Don't Shoot the Kids

Jake kicked open the back door and bounded down the white, wooden porch steps in a hurry. The BB gun rested on his slender, dark shoulder; his knuckles white from gripping it tightly around the base. His mother followed closely like stink on shit. I tensed when I saw her exit the house, she always knew how to spoil a good time. Her eyebrows had already formed a V, making her look as if one of those fuzzy spring caterpillars were glued there, stuck in the crease above her dark, stoney eyes.

“Don't do anything stupid!” she yelled at Jake, just stopping short at the porch steps. Her large frame made her question if it was worth the trouble to descend the stairs and waste her energy.

“Aw, Ma! Knock it off. We ain't doing nothing,” he answered harshly without turning. I know she didn't believe him because he face was configured in a way that said otherwise. You know the whole “mom look”: the eyebrows raised, the red stricken face, and the puffed up cheeks that show their in a huff 'bout something or another. Yeah, she had that look alright. Hands on her hips, she watched the retreating boy as he made his way towards us.

“Britney, Brooke, Westley!” Her voice was hard and smooth like stainless steel, so me and my siblings stood up real quick and dusted ourselves off in an effort to pay attention. Our ears perked as she stared at us, ready to hear what she had to say. “I'll call your momma on you if you guys do something stupid. Don't think I wont. And if what you think Jake says is a bad idea, don't do it!”

“Alright,” I answered matter of factly. I was tired of listening to this bullshit. We all were. I was just the only one with the balls to say something. It must have worked because her 10 minute speech that she'd prepared seemed to stop short. Her eyes narrowed as she stared at me, Britney, and Westley for a good moment or two. I knew what she was thinking, 'Those Borba kids are just as crazy as their parents...' I didn't mind what she thought. Her kids were crazy too. And I had a hunch she was insane at one time. Her opinions didn't bother me none. Everyone's entitled to one, but no one says you have to give a shit.

Jake took his place beside his younger brother, Caleb. Caleb was kinda queer looking. He wasn't slender and tall like Jake. He was real chubby and soft. Their mother looked at her own sons, then eyed the gun Jake held.

“You kids be careful!” their mother urged.

“We'll be alright, Mom,” Caleb answered as a genuine smile burst beneath his lips. He didn't believe there was anything to worry 'bout. He was a pretty careless kid. Nothing could hurt him since he was so big for his age.

“Yeah, I got my license and so does Jake. We know 'bout safety and stuff,” added Britney, careful to keep her eyes, and the truth they held, away from their mother.

“Yeah, yeah. I suppose you're right. Don't shoot Mellow anymore though, okay?” We looked at the dog, his ears perked at the mention of his name. He noticed Jake and Britney holding the guns. Slowly, the mutt stood up and shrunk out of sight inside his pen. Pretty smart for an old dog. He distanced himself away from our antics before he was sucked into them again.

We all answered an “alright” or a “okay” before she shuffled back through the small doorway. Once we were sure she had gone, we formed a tight circle around each other as Brit and Jake rested their guns on the gravel driveway. My nose crinkled as I noticed that we began to smell more and more like a wet dog. Everyone's face was glowing from the heat, and the frayed clothes we wore stuck to our skin, sticky from the sun's powerful aura.

“What we gonna do?” asked Westley, looking back towards the house. He was expecting to see Jake and Caleb's mom watching from the widow, as she always did. Britney scoped the area and saw a spot to the left of the house where their mother would have difficulty keeping an eye on us. Trees bordered the long, narrow strip of gravel that eventually connected to Las Palmas Ave. It almost looked like one of those shooting ranges used at the amusement parks. All that was missing were the targets.

“Brooke, you and Westley go left by those bigger trees. Caleb, you stand on the opposite end of the driveway,” Britney instructed. Since Britney and Jake were the oldest, we did what we were told. Caleb, in all his chubby glory, waddled to the right of the driveway while Westley ran to the left, eager to see what this game was all about. I walked slowly, sulking.

“Hustle!” Jake yelled at me.

