After Church came Aflack. His name was Donald, like the famous duck with the infamous temper. Not that Aflack had a terrible temper. I only mention his real name so you don't think I'm THAT much of a jerk when I tell his story.
I often refer to him as my step-dad. This is because he was the only man my mother had that was a provider. He had a house and several tough Dodge cars. A '69 Charger (think Dukes of Hazard) and a '70 Challenger. He was a grease-monkey. He LOVED working on his babies. Fact is, I don't remember him ever actually driving the Challenger. However, I did manage to convince him to install the CB antenna in the trunk, like Dukes of Hazard. He wouldn't give up the metal-flake green paint for orange though!
He over corrected on a hill going to work in a Toyota Cellica. The car launched off the hill. He, not wearing a seatbelt, launched through the windshield. His head landed on a rock over 100 feet from the car. The doctors removed an enormous chunk of his right frontal lobe.
By the time he woke from his 3 year coma, my mother had moved on. And moved, and moved, and moved.
The Beating...
The speeding feet in the pounding rain. The perpetual beat of a heart. Pounding blood. There is a cave in my heart.
Stepping out of the rain, into the shadows, the noise transitions from the wash of the cloudburst to the flow of your anxious blood. Then to the pounding of your heart. It's so loud. Terrifying, yet trusted.
The roar is overwhelmed by the beating. The beating of dark membranes. You have disturbed them. You are enveloped by their plethora of leather-silk wings. Neither bird nor beast, the ostracized. Bats. After they have settled, you see the moonlight reflected in two tapetums. The truth in those eyes, is it familiar to you? Or should you be frightened? How many lives has this creature lived?
Come in, friend. Step closer, enemy. You were washed by the rain, rinsed by the darkness, dried by the wings, and clothed. By a purpose.
Am I a panther? Am I the dusk?
Stepping out of the rain, into the shadows, the noise transitions from the wash of the cloudburst to the flow of your anxious blood. Then to the pounding of your heart. It's so loud. Terrifying, yet trusted.
The roar is overwhelmed by the beating. The beating of dark membranes. You have disturbed them. You are enveloped by their plethora of leather-silk wings. Neither bird nor beast, the ostracized. Bats. After they have settled, you see the moonlight reflected in two tapetums. The truth in those eyes, is it familiar to you? Or should you be frightened? How many lives has this creature lived?
Come in, friend. Step closer, enemy. You were washed by the rain, rinsed by the darkness, dried by the wings, and clothed. By a purpose.
Am I a panther? Am I the dusk?
THE PLAN for Labels
CHARACTERS are influential people in my tales.
BROWN is tales from a span of ages.
WHITE is tales from age 0-7.
RED is tales from age 8-14.
ORANGE is tales from age 14-21.
YELLOW is tales from age 22-28.
GREEN is tales from age 29-35.
BLUE is tales from age 36-42.
INDIGO is tales from age 43-49.
PURPLE is tales from age 50-56.
BLACK is tales from age 57-63.
Grey is an insight into how these tales may be affecting me.
BROWN is tales from a span of ages.
WHITE is tales from age 0-7.
RED is tales from age 8-14.
ORANGE is tales from age 14-21.
YELLOW is tales from age 22-28.
GREEN is tales from age 29-35.
BLUE is tales from age 36-42.
INDIGO is tales from age 43-49.
PURPLE is tales from age 50-56.
BLACK is tales from age 57-63.
Grey is an insight into how these tales may be affecting me.
Blog Archive
Saturday, April 12, 2008
Aflack
Put to Rest by Dusk Watchman on 12.4.08
Labels: Characters
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