O’l Boy

Ol’ boy sat in silence, trying to hide his heart. It was Shattering as he read, head down, avoiding his judges. His lips moved fast, slowing at words he wished he could erase by skipping. But the more he read, he repeated. The same disgusting sickening sickness. Cringe worthy, regretful words. Words that felt perfect when spit. When they nurtured selfishness.

Ol’ boy read the same words so many times his mind stuttered. He blinked hard to realign his sight and regain the cadence used to talk his way through life. Words of heartbreak. Yeah… bitch this, pussy that, N!!!er, cracker, blah, blah, blah. Along with other heartfelt, home bred, descriptions. Nothing too disrespectful or racist, only what the world now regards as offensive. You know- Man shit. Tough guy shit. The excusable excuses.

He thought, I didn’t, I couldn’t. He wanted to look up and say those words but kept his head down. Staring, as if the words would morph into a mother’s forgiveness.

Reaching the end, Ol’ boy read the words, Invitation to your final resting place. Now he looked up at the two… Things? Figures?

“Wait a minute, don’t I have time to change?” He hunched, struggling to inhale life.

His two alters. Guiders and influencers of the life he desired and should’ve avoided. Perfect as a wedding day mirror swirling with images of single nights. Ol’boy avoided glancing too long because his brain screamed danger, envy, and whispers that seduced women and men.

Starboy spoke ‘I want to give you a chance, but your habit is to waste it’

Pussy Bandit laughed, ‘You wanta play a game? You know you do.’ Then coldly, ‘If I were dying to survive, I would’

Ol’ boy sucked in a breath, tilting his head to allow more. He nodded and exhaled, craving the drugs shredding his lungs and body.

His alters presented the game pieces; a lighter, notebook and pen. Starboy struck the lighter, and watched calmly as the flame leaned, lunged towards, and grabbed at, its current soul mate.

Pussy Bandit gripped and extinguished the flame. ‘You have to write a love letter to your children before the fire burns the entire notebook.

A sting of regret shot through Ol’ boy like he was pissing out an infucktion. “What do I write?”

‘THEY’RE YOUR CHILDREN!’ Pussy Bandit snapped. He held up the notebook and continued. ‘That, similar to your life, is up to you’

“But. How does it change my life?”

Starboy looked at his twin ‘he still cannot make a good decision during great opportunities.’ Then slid his gaze towards Ol’ boy. ‘And THAT, is why you’re in this position.’

‘We should just let him suffer the end he chose?’.

Ol’ boy, waved his hand. He reached to retrieve the notebook, which Pussy Bandit reluctantly gave, after an explanation of rules.

‘The game is called branching. You are the root of your family tree. Growth depends on nurturing. Reaching people, and heights worthy of dreams.’

‘The twist is.’ He held up the lighter,

‘You have to finish before your fire burns you out.’

Starboy interrupted. ‘The fire never stops; and crying, yelling, or any movement other than writing makes it worse.’

Like a one-man band, Ol’ boy inhaled a wheeze, pointed with a conducting finger, and exhaled a nasally tune of words “I. Am. Ready.”

They handed O’l boy the pieces, and in unison stated. ‘Once you begin, don’t stop.’

O’l boy wrote fast and furiously. Hoping it would make sense.

Dear friends, family, children, selfishness is necessary selfish is necessary but making family pay for it your bad habits carelessness pulling the old baggage from childhood repacking refurbishing instead of throwing away the heavy burdening bruising waste, keeps you broke and poor but like all vices and destruction we find a way to pay and it normally breaks us make the gamble worth it.

He began to cry. The fire pinched the pinky of the hand he held the notebook with. He winced. He shook his hand. The fire bit hard. Ol’ boy slapped at the fire, which jumped to the notebook. Ol’ boy waved the notebook like a fan, but the fire held on and smiled, amused at the ride.

Pussy Bandit threw his hands up. Starboy held his hand out. Pussy Bandit handed over family pictures and birth certificates, as if losing a bet.

Ol’ boy slapped the notebook and pleaded.

‘I’m sorry. I want to live, why couldn’t it have been?” He Coughed.

The Fire: jumped to Ol ’boy’s head, leaving babies on the paper. Burning and gliding effortlessly with fearless beautiful chaos. Revealing the identical seduction of love, death and violence.

Ol’ boy scribbled fast, almost in a blur now. Trying not to think only made him think more. He glanced at the fire and swore he saw his own face and heard calm whistling between laughs.

Ashes branched up and out into life, air, the world. Whispering tears of old souls. Leaving behind the world they allowed.