The Mouse Clubhouse

When Myrick first popped of the page in Disney studios, the boy was unaware of everyone’s origins. He thought that this was how everything happened. The artists drew someone and that’s just how everyone in existence was born. Everyone lived inside of a small box that was always changing when the director asked.

But at age three, Myrick stared in the wrong direction. He saw a different world. Filled with funny creatures. It was then when he asked Mickey what the beings outside the screen were.

Mickey sighed, calling over the family. The tiny cartoon looked up at everyone, confused as to what was so bad. Minnie knelt next to her son, “Sweetie, we preform for those people. They’re called humans. We are cartoons.”

Mickey shushed his wife before she could say anything more. “Minnie, we have to wait until he’s older. Remember how long it took us to find out. He would be devastated.” He whispered to her.

“Humans,” Myrick giggled, unsure of why they looked so much different than everyone around him. “Can I meet one?” He was curious now, of the world that wasn’t his.

The family shook their heads, “When you’re older.”

At the time, Myrick didn’t know what his mother had been trying to tell him. He was just mad that no one would tell him. He was in this world—didn’t he deserve to know, too?

At age five, he got his own show and had his life plastered on for little kid to see. The mouse got fed up with not knowing and asked Uncle Goofy to explain. “I wanna go outside.” He complained.

“I’m sorry, Myrick, you have to wait until you’re older.” Goofy said, not wanting to explain how cartoons aren’t born like the rest of the planet. They were created by a studio.

“Older!” He cried out, “But that’s no fair!” Myrick pouted.

Goofy tried to shush the child, but with minimal success at best. “That’s just how it is.”

At age eleven, Myrick finally got his answer. “Myrick, you know how you learned that a mommy births a baby…” Mickey said, treading carefully around his son. The boy nodded. “Good, well, Myrick, that’s not how you were born.”

“What?” He asked, confused. The tiny cartoon stared up at his father.

“We cartoons are created by studios. I was created to mascot the company, and Mommy was created as my companion.”

Myrick grinned, hugging his father. “Thank you for finally giving me an answer.” He said. The boy leaned into Mickey Mouse.

“Can I ever meet the people who made me?” The boy asked, curious. He remembered what the other’s had said when he was in his younger years.