Title: My Favorite Place
Author: Mademoiselle Juko Pax-Prime
Rating: K+
Summary: The assignment is simple enough. The words, however, are not. –post-movie, unidentified narrator.-
Content/Warnings: Fluff, character death, OC narrator.
Feedback: YESSSSSS. I love feedback. Please, review. PLEASE. Constructive criticism welcomed; flames will be redirected to the underside of a bus.
Spoilers: Some for the movie.
Disclaimer: I do not and never will own The Lorax. It belongs to Dr. Seuss and such. This was made purely for fun.
—–—-
The assignment is simple enough; a single page about my favorite place to be.
Just one page is all. It doesn't even have to be split into paragraphs. It's an assignment meant for second graders, not eleventh graders. I should have it done in twenty minutes.
So why have I been sitting here for two hours with a blank piece of paper in front of me?
My friends are all done with their papers. They wrote it on the way home, laughing about how dumb it was. They wrote about their bedrooms, their kitchens, their backyards; all of the things an old lady like our teacher would want to hear from us. I could have done that easily.
But here I am, staring at a sheet of paper without a single word written on it. Not even my name.
I'm not stuck for a favorite place, no. I know exactly what my favorite place to be is—was.
I just don't know how to put it into words.
Maybe I'll just write the first, obligatory sentence.
My favorite place to be is
That's not right.
My favorite place to be was
That's better.
My favorite place to be was the porch of the home of the Once-ler.
Well, I guess I could add a little more to that.
My favorite place to be was the porch of the home of the Once-ler because
Hm.
I loved being there for all sorts of reasons. I loved sitting in the rocking chair, watching the soft tufts of the truffula trees sway in the breeze, listening to the fish sing.
But I loved sitting with the Once-ler most of all.
He was such a wonderful old man. Incredibly sharp-witted, considering his age, and with a sense of humor to match. It was great fun to listen to his stories; he had so many.
I'd go down to his tall, crooked house every Sunday evening. I was usually the only visitor; everyone else in town had school or work the next day, or just couldn't be bothered to visit. The Once-ler always smiled and greeted me by name, and told me I looked beautiful. Of course I would always smile back. He would ask me how I was doing, and I would give him the highlights of my week. Sometimes I brought my sketchbook, and he seemed to be genuinely interested in my drawings.
Then I would ask him about his week, and that would always turn into a story. He never seemed to run out. They were fantastic.
He was fantastic.
When it grew dark and lightning bugs began to appear, I would get up to leave. He always stayed sitting; he towered over me when he stood. He was the tallest man I'd ever seen, even with his slightly hunched back.
I would always give him a hug and a kiss on the cheek before I left. I still remember how his mustache tickled.
How do I put that all into words without sounding like a child?
Well, maybe it doesn't matter. Maybe this paper is just for the teacher to get to know us a little. I don't know.
Maybe I should take a break.
Besides, I need to get dressed.
It's common knowledge that you need to get a little gussied up for a funeral.