by Warren Buchanan

Trevor was fed up. He was fed up with his parents, with the stupid kids at his school, with the men in suits that wore spectacles and wrote on clipboards, and everyone else who never believed him. Heck, he was fed up with the whole dang planet.

So, one morning at breakfast, he stood up from his seat and announced,

“That’s it! I’m going to the moon!”

His parents looked at each other and rolled their eyes. He told them that he was going into the garage to build a spaceship so he could fly it to the moon. His parents laughed.

“A spaceship?” his dad asked, and his mom asked, “to the moon?”

“Whatever you say, son,” they said together, and they laughed together, again, and Trevor stormed off.

So Trevor drew up the blueprints to build a spaceship, and he got all of the parts necessary to build a spaceship, and he spent a whole week building it in the garage. His parents would come out of the house and knock on the garage door and ask what he was doing in there, and he said,

“I’m going to the moon!” each and every time. From inside the garage he could hear his parents outside tell other parents from the school that their son had quite the imagination, that he was a peculiar little boy. One day, one of the other dads from school asked Trevor’s dad if he was really building a spaceship in there and if they should be worried about it, and Trevor’s dad said it was nothing, that he shouldn’t worry, that Trevor was just being a silly kid and all.

But Trevor really was building a spaceship, and a week after he’d announced at breakfast that he was building a spaceship, it was ready. He walked into the kitchen and found his parents there once again and he told them,

“Goodbye, Mom and Dad, I’m headed to the moon,” and his parents smiled.

“You have fun, Trevie,” his mom said, and his dad added, “Bring back some moon cheese for us.”

Then Trevor went outside to the garage and hopped in his spaceship as his parents continued to laugh at him. They laughed so loud that he could hear them over the engines turning on. He could hear their stupid laughs as the countdown sequence started. He could hear the kids at school laughing, their laughs carrying for miles. The whole world was laughing at him. The spaceship boomed and the garage trembled and the countdown finished and the spaceship took off and blasted through the roof.

Trevor’s parents came outside when they heard the noise and they saw the spaceship and knew then that they’d been wrong. But it was too late, and the fires from the engines were too big and torched everything beneath them, including his parents, who were standing too close to the jet engines so their skin and organs melted and their bones turned to ash and they died. And then the spaceship zoomed away and flew over the school and the large fires from the engines burned everything and everyone inside it because everyone laughed at him when he said he was building a spaceship. Yet here it was, flying over them and scorching their bodies and turning them to nothing, just like that.

The rocket shot upwards towards outer space. It burst through the atmosphere and drifted slowly into the unknown. He couldn’t hear the laughing anymore. Everything was quiet. Everything was aflame. Everyone believed him now.


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