Harold never meant it to get this bad. He didn't mean to kill anyone.
When he thought of returning to the place where he was from, he thought of green hills, trees, fresh air. He thought of food that tasted fresh and clear. The snap of the pea pod, like a small firecracker. The color of the tomato like a red badge of courage.
Harold thought of his mama and his papa; of his sister Nancy. The life they led in the country. It was as if they were in a cocoon and that cocoon provided all they needed.
The warmth of love felt there was beyond words. The fraying edge of the quilt made by his grandmother like a feather rustling against his nose. The sag in the bed, like the valleys in which he hiked, only smaller and more comforting.
Knowing that once he walked in the door, no matter how tattered the house, he was safe.
And the house was tattered. The windows, even closed, allowed a breeze at all times. The stairs creaked as if to say "stop walking on me, I am tired." The furniture threadbare, hard to sit on.
Nancy lived there now with her man George. She never escaped. Harold went to college, went to the city. Shed his old life like a snake sheds its skin.
Not so for his sister. George was cruel man; Harold couldn't quite sort out why Nancy... Nevermind, it wasn't his business, he thought.
Pushing thoughts away, like he would push the ragged curtain that acted as a door to his childhood room. Enter. Exit.
When he returned and saw what George had done, Harold entered into a place he had never been.
Darkness closed his heart like a great coal-covered hand clasping his chest. In his mind, images of warmth and comfort dissolved in the flood of black ink that some might call rage.
When he took the torch to it, he had no idea. Nancy was inside.
***Very nice, Fran. Again, what a wonderful collection. Please read this, then continue to the comments.***
Tuesday, September 11, 2007
~Frayed Quilt by FranIAm~
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
5 comments:
Although Mount Hagee had not erupted for three hundred years, scientists had long predicted a period of active volcanic activity. Their prognostications proved true when the mountain began belching smoke in the early spring. A waiting game commenced. All knew it was just a matter of time, but the exact time the volcano would blow its top remained unknown.
Ignoring the warnings of seismologists, a party of amateur thrill-seekers decided to scale the bluff in an effort to get a closer look. They came equipped with state-of-the-art video cameras and the ability to transmit live pictures from the epicenter of the action.
Their mad courage produced some extremely vivid images. The eruption was simulcast on the group's personal website, which received a record number of hits from curious net surfers. Conditions continued to deteriorate rapidly, forcing the party to take a particularly unorthodox path down to sea level. On the way back to earth, they narrowly missed a vein of molten lava and pumice which pelted the southwest side of the peak, immediately transforming the white snow-covered surface into a gray, slushy, steamy, smoking mess.
Cans of Soup
When it happened he was prepared. Everyone called him a fool and laughed at his fall out shelter, but as the cloud of nuclear debris made its way toward their town they were lined up for miles it seemed to make thier way into his shelter. He was picky that day and only a handful of people were allowed to enter. He was king. The ones that got in felt very special as if they had passed inspection at some velvet roped night club. One was the local doctor, another was the librarian so on and so fourth. All seemed very logical choices to those who did not make it past the velvet rope. As the choosen made thier way down the stairs of the shelter into the bowels of the earth they waved good-bye to thier fellow townsmen. Then with a slam the heavy door closed and the choosen waited in darkness for Bomb Shelter Bob as he had come to be called to turn on the power generator. As the lights flickered on the choosen looked around every where they looked lining every wall and in every crevice were cans of Chicken noodle soup.
I lived in New York City on 9/11. After the attacks I was digging, hoping, looking, praying, never stopping. Disbelieving, angry, and still believing.
Three weeks later, I had to stop.
I moved west. Hated leaving my city behind, hated abandoning it. But, I had to go. I had to get the dust off my body, the smell out of my nose, the sights out of my mind. I had to feel safe.
As I write this, I'm looking out my window and I see a cloud. It looks familiar. The radio station is suddenly silent, no static, nothing.
I'll check this out and be back.
Harold never meant it to get this bad. He didn't mean to kill anyone.
When he thought of returning to the place where he was from, he thought of green hills, trees, fresh air. He thought of food that tasted fresh and clear. The snap of the pea pod, like a small firecracker. The color of the tomato like a red bad of courage.
Harold thought of his mama and his papa; of his sister Nancy. The life they led in the country. It was as if they were in a cocoon and that cocoon provided all they needed.
The warmth of love felt there was beyond words. The fraying edge of the quilt made by his grandmother like a feather rustling against his nose. The sag in the bed, like the valleys in which he hiked, only smaller and more comforting.
Knowing that once he walked in the door, no matter how tattered the house, he was safe.
And the house was tattered. The windows, even closed, allowed a breeze at all times. The stairs creaked as if to say "stop walking on me, I am tired." The furniture threadbare, hard to sit on.
Nancy lived there now with her man George. She never escaped. Harold went to college, went to the city. Shed his old life like a snake sheds its skin.
Not so for his sister. George was cruel man; Harold couldn't quite sort out why Nancy... Nevermind, it wasn't his business, he thought.
Pushing thoughts away, like he would push the ragged curtain that acted as a door to his childhood room. Enter. Exit.
When he returned and saw what George had done, Harold entered into a place he had never been.
Darkness closed his heart like a great coal-covered hand clasping his chest. In his mind, images of warmth and comfort dissolved in the flood of black ink that some might call rage.
When he took the torch to it, he had no idea. Nancy was inside.
Johnny's friends said there was no way he could smoke an entire ounce by himself in one day.
Determined to prove them wrong, Johnny fired up his bong never anticipating the horror that was to follow...
Post a Comment