“Why do I have to be grouped with Westley and Caleb? I'm only a year younger than you!” I protested.

“Because I'm the oldest!” Britney said, “And what I say goes!”

“Yeah, and you have to be this tall to be on our side,” Jake motioned with his hands the height requirement. My nostrils flared. I could feel my nose burn as I held back a wave of emotions. It wasn't my fault I was the shortest kid. I stood beside Westley, grinding my teeth, feeling hotter by the second, and this time it wasn't because of the sun.

“It's okay, Brookie,” Westley beamed. “We like having you on our side. It don't bother me at all.” But nothing ever bothered Westley. Everytime you looked into his eyes they were glossy and absent. It was like living with submission. He smiled at me with those brown vacant eyes that I could not read. 'Okay Lenny,' I thought, 'Go tend the rabbits and do whatever you're told'.

“Okay. Now you guys need to run back and forth across the driveway really fast! Once you get to the other side, you need to hide behind the trees and don't come back out again til you catch your breath.”

“No! Forget this! I ain't playin'! You're gonna shoot at us, aren't you?” Anger bubbled and overtook my tiny figure. My thin fingers clinched into a jawbreaker sized fist. I wanted to hit someone real bad. Not Brit or Jake. They'd shoot at me. But if I hit Wes, he wouldn't do nothing. Just stare at me with his open, I guess.

“Aw, c'mon, Brooke! Stop being a pussy. You're skinnier than anyone here anyways. You probably wont get hit at all,” Jake yelled back. I saw that he and Britney were starting to fill their guns with Bbs. Their ammo started to clatter and knock into one another as they trickled down the inside of the gun, shckt shckt shckt, the sound went. It reminded me of those rain sticks when they were shaken. It funny how that sound used to calm my nerves. The tiny beads, soothing in one way, and dangerous in another. Man, what a fucked up world we live in.

“Fine,” I consented, sheltering myself behind the trees. I could see Caleb's fat face on the other side, screwed up in concentration. His husky body was in no position that suggested he'd run fast. Licking his lips, he hungered to show Jake and Brit his capabilities. We all did.

“Ready....Go!” someone shouted.

I darted past Westley and felt my vision concentrate on reaching the other side. Don't think about the gun, don't look around. Get to the other side. I was now a horse wearing a blinder. By this time, I passed Caleb while the guns began to fire. “Pffftt, Pffftt, Pffftt,” the guns whispered, as if emitting tiny coughs. I reached the other side in no time, careful not to trip on the gravel. Westley followed and knocked into me, unable to stop.

“You get hit?” I asked.

He was already gasping. You could almost swear that boy had gills the way he was breathing so hard. He nodded in reply, his face beat red. Lifting up his shirt, he showed me a pink indent beside his outie bellybutton. It was beginning to turn brown quickly.

“What 'bout you?”

“Naw. I guess I was too fast,” I answered.

We turned to see Caleb at the other side. Coughing, he leaned against the tree, his face turned away from ours. “They...They hit...MY RIBS!” he shouted between pants of breath. Laughter ensued from Jake and Britney. Me and Westley didn't know if we were supposed to wait for Jake and Britney to say “go” again, so we just went and met Caleb on the other side.

“Hey! We weren't ready!” Jake complained.

“Your precious animals ain't gonna wait for you to say ready either dumb ass!” I shouted back. Caleb had his shirt lifted, perplexed at his wounds. I was surprised that he was dumbfounded that they'd shoot him the most. He was the fattest one out of us. Everyone would think I'd be funny to hit him.

“Let's go back again!” Westley shouted, blowing our cover. I swear that kid's got no sense.

“Alright, you and Caleb go this time. I'll hang back,” I said, kinda laughing to myself. I thought it would be smart on my part, and I'd have a great view of the show. Caleb and Westley dug the tip of their shoes into the ground and waited for a moment. Then the two started running as fast as they could. This time Jake and Britney were ready, so I heard a great deal of shots. Westley wasn't much faster than Caleb; I guess he was slow in more ways than one. Caleb was falling behind, so Wes got ahead of him and was able to use the tree as defense. Struggling to keep the pace while being hit, Caleb's converse slipped on the gravel. His arms windmilled as he fell on his stomach, scraping his chest and knees. He didn't get up right away, so Britney and Jake kept shooting and laughing.

