com and on Twitter @TommyDeanWriter.
