"Freaky Fegan! Freaky Fegan!"
The jeers from the children were made stronger by the shoving and
laughter. They were playing their favorite after-school game; pick on Fegan
and try to make him cry.
The eight year old fell to the ground, weeping softly. His tears
caused the children to insult him more, calling him a crybaby and a freak
once more. Finally, once they were tired of their games, they walked away
and left Fegan sitting on the sidewalk.
Slowly Fegan got up, his palms cut and bleeding. He looked after his
tormentors and stuck his tongue out slightly. With that done, he bent down
to pick up the papers that had scattered all over the ground when they were
struck from his hands.
They were crayon pictures of strange creatures in bright colors.
Under each picture there was the word "Foogle." Collecting his pictures,
Fegan headed for home, his pictures held tightly against his chest.
He entered his house as slowly and silently as possible, creeping up
the stairs to his room. Once inside, he closed and locked his door, smiling
faintly at his luck.
His room was filled with colorful toys and pieces of cloth that
sparkled in the sunlight. Pictures of other Foogles lined his walls, giving
him some hope and happiness. On a deck, there were mounds of clay, some of
them sculpted into faces and people.
Going under his bedcovers, Fegan took out a flashlight and shone it
on his newest picture. Giggling softly, he hummed a strange tune to
himself, starting to finish his picture up. His mirth left him swiftly as
he heard thundering steps coming towards his door. Whimpering, he stayed
under the covers as a fist pounded on the door.
His father's furious voice rang out, ordering his son to open the
damned door. Fegan refused to move, his tiny body trembling as his father
smashed the door open and ripped the bedcovers off.
Fegan Floop flinched, looking over his shoulder almost fearfully. He
gave a faint sigh and turned his back to the window.
"Are you all right, sir?" Fegan looked at his assistant in slight
confusion, following his gaze to his left hand. His eyes softened faintly.
In his hand he held a smashed up piece of clay.
"I'm fine." He said softly, turning it between his fingers slowly.
"Is everything ready in the virtual room?" he asked.
"The Foogles are all ready."
"I'll be there shortly." Fegan assured him, turning back to the
window. When he was alone, he looked at the clay, thinking.
His fingers moved swiftly, molding the clay. When he was finished, he
held the face of eight-year old Fegan Floop. His eyes became far off once
again; thinking about how little Fegan was scared of his daddy and the
other little boys at school. He could still hear the cruel laughter and
shouts of "Freaky Fegan."
Softly, he started to hum the strange tune to himself. He hadn't even
thought about it for years, ever since his father sent him to the hospital
that day. Closing his eyes, he sang words to go with the song, and he
thought it would be perfect for his children's show.
Slipping the clay into his pocket, he turned and headed for the
virtual room, his cloak swishing behind him.
It's a cruel cruel world, all you little boys and girls
And some mean nasty people want to have you for their supper
But, if you follow me, you can all be free, free
You can all be free as a bird on a big TV if you dream, if you dream,
if you dream
It's a cruel cruel world, all the nasty boys and girls
Filled with selfish, mean nasty people, nasty nasty nasty nasty
But there's a way you can make your day
You can laugh, you can smile, you can come and stay a while
You can dream my dream, you can have it all with me
You can dream my dream, You can dream my dream
You can dream. my. dream.