They laugh because They have given up on trying to tell you what They know. They laugh because They not only know, They know that They know, that They know.
They laugh because those who would most benefit are those who will least listen. They laugh because They believe in you and that you will, as They did, survive the mistakes of the pride of your presumed knowledge. They know that you will come through it knowing as They know and seeing in the end, it wasn't all that bad for what was learned. They laugh and know one day you will laugh with Them.
They laugh because They know a better way and your resistance drives Them mad. If They didn't laugh, They would go insane.
Saturday, September 04, 2010
Tuesday, April 07, 2009
When Johnny Plays
When Johnny Plays
In honor of Sgm. Miller and all who go to war hoping each time that this war is the last war.
Little Pete made exploding sounds with his mouth as he toppled over several of his tan plastic army men. Jeremy followed with a toppling of his men who came in the traditional green color. They continued till there were few army men left on either side. It was their summer afternoon game they played in the comfort of each other’s home, when the days got too hot. Their routine was pretty standard by now; setup their men on the ground and dressers and shelves. Then each took turns making shooting or exploding sounds followed the coolest ways they could think of to topple the men out of their various posts. Somewhere in the middle a disagreement would break out.
“Your guy couldn’t shoot me from there.” Jeremy said.
“Sure he could, he’s a marksman.” Little Pete replied.
“But his barrel is bent.”
“That don’t mean anything.”
“Does to. A bent barrel can’t shoot straight.”
Little Pete picked up the tan army man with the bent barrel and tried to make it straight, but it would just return back to its bent position. Then he stuck the plastic tip of the barrel in his mouth and chewed it till it came off. He kept the plastic in his mouth, chewing on it like it ware a piece of gum.
“That’s not right.” Jeremy said, “You can’t just change him like that.”
“If his barrel can be bent, it sure can be cut off just a simple.”
Jeremy thought about that and decided there was no good response that wouldn’t sound ridiculous. So he agreed. Although neither thought about it consciously, both knew that a good friendship had fights, but it also had reconciliations soon afterwards. Jeremy asked which men he shot, and Little Pete indicated a group in the far corner of the room.
“I still say that’s impossible.” Jeremy said.
“Not for this guy, he’s the best there ever was.”
Little Pete made his shooting sounds and Jeremy knocked off the men.
“Jeremy?” came the voice of his mother from downstairs.
“Yeah, mom.”
“Petrosa’s Mom called for him.”
“Okay.”
Little Pete scowled at Jeremy, “I hate it when she uses my whole name.” Jeremy nodded and the two collected and separated their men in their containers; except for the marksman with a chewed off barrel. Little Pete put him in his pocket.
“See ya tomorrow?” Little Pete asked.
“Yeah, but I think we need a new rule. Your guys cannot be on one side of the room and shoot my guys on the other. That’s just not real.”
“Alright.” Little Pete said, “Except for this guy.” He reached in his pocket and pulled out the marksman.
“But how will I know it’s him?”
“Look at the barrel, stupid.”
“Yeah, until you chew off the barrels on all your guys.”
“I ain’t gonna do that.”
“You might if it means winning.”
Little Pete sighed and asked for a marker. Jeremy found one in his desk and handed to him. Pete wrote on the bottom piece where flat plastic made the piece stand up.
“There.” Little Pete said. And he showed him the bottom of the piece with the name “Jonny” now written on it.
“That’s your brother’s name.” Jeremy said.
“Yep, cuz’ he’s the best.”
“You spelt it wrong.”
Little Pete shrugged “The ‘H’ won’t fit.” He put the piece back in his pocket. He started down the stairs, leaving Jeremy in his room. Half-way down Jeremy came out of his room with another protest.
“How do I know you won’t write that name on the others?”
Little Pete rolled his eyes. “Because, dummy, there’s only one Johnny.”
On his way to his house, Pete thought about Jeremy’s protest. He never even thought of putting the name on all the pieces, but it did make sense. He went up to his room and put his box on his desk. He took out the army man in his pocket and looked at the name on the bottom. He knew he could never cheat like Jeremy suggested. Not because he didn’t like cheating. Beating Jeremy at games was one of his favorite activities. But he knew what he said on the stairs was true, there was only one Johnny.
