Poor Little Match Boy

[mishalak]

IT was terribly cold and nearly dark on the last evening of the old year, and big drifting flakes of snow fell over the sleepy city. Out in the cold this night a little boy with a bare head and naked feet wandered the streets. Earlier in the day he had lost his shoes dogging out of the way of a fine car being driven too fast through the streets of Tokyo. They had been too big for him, as he had lost his previous set of clothes in the fire. He had not liked the far too big shoes that fit his feet like boats, but they had been far better than going without. Not a penny to his name as he made his way across the cold pavement. The snow was sticking to his hat and hair, but he didn't care.

He could smell the sweet smell of cooking food from houses all around as he passed and hear laughter as he passed, but Masato was going somewhere in particular with his matches. From long past experience he knew that if he looked sweet enough, if he looked sad enough out in the snow, and someone wealthy enough saw him he'd be taken in. He had taken the matches to complete his outfit from a beggar girl he had killed the previous day. It was a simple enough task, killing a forgotten wretch for the money she'd made begging and selling matches to the fair folk of Tokyo. He had left her body in a drain pipe and not given her a second thought since.

It was an easy trick, killing for what he needed. And what he had needed a new act to find another mother. He had to burn his previous month's home along with his most recent caretaker. She had not worked out. Just like all the others she became a "lost soul" when he fed her the mermaid's flesh. Like so many other women across the centuries she had torn at her own skin and cried out in agony as her soul left her and her body swelled and became monstrous. But no matter. He would try again and in the meantime he had to look just right so he might spend the New Year in comfort.

He waited in an alleyway next to a fine house he had scouted out. The wife who lived here was childless and soft hearted and he knew she would be coming back soon with her husband from a party. When they arrived he made sure that he was seen seemingly lost in his own world. He lit a match as if trying to keep warm from it as she approached. As the light flared in the darkness he could almost see in its light the fine food he'd shortly be given and the warm stove he could sit next to on this dark and cold night. This was going to work and 1935 would come with him in doors. And who knows, maybe she would finally be the one who would take care of him forever, one who would become immortal like himself after eating of the mermaid's flesh. And if not... he'd just have to try again.

Comments

[mix-o-choc.livejournal.com]

interesting twist on an old tale ... you didn't ruin the matchstick girl for me ... I've read similar plot twists before and yeah I get all the internal jokes etc ...

[mishalak.livejournal.com]

Drat. I guess I'll have to try harder to make it really horrifying. Maybe some more detail about what he's doing. And a dead little match girl stuffed down a drain pipe.

[mix-o-choc.livejournal.com]

nah ... still wouldn't shock me ... it takes alot to shock me ... but I can throw in ideas like a rape scene where he can use the matches to torture her while he rapes her then finally kills her ... now that would be bordering on shocking. I'd also try and get a few more subversive allusions to other HCA stories to spice things up a little and give the story a bit more texture and subtext and darkness.

[scottscidmore.livejournal.com]

From what I've read of the life of the street folk of the mid-19th century, you'll have a hard time coming up with anything more shocking than history. Old HCA really cleaned things up, writing Christian morality stories. Dickens was a bit more explicit, but he still was a long ways away from full disclosure. But then it appears than there was some unspoken information, a foundation of understanding that filled in the unwritten parts of his stories. Tim Power's Anubis Gate is closer, after you drop the magick out.

But this is a good pocket story. Really short stories are hard to write, even when drawing on the knowledge of other stories to reduce the total words in the current one. And an interesting mix, moving from Victorian Copenhagen forward 90 years to Tokyo, then tossing in a bit of Rumiko Takahashi.

Ah, here's a short bit on HCA's childhood:

Hans Christian Andersen was born in the slums of Odense. His father was a poor shoemaker and literate, but he believed he was of aristocratic origin. Andersen's mother, who worked as washerwoman, was uneducated and superstitious, but she opened for his son the world of folklore. Andersen's half-sister worked as a prostitute for a time. Andersen received little education, and as a child he was highly emotional, suffering all kinds of fears and humiliations because of his tallness and effeminate interests. Andersen's hysterical attacks of cramps were falsely diagnosed as epileptic fits. Encouraged by his parents he composed his own fairy tales and arrange puppet theatre shows.His father loved literatuire and took Andersen often to the playhouse.

Gives you an idea where he was coming from.


ANyhow, I liked it, and I'll be watching for more in the future.

[mishalak.livejournal.com]

Stepping outside myself for a little bit. I've read about "mudlarks" in London's sewers so I doubt very much could shock me anymore. For me that was the bottom of the well. The casual indifference to their fate that having a word for the children that picked through the shit and sewage of London for things to eat... Along with all the other things I've read about I don't think I could be shocked anymore.

The thing that made me need to parody HCA in some way was the perfect innocence he invests in his street child and that everything is okay in death. That's a problem I have with a certain Christian point of view that celebrates the death as going to god's arms.

[scottscidmore.livejournal.com]

Not untypical in the Victorian era, be it England or parts of the Continent. Sentimentality, with a tendency to ignore why the person was suffering this fate.

Dickens did generally manage to avoid the ignoring and point a finger at the causes to some degree. I think HCA was so messed up that he couldn't see things another way, that he actually believed that Heaven awaited those who suffer; he certainly was depressed much of his life so the alternative may have seemed more attractive to him. (a good argument on why societies should strive to make sure childhood is happy - people will still create fiction, but perhaps not so much bent fiction)

But then a lot of people died from whatever at that time, city living before they figured out the need for sanitation was a major cause. Historical information and the novels of the time are filled with people suffering and perishing from 'fever' or other not very specific illnesses. Diaries of middle class mothers from the first half of the 19th century often have "(the child) bord 5 days ago died this morning, I am saddened" without any indication of strong feelings of grief.


silly stuff:
If you step outside of yourself, can you see yourself as others do? Can you see your own back? What happens if you get lost?

[crazysoph.livejournal.com]

You certainly didn't ruin it for me, I enjoyed the unusual spicing of this traditional dish, er, I mean fairytale.

Crazy(I love alternate histories and related creative works!)Soph

[mishalak.livejournal.com]

Well drat. Can anyone think of a perfect innocent little tale for me to turn into something like a lure fish?

[jinian.livejournal.com]

Well, I thought it was creepy.

Gaki wa kowai desu ne

[weirdquark]

Takahashi meets Hans Christian Anderson. Cool.

Yeah, Masato's a scary little kid. A cold manipulative little boy that just wants his mommy....