The Cure
A woman’s scream rises over a cluster of tin-sheet shacks and into the thick night air. She’s just watched her son punch her drunken boyfriend in the mouth, blood and spit flecking on white knuckles.
“Bowie!” the woman screams at her son, but she goes ignored.
“Stay down, you lowlife!” Bowie lurches at the older man now curled up on the floor, but he’s choked back when his mother yanks him by the collar. He swings his body violently around to break free of her hold, and — out of anger towards everyone and no one in particular — he shoves her down onto the sunken couch behind. He instantly feels sick when he looks down and realizes what he’s done, dark locks sprawled across his mother’s frightened expression. She’s so frail in her blue summer dress, all thin neck and jutting collarbones that Bowie has inherited. For a split-second, he thinks about pulling up the strap that’s fallen off her shoulder, but instead he snatches his hoodie off the couch and steps over the drunkard now passed out cold. He shoves the door open, ignoring the sobbing behind him as he steps into the moonlight.
Acid Town’s usual crowd is crawling. A barter is going down in front of Bowie’s home just as he emerges. Across the street, two women, dressed modestly and still posted at a sure-fire corner, coo something at a man as he passes by. Somewhere in the distance, there’s a pained howl that Bowie knows better than to mistake for a dog. He feels for the folding knife in his back pocket.
In Acid Town, leaving home without a weapon might as well be suicide. On an island where the poor and criminal are hoarded together for the government to contain and forget, it’s dog-eat-dog. Bowie learned this at five-years old, when he witnessed his father fight and stabbed over a coveted stash of antibiotics from the mainland. As he watched a pair of strangers chase off the knife-wielder and attempt to seal his father’s wound with their bare hands, Bowie learned also this: that when it comes to order, compassion is Acid Town’s only military.
Coincidentally and almost comically, Bowie makes a living off homemade blood-stop powder, or magic powder, the townspeople call it (the result of a kid who played in dirt and who figured out that hey — the funny-looking clay in the backyard stops bleeding). With a government that provides hardly more than running water and electricity, and where violence measures the days, medical supplies are among the most valuable barters in Acid Town. Bowie feels lucky to have gotten this far without having his fingers chopped off one-by-one until he was willing to give up his recipe. He knows at least two or three lives have been saved by his magic powder, and people are willing to give him a lot for it.
Bowie’s a good couple miles away from his home by now, still livid. He swears he’ll implode or at the very least slap the town loon that’s been noisily following him for five minutes now, but just the sight of the cemetery in the distance soothes him. He’s able to shrug off his unsolicited companion by offering him a pinch of magic powder in the crumbled paper he finds in the pocket of his hoodie. Then he veers left into the cemetery; it’s a sprawling patch of land behind the hub of the town, scattered with rocks, wooden crosses, mangled dolls — remembrances. His father’s body is buried somewhere in the grounds, but the marking was scrambled and lost years ago. Besides, it’s the area past the cemetery that really matters to Bowie.
Most consider the cemetery and its surrounding area condemned and haunted — not even crime dare trickle into such an eerie block of the town. But past the graves and over a small knoll, Bowie has found the perfect mix of concrete and vegetation: an Olympic-sized pool, once part of the government’s long-forgotten plan to build a grand sports arena. At the threshold stands a towering brick wall, “I” missing and “M” hanging by a wire where “COLISEUM” intended to arch over the entrance.
Once Bowie’s through the entrance, something in his chest loosens just a little, and a deep sigh escapes him. He makes his way to the empty pool, down the creaky ladder and onto curved, smooth surface. He walks over his own litter of graffiti, bubbled letters and strange abstract creatures, until he reaches a star the size of his body in the center of the pool. He lowers himself onto this spot, back against the cement, eyes to a sky where there isn’t much to see. But it’s enough for Bowie. It lets him dream of a world beyond Acid Town.
He closes his eyes.
He can do more for his mother. He can make more than magic powder. He can cure people.
A passenger plane from a luckier land roars across the sky; it stifles the steps of the town loon as he hobbles his way towards the dreaming boy, brandishing the folding knife that had fallen out of the latter’s pocket.