Summer became fall and school started. Jeremy and Little Pete had the same teacher in third grade. They recessed together, and studied together and on Saturdays when it was not comfortable to play outside, they setup their army men. Little Pete honored the rules but always took care to hide his marksman. It was his ace in the hole. He learned to use it only at the right time. Jeremy would protest and get frustrated at his special piece, but now that the rule was set, only the marksman could do what he did. As the school year progressed, Jeremy grew tired of playing, tried to introduce other games. But eventually they would gravitate back to the army men.
Then after thanksgiving, Jeremy came to Little Pete’s home. “I’m moving.” Jeremy said, “We move right after Christmas.” He turned and walked home.
Christmas came and went far too fast. For Little Pete there was no anticipation. He did not count the days till Christmas like the other kids. He knew the day would come and go way too fast.
Soon, Little Pete was watching the movers pull up to Jeremy’s home and packing things away. The two boys didn’t play a lot together prior to this time. Both blamed the move getting in the way, but neither felt much like going to see the other when there was time. The day before the move Jeremy came over with his box of Army men. He just handed to Little Pete without looking up.
“You don’t want them?” Little Pete said.
“Nah. “ Jeremy said, without looking up. “You liked them more than I did anyway.”
Jeremy turned to go home. The next time Little Pete saw Jeremy was when he was in the back seat of the car driving off. Little Pete saw Jeremy wipe his eyes just once. After they drove out of sight, Little Pete went up to his room and pulled out both boxes. He took a few men and set them up on his desk. He half heartedly made his shooting and exploding sounds and then toppled the men over. After a couple of minutes he put them back.
At dinner, Little Pete fiddled with his meal. His mom and dad both said words to console him, but they only echoed until they became intelligible. He ate a few bites of something he could not recognize, his and sat out on the porch in the cold air for as long as he could stand and looked at the now empty house across the street. When he was shivering, he returned inside. There his mom stood, holding a smaller spare box in she had gathered to help with the move. She came over and rubbed his body to get it warmer. She scolded him for being out so late and without so much as a sweater. Little Pete heard none of it. He looked at the spare boxes and asked for one.
“Only if you promise to get in a warm bath immediately.” His mom said.
He nodded and picked up a box, It was sturdy and large enough. He hurried to the bathroom and started filling the tub. While it was filling, he went to his room and opened the box of his tan army men and dumped them in the new box. Then he did the same with the green army men he got from Jeremy.
He shook them up just in time to have his mom yell at him not attending to the tub. He quickly returned to the bath and got in. The warm water felt like it went to his bones.
When he was washed and warmed up, Pete got out and did he bedtime preparations. He said his good-nights and went to his room. He went to his desk and picked up the box. The green colors speckled with the tan. He put his hand inside scooped up some and watched as returned. He folded the flaps of the box and shook it as best he could, he saw that the mixture continued. Some spots had an even distribution of both colors. Others were more green or more tan. He shook it again. The results were same. He went to his dresser a sifted through his drawers till he came across a single dress sock. It had been sitting there without a match for months now. He put his marksman in the sock and placed it in the box.
“They’re all friends now, Jonny.” He said, “Lead them all.” After that, he would occasionally pull out the men, and set them up, but he never made them shoot or topple each other.
In February, Little Pete got sick. He had to stay home from school for over a week. For Little Pete, the biggest difficulty was not the pain or the weakness, it was the boredom. His mother encouraged him to pass time by playing small games in bed. She brought his army men to his bed. Little Pete’s throat was too swollen to talk in anything but a frail whisper.
“I can’t play that. I can’t make the noises they make.” Little Pete whispered.
“I bet we could find something to do with them.” His mom said. Little Pete shook his head. “They’re friends now anyway.” He said.
“But they’re still men, aren’t they?” His mom asked. Pete shrugged. His mom open reached in the box and pulled out a piece holding the mine detector. “What’s this guy?” She asked.
“Mine sweeper.” He whispered.
“Looks for mines under the ground?” She asked. Peter nodded. “Well maybe he could look for other things underground. Like buried treasure or –“
“Or dinasours?”
