I Can Hear the Sound of Crackers Tap Dancing in Their Box
by Horo Horo Usui

I am a boy of the wild at heart. The elements call to me and I can hear them. There is a different kind of beckoning than that of nature's, and it has made itself clear in my stomach and my mind. I am talking, of course, about the all-powerful force called "food".

A young, precocious and slightly naïve boy of three, food was my forever friend. It was during this phase of my life that I learned how to hold a rice cracker securely in my hand without crushing it to smithereens. Being so taken with edible objects, I stuffed anything in my mouth that remotely resembled food.

Because of this, my younger sister, Pirka, was forever locking me in the upstairs bathroom, padlocking me to the toilet. I broke out anyway when my stomach voiced its hunger, and after eating whatever was available, I would quickly chain myself to the toilet once more without her being any the wiser.

A food related mystery eluded me so much that I sacrificed several stuffed animals in my thirst for knowledge. (They became unwilling test subjects.) I didn't understand why crackers made a strange, rattling noise when you pressed your ear on the side of the box. Then, on Christmas, my auntie Yasuaki gave me a box of crackers, commemorating the proudest event of my life, the event in which I had learned how to hold a cracker properly so as to not damage it.

She had told me that if I listened carefully, I could hear the sound of several crackers performing their next tap dancing number. I did so, and sure enough, the sound of tap shoes hitting the ground resonated. I asked her why I couldn't see them perform, and she had replied, "They're too shy, Horo. When you open the box and see them in those orderly rows, it means that they were dancing away minutes ago."

Her theory explained so many things I couldn't quite comprehend before. It explained why crackers were sometimes broken at the bottom of the box, most likely from falling off the stage while performing a lively tap dance. This same theory explained the irritating crumbs and flecks of cracker as well, which were the tears of a cracker audience saddened by a dismal performance.

I held on very tightly to this theory, believing it to be true for the many years ahead. Suddenly, my perfectly arranged world of tap dancing crackers shattered on the day of aunt Yasuyaki's death. She was thirty years old--I was six--and she was steadily losing the race against cancer. On her deathbed, she had asked to see me alone.

Oba-san, pale and drained of life, told me that I was living a lie. She told me to please snap out of it, and that she had only told me that ridiculous story because my parents were tired of the usual round of questions like "Is there such a thing as cracker abuse?" What affected me profoundly was what she said next. "Crackers don't tap dance, Horo. They're just solid, carbohydrate infested, machine processed food."

Then, with tears in my eyes as her limp arm patted me on the back in a soothing manner, I told her it wasn't nice to lie to little children. She replied, "That's the beauty of adulthood. You get to lie to gullible young children!" Though it sounded harsh, she smiled as she said it, and it made me happy knowing that I too would one day be able to tell tales of harmless fancy.

Those were her last words to me.

Her funeral was a quiet affair and only family and close friends attended. Nestled between her arm and torso is a box of yummy, pre—packaged, already salted crackers. I stood back a bit to admire the effect, and before I knew it, I had sat down on the steps leading up to the coffin and was crying as though the sun would never rise again.

When I'd regained a bit of my composure and dared to look around, Pirka had settled herself adjacent to me, watching intently as my tears formed a large puddle at the foot of the coffin steps.

"That's what old people do," she started hesitantly. "They die." I stared at my sister through tear-blurred eyes, scrutinizing her, finally saying, "Who're kidding? It was the prime of her life."

"And how would you know this?" Pirka said, raising her eyebrows ever higher in inquiry. "Because there are some things, like crackers, that, even if you're as old as the dickens, you can still be able to find joy in it and are able to cherish it." I said solemnly as a smile escaped.

Oba-san had left me something without even knowing it. She had left, on Earth, a piece of herself that I could revisit at will. And sometimes, when it's just a cracker box and me, I press it closely to my ear, proceeding to open it in order to see the uniform rows. And in that split second of opening and peering inside, I could've sworn I saw every single crisp, thin biscuit tap dancing, swaying to an unknown beat.

(end memoir)


The sensei of classroom 239 looked briefly at the memoir, and then at the boy to whom it belonged, finally laughing like mad.

"Wh-what did you think?" Horo said apprehensively.

"It's...it's...got a lot of BS," the sensei replied, tears of mirth gliding down his cheeks.

"BS?" Horo repeated blankly.

"Beautiful stuff, my boy, beautiful stuff!"

"Oh! Ha ha! Very funny, sensei!" Horo said, laughing weakly.

"But you shouldn't have shown this to me now," his sensei said, going from laughing lunatic to professional teacher mode. "Although this was a bag of laughs, I don't want to see any more memoirs until all twenty have been completed, do you hear me, boy?"

"Blorg!" Horo said, causing his sensei to look at him strangely. "Um, I meant, sir yes sir!"

"Good. Now run along and finish the other 18,"

"What? EIGHTEEN? THERE ARE EIGHTEEN LEFT?"

"Right you are, for a grand total of twenty. Go away and leave your teacher to his devices, there's a good chap!" his sensei said, indicating an oversized marshmallow that he was pummeling and sniffing excitedly.

Horo turned to take his leave when his sensei called out.

"Oh, and one more thing, boy."

"What is it?"

"You never saw anything." his sensei said, deflating the marshmallow with a triumphant giggle as he took another one out, this time to doodle on.


Oba-san: aunt

Blorg: a word the authoress created that has no set meaning


lymerai: You spoke at length about things that squeaked, and it was rather yummy to read. I was not aware of such startling news, and now I feel rather intelligent for knowing that bit of information.

Yuki KIKI: It's hard to stay away from adding excessive amounts of stupidity because I do enjoy being stupid a great deal... huh? I really, truly kept Horo in character? In truth, I wrote Horo's memoirs as though it were I in his position, thus leading people to believe that I can actually write people as IC, which, I assure you, isn't true at all.

kittykid: Yes, you're welcome! I wanted everyone to feel loved, although I do think I've overdone the dedications a bit. Ah, well, what is a story without it being supported by wonderful people, ne?