Bowie dreams deeper. A slice of metal swings through the air.
Party girl in a twirl
Woke up this morning got out of bed
Dizzy woozy wobbly post party head
Reached for the aspirin and the coffee pot
But everything empty got diddly squat
Nothing for my headache
Nothing to help me keep awake
Went for a shower to liven me up more
Slipped on the bubbly soap fell on the floor
Took myself and my bruised bottom back to bed
I´ll give this getting up another try later instead!
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© M.Withers/M.Strudwick . All rights reserved.
Both the name The EriduSerpent/EriduSerpent
and any written material is owned solely by the above named.
Permission granted for all written material to be shared but not for profit.
Printing or publishing is prohibited without seeking permission first from said owner.
More #MondayMotivation
Another week, another Monday. Time to bring on Prose #mondaymotivation
Our Letters from Prison initiative has us visiting prison on a weekly basis in a bid to improve lives through the power of words. We post the work we bring back and hope some of you comment on them.
It’s hard to understand just how much your support gives the inmates confidence, as they see their punishment through. It truly helps them come out the other side motivated to lead a different life and stay on the straight and narrow. We have already seen it happen.
This week’s chosen excerpts are:
#1 - Understand
“…I’m disturbing the vibe
Massacre with words
Got a demolition mind…”
#2 - Autism Vs Evil
“…They killed our world, then played hangman on our grave
Support and services denied, covered-up for our babies…”
#3 - Evil deeds
“…But we humans
Let the weeds grow
Choking a beautiful oasis
Becoming a jungle of
Darkness…”
#4 - Crazy
“…The evil inside me deep down
Don’t trust me anymore
My smile is not real
My words are just a lie…”
#5 - Evil Fruit
“…Your fruit, good and evil
Tempting desires, I will not bear
Once blind but now I see for
One moment, letting you in…”
Many of these prisoners have had a troubled start in life and are bettering themselves with the tools that their incarceration provides. We hope the thought of that helps you face your Monday with a bit of positivity and some #mondaymotivation
Click on the links in the comment section to see the full version, and please do add your words. If you want to see more of this each day, please also follow the dedicated twitter account @poetsinprison
The Airman
I stepped off Gazelle, my step-dad's fishing boat, and dropped into the cold water of the Pacific Ocean. My sneakers dangled in my hand above my head. I did not want the water to make them soggy. The ocean splashed up around me. Immediately, the water penetrated into my rolled up jeans and wet my lower legs. My feet touched the soft sandy ground. I wobbled, almost tipping into the ocean.
“Careful there, Roxy,” Dad chuckled as he secured the boat.
“Yeah, careful. Hate to have ta leave ya for the sharks,” added Uncle James.
Looking down into the small sapphire waves, I could see the ocean floor scattered with brightly colored seashells and clumps of seaweed. The sand snuggled between my toes.
Marching through the waves, I gazed at the small island in front of me. Tropical trees and bright colored flowers glowed on the shore. A coal colored mountain rose from the island's side. On the beach, something shiny gleamed in the sun.
Suddenly, I had an urge to explore the uncharted land.
I called back to Dad and his crew,“The island's beautiful.”
Dad took the hint, “ You can look around for a half an hour or so; just be back to do your part in harvesting the clams.”
“Alright,” I shouted back.
“Hopefully she ain't gonna get lost again,” mocked Chip loudly.
Dad jumped into the water. Two white buckets, to hold the gathered clams in, were in each of his hands.
“Find me a city of gold,” Uncle James hollered.
I gave him a thumbs up and rushed to the beach as fast as the water would allow me.
On the island, I hurried to put on my shoes. I tied the laces thinking only about the adventure that awaited me.
I first headed to the reflective metal I saw from the water. It looked to be a part of an airplane's outer cover. A white star in a blue circle was visible on one of the shiny scraps. Isn't that an American symbol? Crazy. An aircraft from the Vietnam or Korean War could have crashed here.
I did not stay staring at the old rusted metal for long. The forest was where I wanted to explore.
