Another visit

Bert realized that the act that he had envisioned in his head was nothing when played out in reality.

He stared at the corpse in broad daylight. He could not see it breathe. Instead of stepping around it, large swatches of green grass at the boy's head and feet, he stepped over the body--lifting his feet high so they did not distrub the tableau.

Now standing in the gutter, he squatted and placed the handgun over his rump. The weapon was a burning hot now, much warmer than the original firing. It pressed harder as he leaned in over the youth's mouth. He held a palm over the young boy's lips, as if saying a healing prayer.

He felt no air.

And Bert knew he should have shuddered. But he felt no cold for his actions. He only felt the warmth of the gun just under his belt.

The chest wound was well placed into the boy's heart. It must have kept working, for he heard the gurgle. In fact, he reasoned, his hearing had increased tenfold. The birds did not herald his moment of conquest. No sirens filled the air.

The thought of the sirens caused him to stand and rest his hand on the gun. North and south no one approached. Bert realized that beyond this moment school was in session and even though the occasion toy housed itself on the sidewalk, not a child in sight.

Only the young man. Bert always wondered how he got away with his annoyances. He skateboarded so frequently, one would begin to hope for rain to make the boy slip and stop his incessant noise. And even though he never smoked in public, many parents in the neighborhood had to explain to their elementary students that the pungent odor was merely dog excrement.

Bert had removed the area nuicince.

And he loooked again to thenorth and south. No applause occured either. He had made this small corner of earth a better place and not one person hooted or hollered.

He squated back down.

The young man was wearing three tshirts, all too small. The knockback and caused them to gather and expose the youth's lower abdomen. The blood had seeped towards the line of his belt and was pooling in the youth's belly button. The small trickle looked as if painted on.

He released the gun. His face had no expression, at least for anyone watching. Inside Bert's head, a group of his own voices were singing his praises. A sorry attempt to validate his behavior that he knew was incorrect, but somehow, necessary. He briefly enjoyed a thought, like someone who cheats on a diet with a small cookie, but caught himself.

He looked to the body again. He looked north and south. And saw not a single person. His house was only a brief trip back around the corner. In it? More guns, more comfort and more purpose.

He walked slowly, just in case someone wanted to question him.

Random story idea

After she broke up with him, he headed to his room. His mother was good about cleaning up for him, the quilt from Grandmother was pulled so neatly across the mattress, it caused a grid of X's and O's that one could read from the door way. It was always amazing to him that the cut up magazine posters and images he chose for decor never bothered her.

Even the gun cabinet, which he just liked to leave unlocked in case of emergency was well dusted and the glass was clear as spring water. He counted his guns and took metal notes to their placements. Not nary one was moved. His mother could dust with shifting their weight. He knew this. He stared more at the gun rack then the small tube television two feet away. Besides, the televison was in black and white. The guns were a series of browns and blacks, shades that gave as much comfort as a decent sized pillow.

He closed the door softly. He felt the need to weep, he knew his eyes had filled up with tears but here, in the realm he called his own at his mother's home, he knew he was in control. The lines drawn, emphasized by mother's cleanliness, gave him the structure he needed.

He made himself happy with remembering that moment he saw Jasmine. He hated the mall, but his mother had insisted he get new shoes. His anger was born by his fear that she would force him to wear something modern, like sandals and socks that he saw on some men on sidewalk. But the shoe store's music was mostly quiet so that did not bother him. Her name tag blared her name, with the J slightly off center. She encouraged him to wiggle his toes to see if the tall workboot did actually fit and she even commented on the color being more his style. He bristled.

She did not make fun of him. She even thanked both him and his mother for coming into the place, though his mother had paid for the boots.

He opened his Jasmine drawer and found the images of her that he'll recall should time afford him a chcane to remember her. There was his first picture he took of her, with a camera phone and printed. It was an expensive photo, he would also put aside, since he had to buy the phone, the call program to use it, the computer and printer to get the picture into his own hands. He kept it in his back pocket long enough that it had to fade, causing him to make several copies and retire this-the first one-back to the drawer. He had other odds and ends, including a sales copy for the shoe store she worked at and the reciept.

The tears flowed easier now.

He hated to say, "I love you" to her, it carried with it a weight his emotional level could not handle. In his 25 years, he knew he was not ready for anything beyond his link to her at this current level. He believed that this was the reason she left. After five years, nothing had changed. He loved that about her. She got tired of waiting.

He slammed the drawer back. The small items rattled and came to a rest.

He looked back to the gun rack. So many to choose from. He looked back to the computer, loosely linked to the internet by way of his neighbor's wifi--and decided that locking the door was not what he was in the mood for. He pulled forth a gun.

And put it back.

Not what he needed yet. Instead, he went and got a small rag and placed it across the corner of the bed, lining it up with quilt. He pulled out the cleaner and then returned to the carbine.

He started to clean the gun.

Journal Challenge

If you could find out that something that is true was actually false....what would it be and why?

Recently, I learned the very definition of what the term bittersweet is. A man was elected to office that was so different from anything that went before him. He was kinda and human, he was eloquant but yet common; he had a heart and knew the pain of the people he'd be working with. As he ran for the presidency, many people were shocked by him---how on Earth did we elect someone like Bush when someone like this could have been leading us?

At the same time, California courts decided it was time to see everyone as equal by granting gays and lesbians the right to marry. They were still margialized even afterwards, but it was a step in the right direction.

The churches saw a way to defeat this man running for the presidency by mobilizing the troops. They played up the lies in their congregations and sanctuaries and repurposed their ignorant audiences. If they could go out and vote against this marriage bit...they might get their ace-in-the hole from Arizona even elected.

The plan worked..in part. By playing up their fictional evils, they got their puppets to shove gays and lesbians back from full equality.

But Obama was elected.

And, so, I learned what the term 'bittersweet' meant.

I'm not a Californian, but I sure feel like I am. To see all my myraid of friends turning on each other, not out of anger but out of sheer frustration--I hurt. My heart twisted into knots a boy scout couldn't even figure out. It was horrid. The pain lingers. We cancelled our trip to the OC.

So? if I don't live there, how can it effect me?

The fact is the symbolism here. I had low esteem over my sexuality for eons. And I grew to love myself and believe in who I was. And there is the proof that ignorance truly is bliss. I wanted to believe that there are people who are good out there. I wanted to believe that if an African American could be elected president, finally, just finally, everyone would have a place at the table.

To ask, "What is true that you wish you could find out was false?" I turn to this situation as a fraction of my answer.

I wish that the hatred I see daily was just some sad, small, misunderstanding. Something the press mis-printed; something we just didn't get. That, in the end, I can stand tall with everyone else in the world and smile at the same things.

I try to smile like constantly. But it just rings false. I know I'm lying to myself.

And people who vote this way and wonder why there is still shootings and there are still hatred against them.

I wish the hatred was false. 'Cause that's all this is.