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Middle Weight
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Quiettime Friends (Short Story)
IP: 2DF8 44D6
Unique motif illusions, broken head pistons. Yet he listened… well enough to hear whimpers echo in the distance….
He sat, Thinking Man style, somewhere in between a coma and attentiveness: your modern-day Renaissance Man. Insults and waving hands accompanied by “Hello, McFly!” statements were of no distraction to him, because he just loved to listen, and nothing could harm him in his state thereof. To him, hearing was not only a learning tool that enabled him to obtain knowledge and traits of the refused basics, but also it was a weapon. A very effective weapon where every beat of the eardrum was a gun shot ringing out, defending his safe haven from hurtful emotions and wrecking ball words. It was his vest for a se7en bullet protection. To him, listening meant the world, and he practiced his talents as much as possible. Not only was it a defense mechanism with a delicate trigger and an itchy finger convulsion victim, but it was a mode of transportation. Much like a movie patron is transported to a different realm in the film’s atmosphere, listening is this boy’s transit to his created world.
It quickly evolved from a defense mechanism to something greater; a world created where physical difference and normality were no longer befriended by Importance. This world was not populated with a society he thought of as pollution, but rather Mother Nature: trees, smiling suns, and a shimmering lake. It was beautiful enough to make a fairy tale jealous. He listens to the pleasant conversations of the outside world, a world to which he did not belong, nor desire to fit into. There was a barrier presence, and he pressed his hands upon it presenting a mime mimic, after a quick glance he would return to his world, and uphold conversations with his reflection in the lake. The other boy was just like him and never spoke a word… he just listened. Through this silence, they discussed things: something every little man desires.
…And the bus releases its grasp two blocks from his home…
Unique motif illusions, broken head pistons. Yet he listened… well enough to hear whimpers echo in the distance….
And he sat, Thinking Man style, somewhere in between a coma and attentiveness: your modern-day Renaissance Man. He sat among various shades of gray in his environment, never longing to go home. Yet, missing his friend, missing his world, he stands up and paints the town desolate. Fearful of his house, fearful of the feeling from his stomach’s pit bottom, fearful of his mother’s cries for help, fearful of the liquid evil trapped inside a bottle, and terrified of the liquid that resides in his father figure’s belly. He trudges toward the house, listening for a female’s crying echoes, or something to show as evidence Violence is to stay as a guest for the night. Yelling is evident half a block away, and with tears rolling down his cheeks he proceeded for the door.
He approached the stairs, volumes grew fierce, and he rested his hand on the railing. His eyes closed, and his heartbeat was syncopated with the shouting, rate increasing with volume.
“You worthless piece of shit!”
Ba-Bum!
“Get out of my house!”
Ba-Bum! Ba-Bum!
“….and take that fucking dumb shit son of yours with you!”
Ba-Bum! Ba-Bum! Ba-Bum! Ba-Bum!
A plate shattered, startling the boy, and he opened his eyes. The stairs were gone. Tranquillity strangled the screaming, and the railing his hand rested on really was a rock, next to his favorite tree, and before him: the beautiful lake. He looked around. Light danced on top of the lake’s face, among their favorites was the JitterBug, and the boy liked to sit and listen to the rhythm of their footsteps. Looking around his world, a smile cast facial illumination: he was happy. He proceeded to the lake’s shore, removing his shoes to feel the gentle water caress his feet. Leaning forward, he peered over and saw the boy, who stared back at him. In this silence, they discussed things. They looked at each other, and the boy just opened his mouth and said, “Why?” The reflection masked confusion for a face, and just sat and stared back at the boy.
“Friend,” the boy said, pointing at the reflection. He just stared in intimate silence, this was their conversation drift. Eyes closed, maternal illusions appeared in his mind, and with a smile, “Love.” The reflection remained at a constant, unblinking stare, mimicking the boy’s facial expression only when he wasn’t looking. And they sat there, adrift in full conversation engagement. The tree looked down upon the two boys. The boy looked down upon the reflection. The reflection opened his mouth, and only sounds of thud vocals were released.
The boy’s mother crashed into his world, bringing him back into an unwanted reality as she landed next to him. Bones broken and deep wounds. His father painted with fists and hard object colors, and this time used a new canvas to display his artwork. The boy looked up, confused, only wondering why daddy gives mommy pain wrapped as a gift. He looked up into his father’s struck matchstick eyes, resting at the top of the stairs. He looked down at his mother next to him. Her breathing waded in a shallow pool. She looked back at him and smiled to the best of her ability, and said, “Just….listen….”
…And the boy ran until all limitations were met. Limits broken, he ran some more…
He sat, Thinking Man style, somewhere in between a coma and attentiveness: your modern-day Renaissance Man. Forever listening to the echoes of his mother’s final words. So he did what he was told to do. So he listened. And listened. And listened.
Unique motif illusions, broken head pistons. Yet he listened… well enough to hear whimpers echo in the distance….
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10-23-03, 09:20 PM
#1
Linear Mode
