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Concerning Christmas, pt 3

  Snapshot. The eyes of the Ghost boring into his, at once empty and intense, withering and weary. It was a day that had not come. If age brings anything, it’s the asphalt of reality, destroying the simplicity the child presumes of the world, slowly bleeding that intense creative spark into apathy.

  Snapshot. And suddenly he’s aware that he’s awake, conscious, writhed in a scarecrow heap on the bed. He jerked spasmodically upright, hearing the dull glass sound of a tumbler bouncing on the carpet. He rolls off the bed, pulls himself up on the age-worn oaken desk. Fingers brush the pocked surface, coming to a deep furrow, a gash gouged deeply into the wood. He lingers but a moment, then propels himself to the window, now open and breathing in cool fresh air and urban white noise.
  “They were all pretty much the same,” he intones softly. “They were all. . . . pretty much the same . . . . .”

Concerning Christmas, pt2

" Pirouetting, face wet with tears and sweat, he collides with a little oaken desk, the impact scattering crayons, markers, hallowed implements of a child’s embryonic creativity. In one swift moment he grasps the little black scissors, sets his palm flat against the desktop and with all his juvenile strength slams the scissors through into the wood.
  Blood spits up like a tiny volcano, and the electric pain is a key in a lock. Now something on the outside matches the ravaging within, and it’s indistinguishable from which the shrieks generate.
  The Spirit reminds him of an epiphany that night. It poured into his mind as though the blood on the desk had left a vacuum that immediately began to fill, and he realized that one day, he would kill his father."

Taking a break this week due to spotty internet. Stay tuned for more woven words next week.

Concerning a Christmas

  Snapshot. The Ghost of Christmas Past, floating ephemerally like a dandelion on the breeze, hovers beside a smaller version of himself struggling to open a bedroom window warped with age and painted closed. The muffled sounds of Elvis having a blue-hoo-hoo Christmas creep underneath the door, but he’s not alone. Mingled is the incoherent but distinct chorus of violent argument somewhere below. It is from this the child is trying to escape, casting furtive glances at the door as though a creature of horror would be upon him at any moment.
  He whirls away from the window, ears ringing with an acrid slap rising through the carpeted floor and a sharp wail of pain. He spins tight circles, hands on ears, mouth open in a scream but nothing comes, nothing but the cries beginning below.