Dew caresses the dirt on its surface, just enough to see the recent footprints of a size 8 shoe. The light, just now penetrating the double doors, show the word "Reebok" scattered across the ground. Particles of feces and hay stand stagnant in the air, penetrating the nose and mouth. Horses, five of them in stalls along the southern wall, think nothing is wrong. The only fear they have are the endless barrels of hay that await them only one story above. Beyond that, chickens sit on possibilities, while others stand, awaiting something they will never understand.
Colin shuffles in, making more advertisements for Reebok on the floor. His pants are discolored at the crotch, riding up and absorbing sweat. The twelve year old squats, laying down a box of plastic, metal and memories. He un-cuffs, then re-cuffs, his hands, over and over.
"Ouch."
The curly shards of blonde stick to the rim of his freckled head. he pants wildly, like the dog sitting next to him. His shirt is black, not friendly in these climates. It sticks to him, shaping the folds at his waist.. He seems to be aware of all of this, obvious in the big, plain white capital letters on his shirt, spelling out the phrase "I R TEH LOZE." He wets his hand with his brow, then digs up a remnant from the box.
He draws up "Cobra." A G.I. Joe. He lets him fall into the crevices of his fat fingers. He skims the toy's backpack.
"He's gotta twenty-two." His wide, brown eyes stare down the glob of plastic on his backside. "It looks like he's got an M4, too.... he shoulda had one of our rifles."
The toy falls out of his hands, lightly hitting inside of the box. A border collie, Jim, yells at the sound. Violently.
Shrill barks pierces through the chipped wood. The horses squirm, the chickens stand at attention. Then the shot.
Colin keeps his glare on the border collie, breathing heavily in the dirt. The dog heaves breath, little by little, until it stops. Colin takes his attention away from the bloody animal on the floor.
"I've always liked him."
Colin reaches back in, grabbing another toy, read and blue.
"This is a transformer. He's the leader." He stares at the toy, moving it's parts. "He's a truck now, but I can change him..." The boy sobs. Tears and snot rush forward. "...into a man." He falls to the ground, catching himself with his knees. Tears mingle with the sweat on his face, then fall to the dirt, into the folds of "Reebok."
Mother walks in with a brown basket. "Don't worry, Colie, it's for the best. You haven't played with those since we got you that new computer, anyhow." Her bare feet make new marks, new impressions as she glides through the soil.
The guns are on the far wall, twenty of them, just out of reach of Colie. In a year, he'll be able to reach them. They're mostly rifles, but also a twenty-two pistol, and two shotguns, one double barreled. It all depends on the prey or what needs to be put down. They're all hanging by rusty nails, dug into the thing wood. One of them is missing.
Mother unlatches the coop and enters. The chickens, ten of them, lift there heads, peering at the old woman. She lightly grabs the first by it's throat, lifting it off the unborn child. The animal rears it's claws to the woman's wrist, pecking at her fingers. She gets the first egg.
After letting the first loose, she saunters towards the second. This one warns with beak open, hissing. She slaps the bird across the coop, it lands awkwardly, it's wind knocked out, gasping for air along the ground. She's got the second egg. The third one, she hits harder.
At the end of the barn, the four ton tractor stares. The hard, cold machine was born before any onf them, and shows no signs of decay. Sadly, some things will never die.
Mother returns from the coop and ten angry, confused chickens, her brown basket filled with white, passing Colie once again on the way out. "Put 'em on the top shelf, there's room up there."
Colin struggles to his feet, then lifts the box above his head. Strain comes out audibly as he gets to his toes. His tight calf muscles never show through the pale, fatty skin.
The box goes vertical as Colie loses control. Lifeless men, lifeless memories tumble out, littering the ground. Colie shifts his massive body to control balance, to no avail. He breaks his fall with his left hand, cracking the wrist. More tears come as his mouth opens wide, at first inaudible, then low, horrible moans.
