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.

Concerning the Canvas

 Flame so blue it was almost translucent spread slowly like a cat licking her lips, tiny mercurial droplets speeding down the glass like flaming seraphs. Kevin blew the wave out with a thin curl of smoke.
  They say you get to a point, cross some line like overcoming a threshold and you no longer feel the pain, just hear the leaden impact against a body you cling to the remembrance is yours. That’s a trifle deceptive. You don’t feel, because all you feel is a wall of pain. It’s like throwing paint on a canvas – it’s vibrant at first, stark as the color bifurcates the dusty white of the canvas, but after a time there is no more white, you’re just adding color on top of the same color.

Concerning a Certain Birth

 Kevin had survived an abortion. This was not his choosing.
  He had often been told that, respectively, God had some divine, ineffable purpose for his life, or his own inner consciousness had even in nascence asserted itself in Herculean manner. One was so much abysmal, relative hope in the face of evidence, and for that matter, God no longer held credibility either.
  Even now he looked as if he’d carried that mantle of death for seventeen years; consumptive, pale, eyes like a sunken grave, scarred more ways than one and prone to inexhaustible nightmares.
  He had developed a way to counter them, like he had the physical side to pain. It involved a tumbler of absinthe, a cube of sugar and a dollop of pills, all coruscated by a simple Blue Tip match.
  His father violently threw things like this out when he caught him, like he treated everything. Said he was going to hell. He was wrong though. This was hell.

Intermission

Thanks to all of our listeners. We will be starting a new twisted tale this month, having wrapped up Chiaroscuro, so stay tuned. This week however, taking a short break. Be sure to visit the rest of port-evenus.com for more tales and excitement.

Concerning the Music

   Out of the midst of nowhere Taylor remembered Eric. He looked about desperately. Eric. There he was, by the cairn. Taylor could see his brother had been wounded, moving waving like a fish trapped on the bank. He had to reach him, had to help him He pulled himself to his feet.
  Taylor stumbled, fell on a picnic table. He tried to drag himself across it, leaving a crimson painting. Eric was dying, he knew it. What he had wanted just an hour ago, and yet all the hatred he’d felt was washed away like so many times before in a wave of feeling beyond explanation. They were closer than brothers, and that transcended rules and where the rules fractured. Taylor tried to save him. But he was tired, his own time running. So tired. He made it to the cairn, and collapsed.

  Funnily, the Music cleared.



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