Climbing over mossy tree logs, I noticed a wide mouthed cave. The temptation was too great for my reasoning skills to function. I entered straight into the open cave.
My eyes soon adjusted to the darkness. A human skeleton clothed in an unraveling uniform was drooped against the wall in front of me. Gear laid beside it. The gas mask, the helmet, the dented water bottle, they all had belonged to the once breathing person.
Stepping back in surprise, I felt something under my foot. I picked up the object. It was a book. I squinted my eyes as I read the title, The Airmen Manual. I turned to the first page. The book's spine was soft and it opened easily. On the page, a name printed in dark blue ink was written, Dale Peter.
The name was so familiar. I had to turn away for a moment and look back at the old pilot. And then I remembered. My great grandfather was named Dale Peter and he had be drafted into WWII. As Grandpa told it, his father had drowned in the Pacific after the Japanese shot his plane down.
Flipping through the next pages in the booklet, I noticed hand-written notes and ripped slips of paper tucked in between. The closer I looked at the words, the more I began to realize that between the class notes and printed procedures on proper airman formation, Dale had written about his life. The further I moved into the yellowed pamphlet, the more desperate the words seem to fill every inch of space on the paper. Near the end, the writing suddenly stopped.
I turned to the page where Dale's journal started. The first sentence made my muscles tense.
He told me everything would be just swell and dandy, that war would not end this way.
I shuttered but I read on.
I think Mike told me this only to keep me from worrying. He knew I thought it was all bad news to be drafted into the war. He thought lying would shelter me. Well, not anymore.
Now I am here and my brother's good intentions have been set in flames. My crew, my friends, are all dead. Louis, Adam, Mark, we have been through a lot together. I wish I could have died along side them.
Our down plane is releasing smoke. I can see the black clouds rising over the trees. I was supposed to be an Airman Ace, but now I'm a broken solider.
Moments before, I was struggling through the brush of this helluva island. I was looking for help, hoping that I could save my dying friends in time.
I could not find aid at all and when I returned, only Mark was breathing. Soon even he could not fight his battle.
My ribs are broken, that's for sure. My uniform is wet with blood. My whole body is trembling. My head is throbbing. Death is what my mind wants. My heart and soul tell me to survive. They tell me I must tell Adam's doll back home that he loved her. Tell Sara Miller that her brother, Louis, knows she will achieve her dream to be a famous journalist. I need to give my own mother a hug.
Why is war so cruel? I never wanted to be a brave American soldier. Now I really regret not purposely trying to fail my admission test.
I'm going to find a way off this island. Whether I am rescued by the Allies or the Japs, I don't care. Just bring me home.
I glazed at the page while on the verge of tears. This was a journal from a World War II airman, my great grandfather, a solider that was desperate for comfort and help. I couldn't even imagine what he had gone through. No one knew that he had survived the crash and was stranded on the island. His parents properly got a letter saying their son had died in action. It was a lie. I forcefully closed the manual shut.
This man had fought for his country. He and his friends had given their lives for the needs of America. What I found may not be the City of Gold Uncle James wanted me to find but, I discovered something better, the treasure of truth. Grandpa won't believe that everyone has got his father's story all wrong.
I took the Airmen Manual with me. Dad would be wondering where I was.
Leaving the cave, I am blinded by the little light that beamed down from the tree tops. The musty, humid smell of the cave is gone. I filled my lungs with the fresh tropical air.
Weaving through the forest, I heard exotic bird calls echoing in the trees. I hold the booklet close to my chest.
I reached the beach and spotted Dad, Chip, and Uncle James hunched over, picking clams off the rocks. I stood and watched them in the distance, debating whether I should tell them about the book right away. After a time, I decided to wait until sundown when I could tell them the story around the fire. I tucked the manual into my jacket pocket and button it shut. I didn't want the World War II book to plummet into the ocean as I helped harvest clams.
Uncle James stood up to stretch out his back and saw me running toward them.
“Find my gold?” he called to me with a grin.
“That's a story I'll tell at the fire pit,” I said grabbing a bucket laying in the sand and head to a submerged rock covered in clams.
