Saturday, August 28, 2010
Third part of my fiction piece, Coal. Feel free to add constructive criticism!
To know what is right and not to do it is the worst cowardice. It is right you see to push the lemming off the cliff, and do not fear for him. The earth will break its fall. I am driving to a convenience store to purchase my army, my munitions, my Zippo lighters. The man who is not from here is not someone who will perish by my hand. He is arguably working in a dead end life cycle, but he is not fooling himself into luxuries. He wants to be simple, and for that I commend him. The waxing gibbous moon rewards me a third of a companion on the concrete and I am thankful and say my graces. The grass from homes is decadent, and I feel a mix of emotions when I smell fertilizer. It is unnatural and this is disappointing, yet it contains nitrogen, creating brilliant cherry spheres.
It is better to light one small candle than to curse the darkness. I am a product both of society, but I have a function to counter it. I will merely be a dent against this wall of ignorance veiling an organic life. My second step through the desert has been taken. A spark is all it takes.
If I were abused I may have been able to have a legal justification for my actions, but my family is the type that melts by my hand. My older brother Aaron counts cards in Las Vegas, enough to get by and not enough to get caught. His craft is harmless; he is scraping fool’s gold from the bottom of a mineshaft, and his wife thinks he sells yacht insurance in foreign countries. He has a sharp, rapier chin, a comically long and thin mustache found on European bodybuilders in cartoons. He has two young fruit of his loins and a German Shepherd, and I realize I should be proud of what many would consider achievements. We would play in the Virginian winter snow powder, competing at a young age; best handwriting, biggest snowman, prettiest girlfriend. He will prove to be a firefighter to my ignition; not quite an opponent but a necessity in counterbalance.
My mother liked and likes my brother Aaron better, she isn’t afraid of his calls, his aroma or aura. I attribute her distaste of me to mere paranoia and an onset of Alzheimer’s. And what have I done to justify her fear of me! She is naive because she only sees the things I do on the news and can’t appreciate I’m building a better world through demolition; I certainly have not merited her fear. I realize I don’t see her often, I’ll give you that point, but who wants to see their parents? Who wants to know what they’ll inevitably become? When I do see her I openly share what I’ve done, to, or rather for people. Her caretakers obviously don’t believe her when I depart, ‘arrest my son!’ she insists, and they merely attribute it to her mental deterioration. I sincerely pity my mother, to be trapped in a bubble of distrust that you can never pop.