Just thought I'd share...

[OryxTheCrake]

I wrote a short story, inspired much in part by freedomain radio, that I thought I'd share. 

Enjoy... Hopefully []

 

Heavy
Armor

            A long, long time ago…

            The sun was high, casting shadows as long as an old man’s
beard. The day was getting old, too. Many different shapes and sizes, some
small, some large, green stems with little leaves, catching rays of light and
tossing it in all directions; the large ones had purple rims with orange centers,
while the smaller ones were yellow, my father called them weeds. He would yank
them from my hand, or squirt them when living on the lawn. Left for dead, they
withered up, and the wind blew them away.

            When my Father came home, he had a signature sound. I
could always feel the car in my chest; reflecting on it, I’m not sure if it was
loud, or if I was anticipating some grave evil. When his car thudded over the
curb, slammed to a stop in front of the house, the car door would swing open,
creaking all the way, followed by the sound of empty cans beating the ground;
he was drunk, again.

            “I told you Mace Cowart” – heavy on the cowart, making it
sound like coward – “I told I aint rais’n no sissy boy FAG!” his red face would
spew; speckles of beer tainted spit would slap my 12 year old brow. “If you gonna
play with flowers, you can join home ec and become a girl.” Although he never
struck me, his words tore my soul to shreds. From that point on, I decided to
protect myself.

            …”Ha, ha… watch this” I said. Forcing the wadded up -
soaked in spit piece of paper into the straw, THUD! “Ha, ha!”… Weasel Jimmy as
I called him, grasped the back of his head with his narrow hand, fragile bones
and tendons reflecting whatever light was in the dimly lit room, turned around
and shot me a wincing look. “Mr. Cowart! Out of my class this instant!” Mrs.
Franken, my science teacher yelped. The red, well-worn public school door
slammed behind me, practically losing more paint with every closure. My armor
is becoming thick…

            …”Yes, that’s what I have selected. Sure, yes. I like its
culture. Thank you!” I worked my tail off to attend that college. My mother
always said I’d become something, and I had to impress my father. We’d share
stories about where I’d take them after I made my millions; how fun. This was
the same year I meet my wife, Maude. She, like I, was a business major. I fell
in love when I turned around to watch the closing door slam shut before her,
“ha, ha, thought you’d sneak in.” I said. Her face pierced the glass, nearly
burnt it down, gave me a look I hadn’t seen in years; absolute power…

            …The same year my son Kindle was born, was the same year
my father died. It was a terrible year. Had I known he’d grow to be a sissy, I’d
of doubled down even more…

            …”Mace, you need to cut him some slack. He’s just a
little boy; didn’t you enjoy painting when you were young?” Maude, with her
open face, and stupid expression beamed up at me. “If he wants to be a sissy
boy, he can join the girl scouts!” my scotch drenched breathe, pounded back.
“Little Kindle is gonna go to college, and become a stock broker like his old
man. He aint no flower collecting, painting, home making sissy boy!”…

            …On Kindle’s 17^th birthday, Maude and I got
into it. She shouldn’t have pushed me, she knew better than to make me that
mad; if she’d just shut up about Kindle, it wouldn’t have happened…

            …My armor was thick by now, many layers added every year;
as people pushed, and I punched back; I added another layer. Since Maude fell
down the stairs, I hadn’t seen my son in over 40 years; when she died, Kindle
didn’t say a single word. He picked up and left. Last I heard, he’d become some
sissy painter out in New York. Very successful, supposedly. Had a family, kids
of his own…

            One’s perspective changes, I suppose, when the volume is
turned down, the day to day grind halted, hovering over one’s self, like a
dream. Starring down at an otherwise empty bed, some old man at its crooked
center, that can’t be me. Where is my family? The room is empty, except for the
occasional nurse who changes me, bathes me, and makes me clean. In the corner
of the room is my baggage, and my suit-and-tie armor folded neatly, lying on an
empty chair.

            Transparent tears falling from my fading face, starring
down at that unrecognizably ugly man. Weathered by time, wrinkled by cigarettes
and booze, alone because of armor; “I’m sorry…”