“Yes. Dinasours or maybe an ancient civilization. He could be a paleontologist or archeologist when you play.”
She pulled out the guy holding a bazooka. “This looks like a powerful weapon.” She said. Little Pete nodded.
“But you know what else it looks like?”
Little Pete looked at it for some time. “A telescope?” He asked.
“Exactly what I thought. He’s an astronomer.” Her mom now pulled out the guy in the sock. She examined it and saw the name on the bottom.
“This guy looks special.” His mom said.
“He’s a Marksman.” Pete whispered, “The best in the world.”
“I can see that. But what will he aim at now.”
“He might be a hunter?” Pete said.
“Maybe. What would he hunt?”
“Deer. Elk maybe.”
“Not a very special task for the best in the world, is it?”
Pete shook his head.
His mom turned the piece over in her hands and closed her eyes. Then she smiled a contented smile.
“Dreams.” She said.
“Huh?”
“Dreams. They are hard to catch, most people never do get one. He could be the warrior who helps others to find and catch their dreams. That would be a task worth of the best in the world, right?”
Pete thought on it for a while. “Dreams.” He said. “Yeah. I like that.” He took the piece from his mom and rolled over to sleep. He dreamed and as he dreamed the marksman took careful aim and fired.
-----------------------------------------
On April 3, 2009, I took a flight to Cincinnati on route to the UK. A flight attendant on that flight had undertaken a personal project to become more involved with the troops fighting overseas. She had begun passing around journals to have the passengers write in them. Since my penmanship is so horrific I decided to type something and reference it in my letter to the Sargeant. As I thought about it. I thought it must be difficult for soldiers to be defined by a war during one period and then have to redefine themselves later. This is the story that came to me.
In honor of Sgm. Miller and all who go to war hoping each time that this war is the last war.
Little Pete made exploding sounds with his mouth as he toppled over several of his tan plastic army men. Jeremy followed with a toppling of his men who came in the traditional green color. They continued till there were few army men left on either side. It was their summer afternoon game they played in the comfort of each other’s home, when the days got too hot. Their routine was pretty standard by now; setup their men on the ground and dressers and shelves. Then each took turns making shooting or exploding sounds followed the coolest ways they could think of to topple the men out of their various posts. Somewhere in the middle a disagreement would break out.
“Your guy couldn’t shoot me from there.” Jeremy said.
“Sure he could, he’s a marksman.” Little Pete replied.
“But his barrel is bent.”
“That don’t mean anything.”
“Does to. A bent barrel can’t shoot straight.”
Little Pete picked up the tan army man with the bent barrel and tried to make it straight, but it would just return back to its bent position. Then he stuck the plastic tip of the barrel in his mouth and chewed it till it came off. He kept the plastic in his mouth, chewing on it like it ware a piece of gum.
“That’s not right.” Jeremy said, “You can’t just change him like that.”
“If his barrel can be bent, it sure can be cut off just a simple.”
Jeremy thought about that and decided there was no good response that wouldn’t sound ridiculous. So he agreed. Although neither thought about it consciously, both knew that a good friendship had fights, but it also had reconciliations soon afterwards. Jeremy asked which men he shot, and Little Pete indicated a group in the far corner of the room.
“I still say that’s impossible.” Jeremy said.
“Not for this guy, he’s the best there ever was.”
Little Pete made his shooting sounds and Jeremy knocked off the men.
“Jeremy?” came the voice of his mother from downstairs.
“Yeah, mom.”
“Petrosa’s Mom called for him.”
“Okay.”
Little Pete scowled at Jeremy, “I hate it when she uses my whole name.” Jeremy nodded and the two collected and separated their men in their containers; except for the marksman with a chewed off barrel. Little Pete put him in his pocket.
“See ya tomorrow?” Little Pete asked.
“Yeah, but I think we need a new rule. Your guys cannot be on one side of the room and shoot my guys on the other. That’s just not real.”
“Alright.” Little Pete said, “Except for this guy.” He reached in his pocket and pulled out the marksman.
“But how will I know it’s him?”
“Look at the barrel, stupid.”
