(no subject)
“It’s a wonderful day for killing, isn’t it?”
“I suppose so, but I could never get an eye for the targets in weather like this. What do you say, Jack?”
Jack looked up from his book, frowning, his eyes brimming with annoyance. “Why are you asking me?” He looked away from his father to the thick, rolling clouds above. “The sky will be red soon. Why don’t you ask the clouds which way the wind blows?”
His father, a weathered man who lacked his son’s height and needed none of it to be imposing, shook his head. He opened his mouth to speak, but Jack stood up and interjected:
“Why don’t you ever tell me what I want to hear?”
Jack’s father shrugged. “Ask the sky.”
“I never said or did a thing or that was of any use to anyone or to you!”
His father aimed a rifle to the sky and fired a shot above Jack’s head. The shot echoed and was cut off by a shower of noise from a downpour. Jack saw his own face in that moment, a canvas of contrasting colors and shapes: red streaks of rain and green irises.
“This is who I am, father: helpless and useless and soaked in others’ blood. Why do you ask anything from me?”
His father placed two hands on Jack’s shoulders. “You create tragedy out of nothing. I only ask that you be yourself.”
Jack shook his head. “It’s never enough.” He pulled away and stepped backwards, slipping on a pistol. Before his father could stop him, Jack grabbed the weapon and pressed it against his temple. “I’m sorry,” was all he that said before pulling the trigger.
[The dreamer wakes up just before the terror. It’s a bang from the subconscious and a scream from the throat that does it. He feels vaguely terrified when he wakes, and rather claustrophobic in this world that isn’t his.
“I need to get the hell out of here,” he says in a low, raspy whisper.
He twists on his back, pushes a hand through his hair and says it again.
He does not know how benevolent 1933 will be due to its proximity to unsavory memories. He does know, however, that his world is in New York City, 1933. Be it from old age or poor health of body and mind or his traitorous hand, he would rather die in his own world than face death in hiding.
He hopes his return won’t be a journey to “the end” just yet.
He may be creating tragedy out of nothing.
He may also be on to something.]
“I suppose so, but I could never get an eye for the targets in weather like this. What do you say, Jack?”
Jack looked up from his book, frowning, his eyes brimming with annoyance. “Why are you asking me?” He looked away from his father to the thick, rolling clouds above. “The sky will be red soon. Why don’t you ask the clouds which way the wind blows?”
His father, a weathered man who lacked his son’s height and needed none of it to be imposing, shook his head. He opened his mouth to speak, but Jack stood up and interjected:
“Why don’t you ever tell me what I want to hear?”
Jack’s father shrugged. “Ask the sky.”
“I never said or did a thing or that was of any use to anyone or to you!”
His father aimed a rifle to the sky and fired a shot above Jack’s head. The shot echoed and was cut off by a shower of noise from a downpour. Jack saw his own face in that moment, a canvas of contrasting colors and shapes: red streaks of rain and green irises.
“This is who I am, father: helpless and useless and soaked in others’ blood. Why do you ask anything from me?”
His father placed two hands on Jack’s shoulders. “You create tragedy out of nothing. I only ask that you be yourself.”
Jack shook his head. “It’s never enough.” He pulled away and stepped backwards, slipping on a pistol. Before his father could stop him, Jack grabbed the weapon and pressed it against his temple. “I’m sorry,” was all he that said before pulling the trigger.
[The dreamer wakes up just before the terror. It’s a bang from the subconscious and a scream from the throat that does it. He feels vaguely terrified when he wakes, and rather claustrophobic in this world that isn’t his.
“I need to get the hell out of here,” he says in a low, raspy whisper.
He twists on his back, pushes a hand through his hair and says it again.
He does not know how benevolent 1933 will be due to its proximity to unsavory memories. He does know, however, that his world is in New York City, 1933. Be it from old age or poor health of body and mind or his traitorous hand, he would rather die in his own world than face death in hiding.
He hopes his return won’t be a journey to “the end” just yet.
He may be creating tragedy out of nothing.
He may also be on to something.]