Birth of a cynic

[Shem]

Well this has all been posted before in various locations but never here... I am thinking about filling in some of the holes. And continuing on.......




The Parable



He once had a small red ball. When he was just a boy, not any kind of special ball, just a plain red rubber bouncing ball. It was not an expensive or rare toy, but it was his favorite none the less. Wherever he went he brought his little ball. He brought it to the grocery store, to the movie theater even on family vacations, though his parents tried to convince him to leave it behind. “It will get lost in the car, or left somewhere,” they would tell him. He didn’t understand, or even care about any of that. He just knew that playing with his ball was fun so it should come with him. Then one day it happened. His ball was lost. He had been playing in the woods. He got back to camp. His ball was gone. He swears he put it in his pocket. Nothing is there. Tears. Begging his parents to go find it. But it is only a little red rubber ball after all, and adults cant be bothered by such trivialities. He could get another one when they got home. It might not have the same scratches from when he fell off his bike with it. The holes from his dogs teeth would be gone. But he could get a new one and it would be just as good. A new surface to mar, shinny and still squeaky-clean. So he reluctantly allowed himself to be calmed and went to bed. They returned home a couple weeks later and all he wanted to do was get his new ball. He never asked his parents to get it. They had said they would, and parents are very busy. Every day his dad came home from work he expected him to bring it. Parents are very busy.






The Crucifixion

His Father, in his daily morning rush of preparedness for work, had left him at a gas station one morning. It raised quite a commotion within the little word of the station. The owners and the customers where stirred into action. Everyone was rushing about, listing to every thing he said and trying to figure out exactly what he meant. Higher authorities where called upon, who of course, rushed in and took him away. They got him back to their fortress and figured out how to send him back to his father. Eventually everything was straightened out and two officers where sent to escort him home. He was reprimanded the entire journey by the officer’s who did not believe his story. When he finally reached home he was lovingly welcomed and reassured. His father then wrapped him warm in his blankets and put him to bed, reminding him that tomorrow he would not be forgotten. In the morning he was wakened by his mother and sister and prepared to venture out into the world once again.





Seventh Rhapsody

As a young boy of seven he had started noticing girls in his class, but one in particular had caught his eye. She was beautiful, more beautiful then any girl he had ever seen. Long dark hair and slender pale hands. He tried to talk to her everyday but never could bring himself to approach her. He tried to talk to his mother but she just clasped her pudgy hands and said how cute he was. He definitely couldn’t talk to his Father. His Father with his rough workingman’s hands. Hands he had driven a nail through and not even cried. No there would be no help there. So day after day he had to watch her from afar. Watch as she hung on the monkey bars. Watch as she jumped rope. Watch as she grasped the chins of a swing and described a graceful arc in the sky. For weeks he was powerless. Then one day he could no longer stand it and passed a rough, scratched out note down the row to her. He sat sweating as she read it and marked down her reply. His hands trembled as he opened the returned note and he was swept with ecstasy when he saw she had checked the “yes” box.
He ran home after school that day fast as he could go. Bursting through the front door he announced the news to his mother expecting her to share in his enthusiasm. Instead she stopped washing dishes, and pulling her gloved hands from the sink, laughed and called him “sweet”. He ran to his room and slammed the door. Why wouldn’t she take him seriously? Why didn’t she understand him in the least? Could this really be his family? It didn’t matter though. It really didn’t matter at all. Tomorrow he would see her and they could eat and play together. Tomorrow would be here soon enough.
In the morning he awoke and was out the door in record time. He covered the distance to school in what seemed a flash. The first bell rang after what felt to be hours of hanging around and class-time had begun. As they found their seats he tried to say hello to her but she passed by as if she hadn’t heard. He spent the whole first lesson in dismay. What had happened? He couldn’t wait till recess to find out and started another note but the teacher’s hand slapping a ruler on the desk brought him right back to the moment. When at last recess time arrived, he ran to her as soon as they where outdoors to see what was wrong and she looked like she was ready to cry. One small word escaped her lips.
Moving.
Her family was moving the very next week. Two days where all they had. Two days and she would be on the other side of the country. He was slow in coming home from school that day and as he shuffled through the door his mother instantly wanted to know what was wrong. He said nothing and headed for his room, she persisted so he told her. She sighed and held back a giggle as she patted him on the head and told him he would be fine. He headed for his room muttering “who are these people I live with”, and clenching his fists the whole way.