“Yeah, until you chew off the barrels on all your guys.”
“I ain’t gonna do that.”
“You might if it means winning.”
Little Pete sighed and asked for a marker. Jeremy found one in his desk and handed to him. Pete wrote on the bottom piece where flat plastic made the piece stand up.
“There.” Little Pete said. And he showed him the bottom of the piece with the name “Jonny” now written on it.
“That’s your brother’s name.” Jeremy said.
“Yep, cuz’ he’s the best.”
“You spelt it wrong.”
Little Pete shrugged “The ‘H’ won’t fit.” He put the piece back in his pocket. He started down the stairs, leaving Jeremy in his room. Half-way down Jeremy came out of his room with another protest.
“How do I know you won’t write that name on the others?”
Little Pete rolled his eyes. “Because, dummy, there’s only one Johnny.”
On his way to his house, Pete thought about Jeremy’s protest. He never even thought of putting the name on all the pieces, but it did make sense. He went up to his room and put his box on his desk. He took out the army man in his pocket and looked at the name on the bottom. He knew he could never cheat like Jeremy suggested. Not because he didn’t like cheating. Beating Jeremy at games was one of his favorite activities. But he knew what he said on the stairs was true, there was only one Johnny.
Summer became fall and school started. Jeremy and Little Pete had the same teacher in third grade. They recessed together, and studied together and on Saturdays when it was not comfortable to play outside, they setup their army men. Little Pete honored the rules but always took care to hide his marksman. It was his ace in the hole. He learned to use it only at the right time. Jeremy would protest and get frustrated at his special piece, but now that the rule was set, only the marksman could do what he did. As the school year progressed, Jeremy grew tired of playing, tried to introduce other games. But eventually they would gravitate back to the army men.
Then after thanksgiving, Jeremy came to Little Pete’s home. “I’m moving.” Jeremy said, “We move right after Christmas.” He turned and walked home.
Christmas came and went far too fast. For Little Pete there was no anticipation. He did not count the days till Christmas like the other kids. He knew the day would come and go way too fast.
Soon, Little Pete was watching the movers pull up to Jeremy’s home and packing things away. The two boys didn’t play a lot together prior to this time. Both blamed the move getting in the way, but neither felt much like going to see the other when there was time. The day before the move Jeremy came over with his box of Army men. He just handed to Little Pete without looking up.
“You don’t want them?” Little Pete said.
“Nah. “ Jeremy said, without looking up. “You liked them more than I did anyway.”
Jeremy turned to go home. The next time Little Pete saw Jeremy was when he was in the back seat of the car driving off. Little Pete saw Jeremy wipe his eyes just once. After they drove out of sight, Little Pete went up to his room and pulled out both boxes. He took a few men and set them up on his desk. He half heartedly made his shooting and exploding sounds and then toppled the men over. After a couple of minutes he put them back.
At dinner, Little Pete fiddled with his meal. His mom and dad both said words to console him, but they only echoed until they became intelligible. He ate a few bites of something he could not recognize, his and sat out on the porch in the cold air for as long as he could stand and looked at the now empty house across the street. When he was shivering, he returned inside. There his mom stood, holding a smaller spare box in she had gathered to help with the move. She came over and rubbed his body to get it warmer. She scolded him for being out so late and without so much as a sweater. Little Pete heard none of it. He looked at the spare boxes and asked for one.
“Only if you promise to get in a warm bath immediately.” His mom said.
He nodded and picked up a box, It was sturdy and large enough. He hurried to the bathroom and started filling the tub. While it was filling, he went to his room and opened the box of his tan army men and dumped them in the new box. Then he did the same with the green army men he got from Jeremy.
He shook them up just in time to have his mom yell at him not attending to the tub. He quickly returned to the bath and got in. The warm water felt like it went to his bones.
When he was washed and warmed up, Pete got out and did he bedtime preparations. He said his good-nights and went to his room. He went to his desk and picked up the box. The green colors speckled with the tan. He put his hand inside scooped up some and watched as returned. He folded the flaps of the box and shook it as best he could, he saw that the mixture continued. Some spots had an even distribution of both colors. Others were more green or more tan. He shook it again. The results were same. He went to his dresser a sifted through his drawers till he came across a single dress sock. It had been sitting there without a match for months now. He put his marksman in the sock and placed it in the box.