“Time out!” I called, taking pity. Once the shots stopped, we all ran to meet him. He turned over on his back and groaned a bit.

“I'm alright. I'm alright,” he said nonchalantly.

“Good,” Jake said as he shot his brother in the leg. Caleb winced at the hit, but stood up fast and made to grab at the gun. Me and Wes struggled to overtake Brit but they had us backing away quick.

“Hey! It's only fair!” I yelled.

“Ain't nothin' fair!” Brit spat back. The window opened from the house as Jake and Caleb's mom strained to look out the window. Her brows were furrowed as she squinted. Shading her face from sunlight, she noticed us better. Westley, Brit, and Jake had their backs turned to her.

“But I want to shoot you guys too!” Westley wailed.

Jake pulled his gun on Westley, but before he could shoot, their mom's voice snapped like the crack of a whip. The sheer surprise of her presence made the three stiff with anticipation. No one wanted to turn around and face her. Looking in her eyes was like looking at Medusa. Except it usually involved a lecture. I'd prefer death.

“STOP SHOOTING THE KIDS!” she fumed.

“We ain't shootin' no one,” Jake shouted.

“Yes, you are!” she yelled.

“No, we're not,” Britney replied. Her tone was careful, and not as rough as Jake's. She wasn't our mother. But she was an adult.

“Put the gun down, NOW!” she shouted, her upper lip twitching frantically. She jerked her back inside the house with quick precision. A loud slam, followed by the rattling windowpanes, signaled that she shut the window. I'm still surprised the glass didn't break.

“Aw, hell!” Jake hissed as he threw the gun on the driveway.

A thin Pffftt escaped the BB gun's barrel before it ricochet off a gravel rock. Caleb clutched his face and bellowed a howl of pain. Caught off guard, the hairs on my arms rose so fast that all I could feel was the tingling sensation it left behind. Caleb was a pretty tough kid, so when he began to ball out crying, I knew we were in trouble. He crawled to his knees and sat hunched over his lap, rocking his body back and forth, squealing like a stuffed pig. Then the blood appeared. Crimson jets seeped between his fingertips and fell in tiny drips. I took a few steps back, but still kept my eyes on him. He started to remind me of a monster the way he was growling his words, no articulation whatsoever.

“Shut up! Shut up!” Jake whispered, running to his brother. Taking his hand, he tried to lift Caleb's face up, only Caleb wouldn't let him. “Stop crying. Shut up!” Jake hushed.

The porch door opened, and their mom emerged. Scuffling down the steps, she had yet to find out what had happened. When I looked at Westley, I noticed his eyes were tearing up. He wasn't even conscious of the fact that we were going to get in trouble, he was only aware that his friend lay at his feet, bleeding. Britney, on the other hand, began to tighten at the neck while her shoulders slumped in dismay.

“S-She's c-c-coming...She's coming!” I whispered hurriedly to Jake, almost unable to talk. Caleb's brother jumped to his feet and met her halfway. We didn't hear what he said, but I noticed that her eyes bulged out of her face as she pushed past Jake and ran faster than Westley and Caleb combined. Almost sliding on the gravel herself, she stopped short of her son and tugged his hand away from his face. The tiny pool of blood Caleb held splat to the ground. He lifted his sweaty, tearful face. Apart from the oozing blood cascading down his features, the only significant injury we saw was his shrunken eye, which had been hit directly. I cowered in disgust and mumbled ,“nonononono” to myself.

I noticed Jake standing far away from the rest of the group, eyeing his gun. They would take it away for sure now. Their dad said they would chop it with the ax if they weren't responsible. I sat in disbelief. How could this happen? We were just playing. Just playing.

How were we to know we'd shoot his eye out?

