amber_waves
02-24-2004, 04:35 PM
'Stories'
'you think the guy telling this is ranting and raving my GOD; you think this is too horrible to have really happened, this is too awful to be the truth'.
'One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest' Ken Kesey
'You gotta shake your fist at lightning now,
You gotta roar like forest fire.'
'Judgement of the moon and stars' Joni Mitchell
'Tell me a story.'
'What kind of story?'
'Any kind'.
'I only have sad ones'.
'That's okay. That's all any of us have. Tell me it.'
Mr. Hammond goes to his local shop for cigerettes. He never buys anything else. He knows that cigerettes are life, cigerettes are all there is, quick fleeting moments that burn away fast like nothing.
He values these cigerettes. They mean everything.
The girl behind the counter looks good. He tries to ignore the fact that she's Asian, he could never allow himself to fancy one of *them*. He picks up the closest thing to him without taking his eyes off her.
'Twenty pack of Lambert and Butler and this too', he says, looking down at what he took. One onion.
He pushes the onion towards her, it rolls away on the counter. 'Opps', he says, grabbing it and handing it to her. 'It's shy. There's nothing worse than a shy onion'.
She smiles faintly and quickly calculates his purcheses. He tries to look down her top. He spies just a little bit of lace and attempts to hide the beginnings of an erection.
'There's your change. Thanks'.
He gives her his best smile and walks out, heading for home.
Last night Mr. Hammond beat the **** out of his son. He had his reasons.
He doesn't like having to come home and see his son slumped on the sofa watching TV. This isn't about guilt. It's about not being able to clean up messes you make, not being able to kick it under the carpet and forget about it.
No, it's not pleasent, all thse loose ends. The loose ends are the blood on the rug that doesn't come out, its the battle wounds on his knuckles, its the slam of his son's door and the sudden blaring of loud rock music. It's unsaid words and an atmosphere that clings to their ankles like children.
It's not his fault his son is so damn sensitive and wimpy, so much like his mother. Seeing him short-circuits his brain, makes him do things he'd rather not. It's not a matter of choice. It's a matter of circumstance and circumstance is heartless. You do the best you can, you move within your restraits because its a waste of time trying to break out of them.
They sit at the table eating dry cereal for dinner and listening to the football. Out of the corner of his eye, he watches his son wince, trying to eat around his injuries. For a second, something passes through his eyes: sorrow at what we create for ourselvs. Then its gone and he's iron, steel, cold and gray.
We grow and our fingernails get longer and they keep on growing after we stop. We struggle and try to forget the nights through sleep and hurt the ones we love because they can't stop this strange planet for turning, they can't stop the struggle and the sleep.
'I told you it wasn't a good story'.
'You told it from your father's point of view. Why'd you do that?'
'I don't know. I can't think about what I felt. I've put that away'.
We lay back in the hotel bed and shared a cigerette, sobered by the trama and suffering he'd called into being.
Nobody cried. But the memories stayed with us and tugged at us all night while the moon spun in circles, up there, where its quiet, where these things never happen.
'you think the guy telling this is ranting and raving my GOD; you think this is too horrible to have really happened, this is too awful to be the truth'.
'One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest' Ken Kesey
'You gotta shake your fist at lightning now,
You gotta roar like forest fire.'
'Judgement of the moon and stars' Joni Mitchell
'Tell me a story.'
'What kind of story?'
'Any kind'.
'I only have sad ones'.
'That's okay. That's all any of us have. Tell me it.'
Mr. Hammond goes to his local shop for cigerettes. He never buys anything else. He knows that cigerettes are life, cigerettes are all there is, quick fleeting moments that burn away fast like nothing.
He values these cigerettes. They mean everything.
The girl behind the counter looks good. He tries to ignore the fact that she's Asian, he could never allow himself to fancy one of *them*. He picks up the closest thing to him without taking his eyes off her.
'Twenty pack of Lambert and Butler and this too', he says, looking down at what he took. One onion.
He pushes the onion towards her, it rolls away on the counter. 'Opps', he says, grabbing it and handing it to her. 'It's shy. There's nothing worse than a shy onion'.
She smiles faintly and quickly calculates his purcheses. He tries to look down her top. He spies just a little bit of lace and attempts to hide the beginnings of an erection.
'There's your change. Thanks'.
He gives her his best smile and walks out, heading for home.
Last night Mr. Hammond beat the **** out of his son. He had his reasons.
He doesn't like having to come home and see his son slumped on the sofa watching TV. This isn't about guilt. It's about not being able to clean up messes you make, not being able to kick it under the carpet and forget about it.
No, it's not pleasent, all thse loose ends. The loose ends are the blood on the rug that doesn't come out, its the battle wounds on his knuckles, its the slam of his son's door and the sudden blaring of loud rock music. It's unsaid words and an atmosphere that clings to their ankles like children.
It's not his fault his son is so damn sensitive and wimpy, so much like his mother. Seeing him short-circuits his brain, makes him do things he'd rather not. It's not a matter of choice. It's a matter of circumstance and circumstance is heartless. You do the best you can, you move within your restraits because its a waste of time trying to break out of them.
They sit at the table eating dry cereal for dinner and listening to the football. Out of the corner of his eye, he watches his son wince, trying to eat around his injuries. For a second, something passes through his eyes: sorrow at what we create for ourselvs. Then its gone and he's iron, steel, cold and gray.
We grow and our fingernails get longer and they keep on growing after we stop. We struggle and try to forget the nights through sleep and hurt the ones we love because they can't stop this strange planet for turning, they can't stop the struggle and the sleep.
'I told you it wasn't a good story'.
'You told it from your father's point of view. Why'd you do that?'
'I don't know. I can't think about what I felt. I've put that away'.
We lay back in the hotel bed and shared a cigerette, sobered by the trama and suffering he'd called into being.
Nobody cried. But the memories stayed with us and tugged at us all night while the moon spun in circles, up there, where its quiet, where these things never happen.