“They’re all friends now, Jonny.” He said, “Lead them all.” After that, he would occasionally pull out the men, and set them up, but he never made them shoot or topple each other.
In February, Little Pete got sick. He had to stay home from school for over a week. For Little Pete, the biggest difficulty was not the pain or the weakness, it was the boredom. His mother encouraged him to pass time by playing small games in bed. She brought his army men to his bed. Little Pete’s throat was too swollen to talk in anything but a frail whisper.
“I can’t play that. I can’t make the noises they make.” Little Pete whispered.
“I bet we could find something to do with them.” His mom said. Little Pete shook his head. “They’re friends now anyway.” He said.
“But they’re still men, aren’t they?” His mom asked. Pete shrugged. His mom open reached in the box and pulled out a piece holding the mine detector. “What’s this guy?” She asked.
“Mine sweeper.” He whispered.
“Looks for mines under the ground?” She asked. Peter nodded. “Well maybe he could look for other things underground. Like buried treasure or –“
“Or dinasours?”
“Yes. Dinasours or maybe an ancient civilization. He could be a paleontologist or archeologist when you play.”
She pulled out the guy holding a bazooka. “This looks like a powerful weapon.” She said. Little Pete nodded.
“But you know what else it looks like?”
Little Pete looked at it for some time. “A telescope?” He asked.
“Exactly what I thought. He’s an astronomer.” Her mom now pulled out the guy in the sock. She examined it and saw the name on the bottom.
“This guy looks special.” His mom said.
“He’s a Marksman.” Pete whispered, “The best in the world.”
“I can see that. But what will he aim at now.”
“He might be a hunter?” Pete said.
“Maybe. What would he hunt?”
“Deer. Elk maybe.”
“Not a very special task for the best in the world, is it?”
Pete shook his head.
His mom turned the piece over in her hands and closed her eyes. Then she smiled a contented smile.
“Dreams.” She said.
“Huh?”
“Dreams. They are hard to catch, most people never do get one. He could be the warrior who helps others to find and catch their dreams. That would be a task worth of the best in the world, right?”
Pete thought on it for a while. “Dreams.” He said. “Yeah. I like that.” He took the piece from his mom and rolled over to sleep. He dreamed and as he dreamed the marksman took careful aim and fired.
-----------------------------------------
On April 3, 2009, I took a flight to Cincinnati on route to the UK. A flight attendant on that flight had undertaken a personal project to become more involved with the troops fighting overseas. She had begun passing around journals to have the passengers write in them. Since my penmanship is so horrific I decided to type something and reference it in my letter to the Sargeant. As I thought about it. I thought it must be difficult for soldiers to be defined by a war during one period and then have to redefine themselves later. This is the story that came to me.
Tuesday, November 21, 2006
The Reunion (Creative Essay)
They spent the winter crafting sculptures of themselves. They filled the air in the workshops with the moist and musty smell of wet clay. Splatters of clay hit the ground and left their exploding patterns on the unfinished concretes floors. They crafted themselves using almost the exact same figures as the year before and the year before that. Some added an extra facial line to show signs of a steady and subtle aging. Others removed a line or two in an effort to defy nature and its unforgivable truth telling.
One woman took extra special care to make sure hers sculpture was sorrowful. She carved lines of pain far beyond anything she could see in the mirror. She fashioned herself in a seated and hunched over position. She contorted her face just a little more, not too much; just enough to show that the world had been crueler to her than the others. All who viewed it felt a profound sense of sympathy.
The woman had a secret. She had been practicing a kind of magic for many years. It was not especially powerful. But it allowed her to take strength from those who drew wanted to get close to her. Over time she had used their strength to increase her magic. She molded several small spheres with her hands and bewitched them. They floated and darted out and back erratically without flow or pattern.
