Found Objects
Written January 24, 2026 ~ 1900 words
“Browning grasses seem to blow in a wind from the distant, angry storm. A white stallion rears, the man in a white, blue, and red soldier’s uniform pointing his saber straight in the air. An act of charge, one could say. His pasty face is locked in a look of triumph and perhaps rage, eyes bright, cruel smile on his upturned lips, brown hair, nearly the same shade as the grasses, wild beneath a tricorn hat. On the right side of the painting, near the edge, almost, the soldier’s footed cohort is a jumbled mass of color that rushes forward.”
Jack finished his examination of the painting before him. He slipped the cloth he’d pulled from it back over, dust from the attic floor disturbed like the muck at the bottom of a pond. A cracking sneeze erupted, and his partner-in-crime, Eric, guffawed. Jack shoved the taller, pudgy boy playfully. Eric’s hand grabbed Jack’s, rubbing the skin there. Jack’s baby blue eyes found Eric’s hazel ones. He gulped at the smile there.
“How do you know so much about art?” Eric questioned. Jack shrugged, pulling his hand slowly away, and took a step towards another painting. Wood squeaked and groaned. It echoed in the small attic. Soft, golden light rippled in from the trellised windows, illuminating one hundred or so paintings, all covered.
Jack had known the room existed forever. It wasn’t that this room was necessarily forbidden to him—Mom and Dad never said a word either way—just that he was never invited in. But when Eric, a new boy at school, with a cute, winning smile that dimpled his freckled cheeks, and strawberry blond hair, had asked for a place they could hideaway for a bit, this was Jack’s first choice.
Jack’s hands traced a frame beneath. They’d been here for hours, had given each other tentative kisses that slowly deepened, and hands that maybe explored more than two fourteen-year-old boys should. Eric had implored Jack to start uncovering the paintings and show him. Jack had obliged, telling Eric what he saw in each painting. Mom and Dad were both artists of various media (sculpture, found objects, watercolor, and oils), and ran a small studio-gallery on the first floor of their townhome. Jack had picked up their love of art early, when Mom had had a mosaic phase. He had his own portion of the studio where his myriad pieces of jewels, stones, colored glass, and bits of broken tiles were stored, and he could let his mind wander as he created whatever he thought of.
That’s how he’d met Eric. The boy had wandered into their shop a couple of days ago, drawn in by the novelty of an art gallery in the middle of a neighborhood street.
“That’s a weird thing to say,” Jack had said.
Eric had crossed his arms defensively. “Well, where I’m from, neighborhoods are separate from shopping.”
“That’s weird. Mrs. and Mr. Le run a coffee shop on their first floor down the street, and Mr. Goldsmith and his two sons have a hardware store.”
“Why?”
Jack... didn’t know. He’d grown up in this neighborhood of South St. Louis, where each block was a row of three-story townhomes, all sun-washed brick and white trim, small front yards, and skinny backyards. His parents were friends with everyone there, and Jack had a large group of similarly-aged children to play with and get in trouble with.
But no one who seemed to be like him, someone who hid a piece of themselves from the world.
“Where are you from?” Jack asked politely. His parents had drilled into him that everyone deserved dignity.
“Oklahoma.”
“Why’d you move here?”
“Dad got a job at some place downtown. One of the big buildings. It’s boring. What are you making?”
Jack was thrilled when Eric expressed interest, and immediately launched into explaining the merman mosaic he was working on. The pudgy boy had moved in close as Jack leaned over, placing pieces as he talked. When he told Eric he wanted to create something that showed how beautiful men could be, he’d heard a breath hitch and a knee that gently found his.
Jack’s heart had zoomed suddenly, and he felt hot. His own knee had a mind of its own, pressing into Eric’s. He moved away quickly. His clammy hands found his pants, and he smoothed the wrinkles, pressing deep to massage his legs. Eric, blessedly, didn’t follow. He continued studying the mosaic, complementing Jack, asking how he’d come up with all the details.
Eric came every day. Jack started a new project every day. Eric brought objects he found on his walk from his parents’ home to Jack’s. Jack would make sure they ended up in whatever piece he was working on.
That morning, a Thursday morning, in late July, Eric didn’t bring anything. It was a hot, muggy midsummer day, the kind of St. Louis heat where the humidity feels like soup and the sun beats down ferociously. The other boy had come in, strawberry blonde hair plastered to his head, two iced coffees in his hands. Condensation dripped on the floor. Jack grimaced, grabbed some paper towels, and wrapped the two drinks in them. He cleaned the pooled mess on the floor before taking one of the Vietnamese-style drinks. When fingers touched, Eric caressed his, and Jack stuttered a thank you, heat flaming his cheeks.
“Take a break? Show me your house?”
Jack swallowed a bit of iced coffee, the sweetness and earthiness mixing on his tongue. It cooled him.
“Yeah, sure.”
Jack mimicked how his parents showed guests the house. The studio Eric knew, but he showed him the first-floor steampunk-themed powder room (that had been Jack’s request when they redid it, he told Eric; Eric approved wholeheartedly), the kitchen with its seaweed green upper cabinets and espresso lower cabinets, and the backyard. The second floor had the bedrooms. Jack had his own bathroom, perks of being an only child, which he showed off. Eric wanted to see Jack’s room.
