the prize

He walked home from school, the prize clutched in his hand. It was a small trophy, not very impressive, but it was his. He had won it for a story he wrote, a story about a boy who flew. He felt proud, felt like he had accomplished something. As he walked, he thought about what his father would say. His father was not an easy man to please. He would probably just grunt, maybe say congratulations. The boy didn't know if he would even show it to him. He didn't know if he wanted to. When he got home, his father was in the living room, watching TV. The boy just set the trophy on the table, didn't say anything. His father didn't notice, didn't even look up. The boy went to his room, closed the door. He felt a pang of disappointment, but it was fleeting. He knew his father wasn't interested. He took out a book, began to read. The words blurred together on the page, but he didn't care. He was happy, in his own way. The trophy sat on the table, a small, shiny thing. He didn't think about it again, not for a long time.