All the others took care to paint their sculptures. The weak clay left beautiful flaws that cast shadows into the crevices that made the sculptures appear to move. They painted deep into these crevices to hide the imperfections. They hid them easily by using only one color - flat white with no gloss. The small time sorceress did not have time to paint nor did she dare paint for fear of what it would do to the magic. She refused to place the sculpture in the kiln. The others fired their sculptures. The paint and the clay hardened and became impervious to the elements around them.
When they completed their sculptures, they went to their children’s rooms and took their players. They hung them like necklaces on their sculptures. Their children helped them to load recordings into the players.
They carefully placed their sculptures into the back of their trucks. The children reluctantly followed the trucks as they drove slowly to the park. They gently removed the sculptures and placed them at tables under a pavilion where the sun could not get to them and harm them. A few were placed here, a few there. After they were placed, the children ran to play.
The sorceress brought her sculpture and placed it at the head of the main table. The spheres followed with the sculpture. They spheres followed orderly patterns around her statue that hypnotized those who gazed at them. The others saw the pained expressions in the sculpted face and felt the magic of the spheres. They immediately placed their sculptures next to hers. They nestled them close to hers so that some of the spheres moved around them as well. The sorceress feared damage to the unfired and unpainted piece and she ordered her sons to stand guard of it.
The children played in a circle. They laughed and giggled as children do. Their parents finished placing their sculptures, turned on the players and dissolved. Nobody knew where they went, not even they could say. The children didn’t even notice. They laughed and danced in a circle.
Others came to the park and tried to talk to the statues. But the recordings would not respond and so the others left and most never returned.
The children’s laughing and dancing became a chorus and the beauty of their song touched nature. Nature wept for joy. Her weeping cooled the air and dimmed the hot sun. The children welcomed it and laughed and sang in the circle even more. The rain came heavier and the children were soaked. They squealed with joy at the gift and played in the water like a summertime Christmas.
The pavilion leaked. Water dripped on to the sorceress' sculpture. The spheres slowed and sagged. Her guards, passionate to protect the statue, ran to the children and scolded them. But the children wouldn’t refuse the rain. The guards grabbed the children and beat the laughter out of them. They beat the children until their skin was sore. When it healed it wrinkled and became hard. They beat the children until they could no longer remember how to sing or dance. They beat the children until they forgot how to enjoy the rain. The children took some of the mud created by the rain and began to make sculptures. They played quietly and they were called good children.
That night the parents reappeared. They took their sculptures and threw them in the back of the trucks and picked up their children well behaved children. They all agreed that it was a good event and wished more people would show up. It seemed to them that apathy ran wild these days. Only they cared enough to do what it took to make the event successful.
One woman took extra special care to make sure hers sculpture was sorrowful. She carved lines of pain far beyond anything she could see in the mirror. She fashioned herself in a seated and hunched over position. She contorted her face just a little more, not too much; just enough to show that the world had been crueler to her than the others. All who viewed it felt a profound sense of sympathy.
The woman had a secret. She had been practicing a kind of magic for many years. It was not especially powerful. But it allowed her to take strength from those who drew wanted to get close to her. Over time she had used their strength to increase her magic. She molded several small spheres with her hands and bewitched them. They floated and darted out and back erratically without flow or pattern.
All the others took care to paint their sculptures. The weak clay left beautiful flaws that cast shadows into the crevices that made the sculptures appear to move. They painted deep into these crevices to hide the imperfections. They hid them easily by using only one color - flat white with no gloss. The small time sorceress did not have time to paint nor did she dare paint for fear of what it would do to the magic. She refused to place the sculpture in the kiln. The others fired their sculptures. The paint and the clay hardened and became impervious to the elements around them.
When they completed their sculptures, they went to their children’s rooms and took their players. They hung them like necklaces on their sculptures. Their children helped them to load recordings into the players.
They carefully placed their sculptures into the back of their trucks. The children reluctantly followed the trucks as they drove slowly to the park. They gently removed the sculptures and placed them at tables under a pavilion where the sun could not get to them and harm them. A few were placed here, a few there. After they were placed, the children ran to play.
