good ideas

The plan was to take a bunch of soldiers and reinact D-day with them in stop action footage with a little camera. I knew I could do it. there would be hundreds of soldiers fighting. the germans would be on this beach and the americans would attack. the fighting would be bloody. many bodies would float in the ocean. useless, senseless death over this little piece of land. but it would have to be done. it would be black and white. silent. so as not to detract from the sadness of so many young men losing their lives. and the plastic ships would sink into the murky depths. I had never wanted to do something more in my whole life. But I needed the camera. and I needed the toy soldiers. And I needed someone to drive me to the ocean to do it all.

"You aren't doing anything like that," said my father. "You haven't done anything I asked you to do."
"But, please. I'm begging. I'll do it when I get home. THis is important. This is really important to humanity."
"But you aren't. You aren't important. You are nine years old and you don't do anything. You don't deserve anything."
"I promise."
"You don't deserve anything. Go upstairs and clean your room."
"But..."
"Go!"
So I went upstairs and sat down to cry. I listened to the radio. I looked at my baseball cards. My brother looked in and said, "You are such a loser. I hate you."
I knew then that I would never get the soldiers and I would never get the camera and life was useless. it wasn't any good. I was going to burn the house down. I got a pack of matches. I hid in my closet. I lit one match and put it under my book on how to fly a kite. The match went out. I went to get another match when I heard something out side. someone was crying. I went outside and found my cat had been hit by a car. He was still alive. He was crying.
"Look what you did," said my father.
"Look."
My brother got a flat shovel and smashed my cat in the head. I screamed.
"You don't do that. He's mine."
"He's dead."
but the cat wasn't dead. it was alive, but now with a mashed head. then he hit it again and it died. I cried.
"I hate you. This wouldn't have happened if we went to the beach. Snickers would still be alive. It's your fault."
My father hit me in the mouth.
"You talk to me like that again and I'll give you something to cry about. You just watch how fast you'll cry."

When I went to sleep that night I saw hundreds of toy soldiers fighting in the sand. They couldn't move their legs, but they fought on.