“Not today. It’s kinda messy.”
“But I wanna see what you’re into.”
Very softly, Jack said, “You.”
Both boys blushed fiercely, and Eric agreed that bedroom tours should wait.
The third floor was just extra space. A guest bedroom, an office, and the attic door where Mom and Dad stored paintings they’d collected and experiments from their university days. Eric insisted on seeing it.
“I’ve never been in there.”
“Not allowed?”
“No, just... Not done it?”
Eric nodded, grabbed the door handle, pulled it open, and pulled Jack in. They both sneezed as dust was disturbed. Eric’s sneeze was gentle, like a breeze on a prairie. Jack’s was a booming cannon. They looked at the myriad covered paintings before them. Eric wanted to rip the cloth off all of them, but Jack had been adamant. One at a time.
“Light can hurt the paint,” he explained.
“Okay, Professor,” Eric teased. Jack felt something warm in his chest from that. He took several steps into the golden light of the attic, his fingers dragging across cloth until he found one that seemed to want to be revealed. He tugged gently on the creamy fabric, and a worn brown frame was revealed.
The scene was one of those idylls, two boys in those strange swimsuits that looked more like pajamas than something you’d splash in the water in. They were in the middle of the woods, legs crossed over each other, heads nestled together, toes being nibbled on by fish. The palette, even in the browns and oranges and greens of forestry, was bright, cheery, and hopeful.
Eric’s hand gripped Jack’s shoulder, his voice close to Jack’s ear. “People paint things like that?”
“Y-yeah.” Jack turned his head and found hazel eyes illuminated by golden light studying him. Heads seemed pulled by inexplicable gravity, and their lips met in a quick peck before pulling away and studiously not looking at each other.
Jack swallowed as he replaced the cloth, glancing out of the corner of his eye at Eric, a small smile tugging on his lips. Eric did the same as he pulled cloth from another painting.
“Tell me about this one.” Jack did, and all the rest that Eric requested. An hour passed, then two, then three, with paintings and kisses and awkwardness, until Jack finally demanded a break. His bladder was full from the coffee, and it felt like it would rip itself out of him if he didn’t pee soon. Eric admitted he also needed “to piss like a racehorse.”
The boys laughed at the crude description and tumbled down the stairs to Jack’s bathroom. Relieved, they headed back to the studio floor, where Mom was cleaning up from the day’s work.
“Where’s Dad?”
“Getting Imo’s.”
“Seriously? YES!”
“What’s Imo’s?”
“It’s the best pizza. You haven’t had it yet?”
Eric shook his head as Mom said, “Your boyfriend can stay for dinner if he wants.”
Jack looked at his mother’s back in horror. Eric made some sort of strangled noise. Half-baked denials sputtered from their lips. Mom just hummed at each one, and when they insisted, together, like one voice, that they were not boyfriends, she just said, “Okay,” and left it at that.
Dad came back with three pizzas rather than their normal two. Jack had studied him suspiciously, but the man gave him an infuriatingly knowing smile. Jack had heard Eric’s stomach rumble as soon as the smell of sausage, tomatoes, and herbs wafted from the open boxes. He took one look at the cracker thing crust, the perfectly melted provel cheese, and declared, “This is the best pizza in the world!”
Laughter danced through the kitchen as they ate, Jack and Eric glancing at each other, laughing at jokes and stories, knees pressed firmly together the whole time. After dinner, Jack walked Eric down the two blocks to his home. Their hands knocked against each other, their shoulders touched, and glances were thrown. About three doors from his house, Eric tugged on Jack’s hand, pulled him close, and gave him another quick kiss.
Jack looked up into those hazel eyes and gulped.
“So...” Eric whispered. “Be my boyfriend?”
“Yeah, yes, definitely. Please.”
Eric smiled, they kissed one more time, and parted. Jack made his way home slowly, fingers tracing his lips. He had a boyfriend. His first boyfriend. And he’d been kissed. His first kiss. His smile was beatific, and his pace quickened as joy pooled warmly in his stomach and bubbled like soda fizz in his chest. When he got in the house, Mom was wiping down the kitchen counters. She greeted him and said, “So. Boyfriends?”
Jack glared playfully, and she laughed, but he said, “Yes. Boyfriends.” It felt good to say it. Mom hadn’t ever asked if he was gay, and it was amazing and terrifying to say two things with one word. She wrapped Jack in a hug, tousled his hair, and kissed his forehead.
“Boyfriends are great,” she said, “and all doors will remain open when he’s here.”
Jack groaned and laughed. When Eric showed up the next day, two more iced coffees in hand, a small bag of found objects in his pocket, Jack showed him the sketch of the mosaic he wanted to work on: two boys, heads pressed together, in the golden light of an attic of paintings and possibilities.
On January 1, 2026, I woke up and decided I wanted to write every day. 500 words minimum. 2 hours maximum. These are my stories. Subscribe.
Cue Law & Order gavel sound.