The sorceress brought her sculpture and placed it at the head of the main table. The spheres followed with the sculpture. They spheres followed orderly patterns around her statue that hypnotized those who gazed at them. The others saw the pained expressions in the sculpted face and felt the magic of the spheres. They immediately placed their sculptures next to hers. They nestled them close to hers so that some of the spheres moved around them as well. The sorceress feared damage to the unfired and unpainted piece and she ordered her sons to stand guard of it.
The children played in a circle. They laughed and giggled as children do. Their parents finished placing their sculptures, turned on the players and dissolved. Nobody knew where they went, not even they could say. The children didn’t even notice. They laughed and danced in a circle.
Others came to the park and tried to talk to the statues. But the recordings would not respond and so the others left and most never returned.
The children’s laughing and dancing became a chorus and the beauty of their song touched nature. Nature wept for joy. Her weeping cooled the air and dimmed the hot sun. The children welcomed it and laughed and sang in the circle even more. The rain came heavier and the children were soaked. They squealed with joy at the gift and played in the water like a summertime Christmas.
The pavilion leaked. Water dripped on to the sorceress' sculpture. The spheres slowed and sagged. Her guards, passionate to protect the statue, ran to the children and scolded them. But the children wouldn’t refuse the rain. The guards grabbed the children and beat the laughter out of them. They beat the children until their skin was sore. When it healed it wrinkled and became hard. They beat the children until they could no longer remember how to sing or dance. They beat the children until they forgot how to enjoy the rain. The children took some of the mud created by the rain and began to make sculptures. They played quietly and they were called good children.
That night the parents reappeared. They took their sculptures and threw them in the back of the trucks and picked up their children well behaved children. They all agreed that it was a good event and wished more people would show up. It seemed to them that apathy ran wild these days. Only they cared enough to do what it took to make the event successful.
The Beast and the Master
She called out her command "Sick em, boy! Sick em!"
The command was obeyed instinctively as the creature bore his teeth and walked towards his prey. His prey wasn’t backing down. He had endured enough. His prey already suffered one senseless killing. The prey howled with over the loss. She hated the howling and called this beast.
The beast stood on it's hind legs. Covered in hair with patches missing; the result of scars that no longer allowed natural growth. She called to him in her own way. No sooner did he arrive than she shouted her command. Now he stood crouched ready for the command to kill his prey. The prey wasn’t backing down. The beast barked vulgarities. The prey would not back down. The beast pet could only attack or retreat. There was no instinct of his own. He only recognized her commands.
The beast growled, but with it a whine. Uncertain at the prey’s defiance, and without a command to attack, this impasse was unfamiliar. He needed the command to draw blood. Not for protection, not for honor, not for loyalty – only because she ordered it. If I could, I would have put him to sleep to save him from his future existence which will only include bitterness and rejection. I wanted to stop this. I wanted to step in to save the life of both the beast and his prey. I couldn’t move beyond my own fear and my own curiosity as to what would happen next. I could only watch and wait for its end. I knew the end would not be good. For either outcome for the beast, life or death, it would never knowing how to choose; a slave to her whims.
The command was obeyed instinctively as the creature bore his teeth and walked towards his prey. His prey wasn’t backing down. He had endured enough. His prey already suffered one senseless killing. The prey howled with over the loss. She hated the howling and called this beast.
The beast stood on it's hind legs. Covered in hair with patches missing; the result of scars that no longer allowed natural growth. She called to him in her own way. No sooner did he arrive than she shouted her command. Now he stood crouched ready for the command to kill his prey. The prey wasn’t backing down. The beast barked vulgarities. The prey would not back down. The beast pet could only attack or retreat. There was no instinct of his own. He only recognized her commands.
The beast growled, but with it a whine. Uncertain at the prey’s defiance, and without a command to attack, this impasse was unfamiliar. He needed the command to draw blood. Not for protection, not for honor, not for loyalty – only because she ordered it. If I could, I would have put him to sleep to save him from his future existence which will only include bitterness and rejection. I wanted to stop this. I wanted to step in to save the life of both the beast and his prey. I couldn’t move beyond my own fear and my own curiosity as to what would happen next. I could only watch and wait for its end. I knew the end would not be good. For either outcome for the beast, life or death, it would never knowing how to choose; a slave to her whims.
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