Colloquy of the Crows


“These crows are getting gigantic,” he muttered to himself as he walked down the paths of his thirteenth year. It was an overcast day that gleamed dully off the train tracks he was following. Another trip to the library and it looked like rain. He pulled a joint out of his pocket, lit it and took a big hit, Shielding it from the wind with the lapel of his trench coat. He was going to look for the “Odyssey” he liked the idea of the blind poet Homer. The first line in the copy there was “ Little or nothing is known about Homer the man.” He could relate. His classmates constantly mocked him and his parents thought him strange and couldn’t understand him. He thought his parents where doing well for who they where and he constantly mocked his classmates, in private of course but it all came out even in the end. The solitude was the only thing. If it wasn’t for that.
The crows where flocking to garbage spewed around wherever the tracks crossed one of the busier streets. Fast food wrappers and beer cans with an occasional cigarette pack thrown in. Just for variety. The crows tore through it all looking for the rare french-fry or piece or burger bun. Their whole lives spent moving from one trash heap to the next collecting sustenance by sifting through all the shit people threw into their word.
He spent a lot of his time reading books by people widely considered wise more then a century ago but he was starting to wonder if it was just more shit to sift through. He threw a rock into their mists and they scattered to the winds. Blown away from all they lived for by a single pebble. The pebble was they key. To become a pebble, that was where the secret lay. Shattering preconceptions with a quick word or well-turned phrase. They circled on the wind and immediately returned to their trash; hard to destroy ideals deeply buried. For that brief second however, he had set them free.









Hack it, Chop it, Burn it down (but does it fit?)

He put his pen away and could still hear, decided to watch the voices and the evening screams of past. Thus far encounters echoing had fallen with in his skull. More then as not, the ones whimper and he on their own hopped to yet salvage the night. They usually had more cash too. He needed cash. He had smoked up his last bit of medication earlier and now that night had fallen it was time to seek out a fresh supply. As the last rays of the hated sun melted away he emerged from his threshold shelter and began the hunt by minutes then stop, totally oblivious to think. Maybe order the danger lurking in a drink and in the perpetual resume. The twilight. The entire time he did notice had sat there, him saw nothing. A band had more then been setting up strung out bum, on the postage stagnating in his stamp sized stage, own filth and at the back urine hurried off the room. Bye. Then at ten where no good-o’clock they started; he was to play when at heart he noticed the coward and knew a blind keyboard player. It. Physical. He put altercations aside made him his paper and panic. To stretch after his first and waver as round out came the cool air, the tools of evening moved his trade, in across the time to sound. It was work. It was almost his time, long before he had needed, caught the tail to find of an idea mark. He managed to watch them, watched them chase it down. Them all as. He wrote rapidly they moved past his pen and his doorway, the paper dancing with beautiful girls in the gin and their expensive clothes, tonic in front with their powerful lust of him. Men at their side he would write. They for a few passed him He huddled in John St. Sat in the dark recesses alone at the doorway crowded bar of where at least a small local a little of pub. His night never dies, had come to waiting, watching and the pub not waiting for night only to drink, to come again. But to find his inspiration. It was a creature of small, the night; the dark, smoke filled glare of the room, packed the sun off to overflowing. The hot, gray sidewalks perfect place that was almost blinding think. The story to his sleepless eyes were thick as the smoke in shadows where already the air was starting.

[hester_prynne]

Hey Shem, I reallly dug reading these alot.
The last one took a double read, but on second read, after adjusting to your interesting style in that one, I found it to be marvelous and real.

The frustration, confusion of neglect.
The reliefs, the insights, in the maze.

This is chock full of mysteries to find. I like it this way.
Wonderful, even heartrending stuff....which the broken thoughts style totally enhances and brings to life.
Thanks for sharing it here.
H

[creativesoul]

i love the way you write
i think you are wonderful
keep on

[mnaz]

Shem..

I was right there with you on your childhood sketches. I guess I had it easy, compared to so many of my classmates.

Later on, I lost the thread a bit, but I could not miss its trajectory.