Sunday, September 23, 2012

Orpheus Wounded


So, longer than I would have liked, but another of from 750words project, and another creative entry.

Orpheus Wounded


He was sitting down, cradling his guitar. It was a beautiful instrument, the wood full of intricate swirls, and it sounded better than it looked. He had found it in a pawn shop years ago, shortly before his fifteenth birthday, and fell in love with it immediately. Working nights at a local convince store, he had saved up enough money to purchase it a few months later. When he first took it home, he set it down to admire it for a bit before sitting down and strumming a few chords. He wasn't the best guitarist, but he was dedicated, and the new guitar filled him with the intense to play. He spent a large part of his teenage life, sitting on the edge of his bed, playing along to the radio, or spending hours trying to figure out his favorite songs. But that seemed like an entirely different life now.

He moved the guitar to his side, contemplating the years. He remembered the tears in his mother's eyes as he told her he had enlisted. He remembered the (what seemed like gallons at the time) sweat dripping down his body during training exercises. He remembered the swirl of dust and sand kicked up by the rotors of the helicopter as his squad landed on the ground halfway across the earth from where he grew up. But try as he might, he couldn't remember the blast, or the screeching of bullets as his brothers pulled him to safety, or the flight to a military base in Germany. A defense mechanism he supposed.

He stood, holding the neck of the guitar in his right hand. He remember the days and months afterwards better: the doctor explaining where he was and what had happened. He remembered certain things from the conversation "limited functionality", "newer models in the future", "a balance of form and function". While the technology for prosthetic limbs had been rapidly evolving over the last few years, it hadn't quite reached the levels that medical journals and technology magazines were in a frenzy over - well at least not for the general public. Sure, there were some successful attempts at allowing someone to control the prosthesis with their mind, allowing the person to pick up something as delicate as a grape and eat it without crushing it. But even if he went through the procedures to allow him to use such a prosthesis, well, it was state of the art, but here the art was lacking for what he really desired.  The difference between picking up a grape and fretting a barre b minor chord is significant.  There were models with rudimentary touch sensors, sure, but haptic feedback wasn't close to actual muscle memory or the feeling of the string under your fingertips.  And while he used to be able to tell where his fretting had was based on his arm position, the feeling of his phantom arm complicated that significantly.

Reaching the other side of the room, he leaned his guitar against the wall, sliding open the bottom drawer of the dresser, and removed a shoebox. So much of his life was tied up in music, from the nights he would spend on his girlfriends porch, performing his own cheesy acoustic versions of love songs, to the band he had formed in his junior year.  The music was his soul escaping into the world, his connection to something deeper, something more meaningful, a language that spoke more accurately than any tongue ever spoken by men.

He opened the shoebox, the small metal object inside catching the light.  He was feeling hollow, he knew the words in his mind, but had forgotten how to speak.  He feared that the longer he would have to wait for a suitable prosthetic to play, he wouldn't remember the words.  That the poetry that he wanted to pour out through his music would be flat, a shadow of its former beauty.  That almost hurt more than knowing he would probably never play again, the what could, or should have been.

He raised the object in his hand, feeling the metal, cool against his skin.  He had gone through the counseling, and knew the statistics.  "Just stay positive, it may take some time, but patience will help in reaching 'peace'."  Sure, but he had never been a patient man, and was stubborn enough to find his own way through this.  If he would never play guitar again, then so be it, but he would never let his song be silenced.  In his hands he cradled a microphone.

Thursday, September 13, 2012

Fleeing


I recently came across an article online extolling the benefits of writing frequently.  Specifically, the author mentioned writing at least 750 words a day as a way to increase creativity, as well as providing some general motivation.  Seeing as I've been a bit lax in writing recently (both this blog, and in general), I thought this was a interesting concept, and decided to jot down a short story.  It took a bit longer than I anticipated, but I don't think it turned out half bad (criticism welcome as always).  Hopefully, I will commit to 'paper' at some point a few of the other concepts I have floating in my head, but for now I present

"Fleeing"

He was running, fleeing.  His steps slowed by the blanket of snow that covered the forest floor.  The staccato crunch of compacted snow following each deep step.  Though his pace was rapid, his thoughts were faster: a frenzy a questions, instinct taking over, driving him, controlling him.  He maneuvered between trees, their trunks rushing by, their branches catching and pulling at him, trying to coax him to his end.  This would not do.  Although the muscles in his legs were burning, it was nothing compared to the heat in his chest.  His heart felt like it was on fire, each pulse sending blood through his body, some of which was staring to seep out of the mounting cuts and scratches caused by the underbrush and more persistent branches.  Each breathe was visible, hanging in the cool air, catching the light and glowing as a halo.  A though flashed into existence in his mind for an instant: "It would be such a peaceful morning if not for, if not for. . . ."  He couldn't bring himself to finish the thought.  The pain in his tightening leg muscles was nothing compared to that.  His pace quickened and he leapt over a fallen tree crossing the forest path.  Hopefully the obstacle gave him some distance from his pursuers - right now even inches and fractions of a second were precious.

He landed, not pausing to see if his hopes were fulfilled; all that mattered now was survival.  The thought echoed in his head: "All that matters now is survival."  And survival  required him to be fast.  He use to always think he fairly fast for his size, but now in the face of death, he felt horribly sluggish.  Whether it was the thick snow, or growing lax in age, he knew he couldn't keep this pace forever, he needed evade his pursuers. Soon. The snow wasn't helping in this endeavor, his prints easily visible in the fresh snow, with crimson dots betraying his state.  He would have to find somewhere to hide.  He ducked as he passed under a branch coated in icicles, feeling them scrape across his head, his back, their icy diamond tips now more ruby-like in appearance.  The pain shooting through his body, but the thought again: "All that matters now is survival."  And then an addendum: "because they are no longer here."

"All that matters now is survival because they are no longer here" he realized, his eyes going wide.  The horrible revelation pushing its way to the surface, through years of muscle memory and eons of instinct.  His children, his family, gone.  Their lives cut short by the foul things chasing him, with their vicious eyes, their loud fury.  Had he been awake he would have been alerted by their stench, but instead he was violently torn from his dreams by screams of pain and howls of agony. He realized he was quickly outmatched and a though flared through his mind "survival".  Although it seemed like hours, it couldn't have been that long, minutes perhaps, if that, but his legs disagreed with that assessment.  Their protests were becoming louder, and then, they were instantly quieted in confusion.  He was in the air, footing upset by a hidden root in the snow, compounded by his mind's wandering.

He closed his eyes, bracing for impact as he collided with a tree.  The sickening crack of branches as well as a rib or two filled his ears.  He felt his back connect with the earth, the snow doing little to soften his fall. He had landed, but was still moving -tumbling, rolling down into a small ravine beside the tree.  As he reached the bottom he opened his eyes, and for a brief second was captivated by the early morning rays penetrating the forest canopy, sending golden streamers across the forest's floor.

The repose was brief.  He didn't have much time now, he could hear his pursuers now reaching the top of the ravine.  He would soon be joining his family.  It felt just, as if anyone deserved the punishment that befell them, it should be him.  After all, he knew of the warnings surrounding the area, and yet he convinced his family that it would be alright to spend the night, only one night while he prowled the clearing by forest, on the hunt for some to bring back.  Now here he was, prey himself.

"He's in the ditch," said one of the figures motioning to the battered body lying at the bottom, "I don't think he left us much of job."

"Good riddance, I hope that's the last of 'em," replied the other. "I'm getting fed up with  all the cattle we've been losing to these damn wolves," he continued raising his rifle, and lined up the shot.