The Tunnel of Childhood (a short story)

Timothy made his way down the street. There was nothing special about the day, but he felt that something was going to happen. He had his school bag slung over his bony shoulder and was quiet with anticipation. As he went about his day, Timothy simply couldn’t focus. The words his teachers said didn’t register in his mind and the things his friends showed him didn’t interest him. If only he knew what he was waiting for. When the boy arrived home, his mother was humming softly in the kitchen and cutting carrots for stew. He offered to keep her company and the two of them chatted lightly for some time but, eventually, Timothy couldn’t take it anymore and headed outside into their back-yard. There, the boy found something that took his breath away. He found the tunnel. It swirled with a multitude of colors, hissing with invitation. It wanted Timothy. It offered Timothy a look at all it had. As he peered into the swirling haze, the boy saw people, each one of them living the life of their dreams. They had no cares, and they were so large and secure. Timothy knew he wanted to walk through. He knew he wanted to be with them, to be one of them. As Timothy took a step towards the tunnel, his mother began to call for him.

“No Tim! Stay with me!”

But he wanted to go so badly. And the tunnel cannot be stopped. Timothy began to run, and once he started, the tunnel took over. It pulled at his legs and softly called him along. Before he thought he would have, Timothy exited the tunnel. As he stumbled into the light, something seemed wrong. The people weren’t as perfect as they had first looked. They were worn down with responsibilities and paid no attention to him. Timothy tried to go back the way he came, but the tunnel had closed, not to be opened by him ever again. As the years went on, the yearning always remained to go back, but it grew less and less. Timothy came to have a wife and children of his own, and he always warned them to use their days wisely, for the tunnel is fast approaching and time is always passing.

The end