(no subject)
some timed writing piece (picture prompt) in lit class that i love! ^_^ randomness ... get ready...
Kharl sat unmoving on his blanket. The Minnesota wind floated by him, whispering ancient secrets hidden from the history books. Closing his eyes, Kharl sighed, "What am I?" he pondered out loud.
Ever since he was young, his drunken father lashed out at him, both physically and verbally. Because of his unique ethnic background, Kharl has no one to confide his secrets with. The whites think he's too Native American. White the Native Americans community thinks that he is too white. In other words, Kharl is a mutt, unwanted in both worlds.
But the lake doesn't care. It only watches and listens, a silent advisor. For Kharl, the lake has been a type of heaven. It holds all his secrets and pent up frustration, as well as memories of a lost mother.
"Mother?" Kharl asked into the silence. "What am I supposed to do? How am I supposed to survive?"
No one answered. Scolding himself for a child's wish, Kharl took out his lunch. Absentmindedly, he chewed on an apple, wondering if this really was a wonderful world.
* *
"Father, no!" a 10 year old Kharl screamed in agony. But his pleas fell on deaf ears. Again and again it fell. Pleas became soft whimpers. Blood slowly pooled, a stark contrast to the white floor.
"I'm doing this because I love you Kharl," his father grunted. After another minute or so, he stopped. "I need to do this to cleanse you of your sins." With that, he walked away, slamming the door and leaving his son in the room, sobbing and dying from the inside.
* *
His eyes snapped open. The fragrant smell of grass teased his nostrils. As always the birds merrily chirped and all looked tranquil.
Kharl drew in a shaky breath of warm spring air and exhaled slowly. It was only a 10 year old memory that had escaped from deep inside his ice cold heart. His nerves settled and the emotionless mask slipped back on.
Looking over the pale horizon, his resolved strenghtened. Maybe, just mayber, if he really did work hard . . . Before that thought could continue, Kharl banished it frmo the depths os fhis mind. But it returned once more. It might actually work, he thought as his mask fell as he broke into a genuine grin.
"Can I do it Mother? will I become the President?" Kharl asked the heavens. The only reply was a birdsong, full of hope and inspiration.
20 years later . . . . . .
All of the nation was watching the inaugaration ceremony. Another mutt had come into the White House. The first Native American president of United States, Kharl Feather Horse.
In the oval office, Kharl smmiled. His promise to his mother was fufilled. He really can change the world, because he was Obama's "heir".
"Mother, are you proud?" Kharl whispered.
A soft breeze blew from the open window, whispering softly in his ear. Kharl knew the answer.
Finally, he belonged.
It is truly a wonderful world.
Kharl sat unmoving on his blanket. The Minnesota wind floated by him, whispering ancient secrets hidden from the history books. Closing his eyes, Kharl sighed, "What am I?" he pondered out loud.
Ever since he was young, his drunken father lashed out at him, both physically and verbally. Because of his unique ethnic background, Kharl has no one to confide his secrets with. The whites think he's too Native American. White the Native Americans community thinks that he is too white. In other words, Kharl is a mutt, unwanted in both worlds.
But the lake doesn't care. It only watches and listens, a silent advisor. For Kharl, the lake has been a type of heaven. It holds all his secrets and pent up frustration, as well as memories of a lost mother.
"Mother?" Kharl asked into the silence. "What am I supposed to do? How am I supposed to survive?"
No one answered. Scolding himself for a child's wish, Kharl took out his lunch. Absentmindedly, he chewed on an apple, wondering if this really was a wonderful world.
* *
"Father, no!" a 10 year old Kharl screamed in agony. But his pleas fell on deaf ears. Again and again it fell. Pleas became soft whimpers. Blood slowly pooled, a stark contrast to the white floor.
"I'm doing this because I love you Kharl," his father grunted. After another minute or so, he stopped. "I need to do this to cleanse you of your sins." With that, he walked away, slamming the door and leaving his son in the room, sobbing and dying from the inside.
* *
His eyes snapped open. The fragrant smell of grass teased his nostrils. As always the birds merrily chirped and all looked tranquil.
Kharl drew in a shaky breath of warm spring air and exhaled slowly. It was only a 10 year old memory that had escaped from deep inside his ice cold heart. His nerves settled and the emotionless mask slipped back on.
Looking over the pale horizon, his resolved strenghtened. Maybe, just mayber, if he really did work hard . . . Before that thought could continue, Kharl banished it frmo the depths os fhis mind. But it returned once more. It might actually work, he thought as his mask fell as he broke into a genuine grin.
"Can I do it Mother? will I become the President?" Kharl asked the heavens. The only reply was a birdsong, full of hope and inspiration.
20 years later . . . . . .
All of the nation was watching the inaugaration ceremony. Another mutt had come into the White House. The first Native American president of United States, Kharl Feather Horse.
In the oval office, Kharl smmiled. His promise to his mother was fufilled. He really can change the world, because he was Obama's "heir".
"Mother, are you proud?" Kharl whispered.
A soft breeze blew from the open window, whispering softly in his ear. Kharl knew the answer.
Finally, he belonged.
It is truly a wonderful world.