On the Fourth

The firework goes floosh and explodes blue in the sky and the ground lights bright and the people go, “ahhh” and Harold Lamar with his two legs and two arms and ten fingers and ten toes shrieks on the inside and his body goes rigid and he hates hard.

A little boy lights a roman candle and runs around the outside of the group with his father chasing him begging for him to stop, “You’re too young, Tony no, stop!”

But the boy just screams in delight as his fat father scrambles to keep up. The fire cracker explodes in tiny chubby little boy hands.

Pop! And Harold filches.

Pop! And his fists clench.

Pop! And sweat pours free from all over his body.

Its full dark and Harold wants to go home, but its too late to leave now. The show is just getting started.

Floosh. Red Light.

Floosh. Hot yellow light.

Floosh. Deep blue.

Behind his eyelids the world is multicolored sparkles of death.

Inside his mind he is back in country and

hiraeth

is the the time in womb

a perfect time

a visceral moment of pure emotions

emotions uncorrupted

once gone

hireaeth

can never to be reclaimed

again

except in the final moments

of death

The Boy with an Afro

The rear door of the subway slams open and he enters with a wail.

On cue all eyes dip to laps, or look straight ahead.

He gestures with his hands and I ignore him and look when he passes, because I’m a coward.

I see scars on his elbows, on arms I thought swollen with muscle, but’ are just normal.

I see his mouth and eyes both twisted with sadness, his hands twitching not from drugs, but with barely legible sign.

He achieves his goal, some passenger react and reach for their wallets while I make eye contact and smile.

Live Life

 

 

 

and
burn bright

and
light the night

and
scare the frights

and
right the rights

for all is nought

in the end

 

 

 

The Summation of Regret

 

 

 

“Pinchudo!” he screams, regretting everything.

Everything.

His father fucking his mother.

His birth.

His impoverished-street-educated childhood.

The influence of New York.

The choice to escape. Buy a plane ticket to Los Angeles, the Greyhound cross-country. Sleeping in the grass off the Manhattan Bridge. Finding his cousin. Being twentieth in the one-bedroom apartment. Getting this job, working his way up from dishwasher, trusted to bus tables, be the night waiter, pick up this shit shift on a Sunday.

“What?” the fattest of the three asks, scowl deepening.

“Nothing,” he answers, closing his eyes, thinking of home,  sorry dirty home, yet again.

 

Home Sweet Home

 

 

The fire crackles mad. Flames shoot into the pitch black sky, bright orange and red. Sparks fly. Smoke hoovers like fog.

“Can we just say home is home? It might smell a bit and have unwanted guests. And be a little dank when it rains and not have all the amenities one might want, like doors, or windows, or heating, or toilets, a kitchen, or running water, or cable TV hookup, but sometimes its what it does have that counts, am I right?”

The goat bleats terrified.

“Oh my little darling, you think the fire is too hot eh?”

The troll tugs on the spit containing a bigger goat, the one trussed at the ankles with heavy twine and is quickly charring black with cooked gristle.

“He don’t seem to mind much, do he?’ He picks up a grease slicked femur from the tin plate laying in the dirt by his long, yellow-nailed feet and points it at his still living guest, ‘where was I? Oh yes, Amenities!”

 

Thursday photo prompt – Green #writephoto

 

Griffon

“He’s a bonny griffon, aye?”

Lonny looks from the old infantryman to the king on a prancing white nag and nods. In gambeson they face a French death cadence and the smell of melting pitch. The stench is heavy on foggy air soon to be lit orange with burning projectiles.

 

Horse and Buggy

The mechanic hates horses, maybe its job security, but really it doesn’t matter a job is a job.

He twists the lever that works the brake on the buggy work and the machination depresses the contraption down like it should and he sighs contented.

Good almost done. He has other stuff to do today and now he is ready for a test run in the Brooklyn street.

He almost looks forward to this part. He pictures the ladies asking for rides. Hey mister can we climb on. He smiles thinking about it, but then looks across the yard at the old grey beast munching on weeds he shivers his smile falling into a terrified scowl.

It’s just a  horse, he reminds himself, not the devil.

He approaches the** lethargic** animal the buggy owner left behind, carefully. He thinks they named him **Erstwhile** or some such other olde English bullshit.

“Erstwhile she was a young horse, hay nag?” he laughs to himself trying to ease the tension and lays a well calloused hand gently on the nags old wrinkled muzzle, surprised the beast doesn’t just lop it off with one snap of its enormous mouth.

“Okay girl,” he growls stern, “time to earn your oats.”

He takes the tackle and leads her over to the freshly repaired buggy and attempts to secure her flabby flank to the vehicle. He bends down and the horse gives him a **visceral** kick to the side of the head.

Blackness fills his world.

When he wakes the black is replaced with a pounding fiery pain.

He lays on the component littered yard remembering why he hates horses. He turns over and glares at the old nag who has returned across the yard and seems to be laughing at him as she nibbles on weeds and he bleeds from the fresh wound on his forehead.

The mechanic decides never again to work on the old **horse and buggy** contraptions. It’s just not worth it.