listless
did i ever have a way with words
or did i just have a lot to say
and didn't want to talk?
the paper was a convenient outlet for me
but was it good?
i gave up on writing
gave up on a lot of things
myself maybe
it's been years now.
i called myself a writer
but i hardly write anymore.
i do journalism but part of me
hates it
i don't think i know why.
i think back to my fourth grade self
starting a school newspaper with my best friend
every poem i wrote
endless short stories i spun out
reading every day.
i would've loved this stuff
what i'm doing now
but i can hardly bring myself to try.
i do wonder what happened
every so often
but now i'm seventeen
i need to pull myself together
i have to go forward.
thinking about the past hurts as much as it did
last year
two years ago
four
i always sat and wished i could go back
now i think about those days of wishing
and those are the ones i want.
because maybe i was miserable then but
was that miserable better than this one?
i don't know
but i sure wish i could start trying again.
old
i visited an old friend the other weekend.
i met her dad at the door and he gave me a hug
but there was a sad look in his eyes. the kind of
look that tells you he can't believe how fast i've
grown up--how fast any of us have grown up.
he asks me how i'm doing and i give the polite response
"i'm good...how 'bout you?"
he hesitates for a moment as the sadness deepens,
pooling like puddles of rain in his eyes.
he tells me about his kids--the kids i grew up with.
he tells me how only one of his sons is interested
in getting married anytime soon. he asks me if i
have anyone and i nod. i do. he continues on to
tell me of his other son... he says he has some
"problems"
i know what they are.
the wind whistles through the cracked screen door
and i shiver. life is cold and gray now...nothing
like what it once was.
i visited an old friend the other weekend.
but that's all it was...old.
An unexpected gift
I suppose it is not uncommon for someone to give a parting gift on their deathbed.
Or rather, when they know that they are dying.
I remember sitting on the back unscreened porch. The beautiful countryside not so rustic, disturbed. The mountain behind us having been dynamited, and built over, on the rescinding of Cloud Nine-- a provision in the land deed that had previously prohibited construction.
Yet in front of us, the valley (as far as the eye could see), was still lush.
It was June. The mosquitos kept a respectful distance, and all was quiet-- the orange purple twilight slipping beyond the green feathery tops of the oaks, maples, and walnuts at the edge of our property, just where the cul-de-sac swooped around two other (invisible) homesteads. We sat on tall black swivel chairs we'd wheeled from the home office counter Father had built into the kitchen. Bats twinkled, tiny black stars above. A favorable sign, he said. And then an owl called. A Great Horned.
He sat to my right, in the corner--backdropped against the slatted window of the laundry, where the circular stairs descend to the basement and two-car garage. Two almost identical, yet distinctly different vehicles, waiting there like faithful horses. We sat wrapped, individually, side by side in charcoal grey woolen army issue blankets, for quality not nationalism. Each of us bracing the slight chill of the evening and more so the inner tremors, that reckoning brings, universally. In the turn of a day.
He gave so many gifts, immaterial, intangible and immeasurable, it seems almost bewildering that this is the one that rises above the others. I told him I loved every minute of our Hell, and apologized for any grief I might have given. Me too, he said, me too. He said other things more personal, and then squeezed my hand with extra significance, like to one whom you trust, and he said:
When the time comes, and it will come, do whatever you can to make the passing easier... you may not understand now, but you will know...
And I knew. And am eternally grateful. This from a man who had suffered and sacrificed, withstanding untold pain, in untold ways. He asked for the morphine. He asked again, and again. And then he stopped asking. And still I gave it to him--
Had he not given me those words, I would have felt that I had killed him.
Intro to the Evolution of the Hunt: EVO 101
Thank you.
Our lecture today is on the various perceptions of the phenomenon of The Hunt.
We previously examined the psychology of early man, as hunter/gatherer. We concluded that the distinction between the two is negligible. A cycle of life is arrested in either case. Of course, we pointed out that we cannot speak as well to the suffering of plant life in the plucking and knifing, as well as we can bear witness to the duress of the animal kingdom.
Only Man remains as Killer, we established having consciousness, and conscience, rather than consciousness and instinct. Early Man seldom found himself in the position of The Hunted, unless straying from the safety of the group structures (physical barriers and social constructs). This vulnerability is best recognized broadly. The Hunter must step outside to marginalized venues to practice The Hunt. And the criminal mind is not far from that mentality of similarly stalking the periphery.
The Killer seeks the gaps of safety net from which to make his Take.
Now, where the psychology becomes very interesting, is where the Hunted goes on the hunt for The Hunter. Whether "criminal" or not, this is known commonly as the Ourobus Complex. Among the more notable cases, is that of Admiral Leane, who in water deprived delirium, did not realize that the Lion he was after, was in fact looping in on his trail. This ended tragically for both the Hunter and the Hunted, when game wardens were notified, from the helicopter.
But a more interesting case, previously classified, is that of Arthur X, who began to stalk himself, perceiving his person as an anonymous stranger out to get himself. Every slightest vague reflection of his self, whether in window or cutlery, provoked in him repressed agitation.
Oddly the release of that tension was not the physical attack of said images. Rather he chose a blunt instrument, plotting his demise with a pen. A Hunt known as Slander. This is of course an extreme case.
12.01.2023
FFF#8 The Hunt challenge @ChrisSadhill
*no facts were sacrificed in the writing of this fiction