Not based on true events

“ Well, come in, lad,” was Mr. Wicked’s greeting to Zack. It showed not an ounce of the hurry and fluster he had recently experienced, and only demonstrated a kind geniality. Zack, on the other hand, said nothing, but with a small leap, entered, and without even brushing his feet on the doormat, proceeded to the living room. There, he made himself quite at home by flopping on an ancient, threadbare, sofa which graced the chamber. Looking about at his surroundings, the youth commented: “ Not much has changed over here. It’s still old and stale and grey for a hut,” and Mr. Wicked would have been quite offended had it been a first-time encounter. But, being the friends they were, he did not react to the statement and determined to instill more politeness into Zack later in the day. Zack, though, was not finished. In fact, he ended with a further snuggle into the couch, declaring: “ But that’s just how I like it.” But Mr. Wicked ‘s eyes and mind were not fully upon him but darted between the green moss and the impudent boy. “What will he think when he sees the moss upon the table?” the man feverishly contemplated, “Will he not like it because it isn’t old and grey?” He might not, that  is true. Eventually, the fateful moment came when Zack’s eyes rolled towards the the dining room where the said table stood and upon which was the water-filled platter with the moss. “ Now what in the world is that?!”he cried. A spear of apprehension shot through Mr. Wicked. “ It-it is moss,” he stuttered timidly. Zack stood as if he had never seen “moss” before. He went to it and circled it like a curious cat, and poked it with his finger as if he expected the congregated plants to bite. But, to Mr. Wicked’s relief, they did not. No, it was very good moss. “ So, this is moss,” mused Zack at length, standing back to admire it further, “ but what is it doing here?” Mr. Wicked would have never given the answer he did if he had thought more than a second upon it. Still, he said that it had become his friend. Zack immediately shot a darkened glance at him. “ But I thought I was your friend,”said he. “ You’re my friend, too,” insisted Mr. Wicked, colouring to the top of his grey hair. “ How in the world can a piece of moss be your friend?” Zack shot forth, his ire rising. “ Weeeell, I pet it, and I-I like to have it around.” “ And you don’t like me around?” “ No! No! No! It’s just that-” Mr. Wicked made a valiant attempt to return answer, but Zack did not even permit him to finish. “ So you mean that you hate me because I’m loud, rude and selfish and this thing is not?” Mr. Wicked was rendered speechless by this new verbal ammunition, for Zack was all those things, and he could not deny it. But the boy gave him no chance to do so, for he suddenly declared: “ I’m out of here!” and stamped from the house in a mighty fine temper. Mr. Wicked watched dolefully as the young man passed through his yard and gained the sidewalk, muttering and grumbling all the while. Then, shutting the door, the man turned to the rooms of his home. How solitary all felt, without a word or whisper to be heard in them. Indeed, those chambers most  likely would never again see Zack Mack. For a moment, Mr. Wicked’s small wrinkles grew deeper so that his face appeared withered and distressed. He, at length, rested his eyes upon the culprit of his day’s trouble: the moss, the verdant moss. There it still lay on the table, and at the very sight of it, Mr. Wicked’s temper flared up like a volcano. Like a giant he rushed to it, picked it up, platter and all, and returned in a determined state to the front door, which he opened without hesitation and marched to the porch. Afterwards, he march down the porch stairs, and with an angry shake, freed the moss from its platform over his garden of pansies, and permitted it to slip into the dirt below. Then, with a decided: “ humph,” he re-entered his home and began to grumble again.

To be continued...