You want a life companion, and you're getting this.
Then the shot.
Colin shuffles in, making more advertisements for Reebok on the floor. His pants are discolored at the crotch, riding up and absorbing sweat. The twelve year old squats, laying down a box of plastic, metal and memories. He un-cuffs, then re-cuffs, his hands, over and over.
"Ouch."
The curly shards of blonde stick to the rim of his freckled head. he pants wildly, like the dog sitting next to him. His shirt is black, not friendly in these climates. It sticks to him, shaping the folds at his waist.. He seems to be aware of all of this, obvious in the big, plain white capital letters on his shirt, spelling out the phrase "I R TEH LOZE." He wets his hand with his brow, then digs up a remnant from the box.
He draws up "Cobra." A G.I. Joe. He lets him fall into the crevices of his fat fingers. He skims the toy's backpack.
"He's gotta twenty-two." His wide, brown eyes stare down the glob of plastic on his backside. "It looks like he's got an M4, too.... he shoulda had one of our rifles."
The toy falls out of his hands, lightly hitting inside of the box. A border collie, Jim, yells at the sound. Violently.
Shrill barks pierces through the chipped wood. The horses squirm, the chickens stand at attention. Then the shot.
Colin keeps his glare on the border collie, breathing heavily in the dirt. The dog heaves breath, little by little, until it stops. Colin takes his attention away from the bloody animal on the floor.
"I've always liked him."
Colin reaches back in, grabbing another toy, read and blue.
"This is a transformer. He's the leader." He stares at the toy, moving it's parts. "He's a truck now, but I can change him..." The boy sobs. Tears and snot rush forward. "...into a man." He falls to the ground, catching himself with his knees. Tears mingle with the sweat on his face, then fall to the dirt, into the folds of "Reebok."
Mother walks in with a brown basket. "Don't worry, Colie, it's for the best. You haven't played with those since we got you that new computer, anyhow." Her bare feet make new marks, new impressions as she glides through the soil.
The guns are on the far wall, twenty of them, just out of reach of Colie. In a year, he'll be able to reach them. They're mostly rifles, but also a twenty-two pistol, and two shotguns, one double barreled. It all depends on the prey or what needs to be put down. They're all hanging by rusty nails, dug into the thing wood. One of them is missing.
Mother unlatches the coop and enters. The chickens, ten of them, lift there heads, peering at the old woman. She lightly grabs the first by it's throat, lifting it off the unborn child. The animal rears it's claws to the woman's wrist, pecking at her fingers. She gets the first egg.
After letting the first loose, she saunters towards the second. This one warns with beak open, hissing. She slaps the bird across the coop, it lands awkwardly, it's wind knocked out, gasping for air along the ground. She's got the second egg. The third one, she hits harder.
At the end of the barn, the four ton tractor stares. The hard, cold machine was born before any onf them, and shows no signs of decay. Sadly, some things will never die.
Mother returns from the coop and ten angry, confused chickens, her brown basket filled with white, passing Colie once again on the way out. "Put 'em on the top shelf, there's room up there."
Colin struggles to his feet, then lifts the box above his head. Strain comes out audibly as he gets to his toes. His tight calf muscles never show through the pale, fatty skin.
The box goes vertical as Colie loses control. Lifeless men, lifeless memories tumble out, littering the ground. Colie shifts his massive body to control balance, to no avail. He breaks his fall with his left hand, cracking the wrist. More tears come as his mouth opens wide, at first inaudible, then low, horrible moans.
You want a life companion, and you're getting this.
Then the shot.
VIEW 4 of 4 COMMENTS
how about as soon as I score some buds? That should be reasonably soon. I will have to come back to read the story - at a work thing and cheating to write this to you... cannot push my luck too much.
I miss you. And your white russians. Thanks for the comment.. sorry, I do not plan on writing unless it is journalism, know what I mean? not to worry.
much love,
~ kelly angel*