The Lord's a Waitin'

Darkness crept on William Walker as he impatiently hoed the weeds with added frustration. Images of his father, drunk and careless with other women, clouded his mind. It had been over three months since William had heard from him. He concocted two theories from the absence; either California had killed the bastard, or his Paw finally struck it rich and abandoned what was left of the family. William had more faith in the latter. Ever since he was a child, he knew his father to be pompous and provocative towards other women. Didn't seem right to the boy. William often wondered how his mother had ever gave her heart to such a dolt.

Then again, William realized, his mother was just as moronic. She upheld all the God given qualities a lady should possess, which also meant that she was silly, gullible, and a hopeless romantic. She'd dote on William and tell him to get married so she'd have babies to look after. Of course he knew he couldn't leave. He suffered the greatest consequence and lost his freedom. But it wasn't an obligation to finish what his father started, lonely as he was out on the wide prairie.

'She'd be lost without me,' William thought with a heavy heart, 'but I love her so.'

As William lifted his head and shifted his weight against the hoe, he could see the faint outline of a small, curvy figure from the kitchen window. The oil lantern within the house bestowed a splendid background, showering his mother with a heavenly glow that suited her bright and cheerful disposition. Though William was considered a hard, solemn boy from his father's neglect, he wanted to crack a smile as the smell of his mother's cooking seeped from the old sodhouse. But the warm, joyous feelings briskly dissipated. Like a flame extinguished from it's candle, a smoke lingered and clouded all that was clear and right before. He was ashamed of his father's deception towards his mother and took it upon himself to protect the angelic martyr. Leaving the farm was no longer an option for the boy; he was to be rooted to his home turf, much like the flax he was waiting to cultivate.

“William,” Mary Joe whispered in the darkness. Her voice, sweet and innocent, lingered in the dark as the echo gently cooed across the open prairie. Side glancing towards the sodhouse again, William saw his mother, beckoning him with her petite arms to come inside. He cursed as he threw down the hoe, upset that his work ethic was distracted by dizzying daydreams of abandonment.

But before he even reached the door, a slight clicking sound caught the young man's attention. It came from his right, just beside the tomato patch. He stopped and remained motionless before the door. He did not have a weapon on him, and the hoe was back on the field. Feeling vulnerable and cautious, he stayed silent, holding in his breath.

“Make yer move, boy,” came a slight hiss from his right. As he turned to face the voice, the unsuspecting boy was struck by a blow between the shoulder blades from his left. 'There are more than one', he thought to himself as he doubled over, scrambling to crawl away into the darkness. But the lantern from the kitchen provided too much light; there was no escape. Another clicking sound disturbed the silence. As William turned to face the men, metal barrels were pointed directly at his head. It was then he realized the distinct click meant they were cocking their shotguns.

A high pitched scream wrung everyone's ears as Mary Joe was dragged by her blonde hair out into the night. The man harassing his mother was dark, 'but not Negro', William noticed. This made William apprehensive. If he wasn't either white or black, he was most certainly red, which meant a greater trouble than he had anticipated.

“Please! Not me! Please!” wept his mother, trying to steady her balance as the Indian dragged her along. But the broad chested man ignored his mother and clicked his tongue enthusiastically, as if expressing his approval. A horse came into view as the Indian mounted it, then was given the flailing woman.

“He said, she'll do,” spoke the man who struck William. The others turned to look at the heavenly creature they'd captured. All except the one who had just spoke. He kept his narrow black eyes on the boy as he prodded William with the metal tip. “Don't worry, son. Yer old nuff now, ain't ye? Ye don't need yer mother anyhow. Tell ye what, I'll give ye two options. Ye can try ter follow us and I'll kill ye, or ye jist git inside that ol' house and don't worry yer little head 'bout it. Which is't?”

Most boys would cower, but William did not. His back was throbbing in pain, but he did not let on. Noticing that his mother was shrieking as the Indian fondled her, he realized that this was more than a robbery; and a kidnapping didn't suit him none, especially with Indians. Their reputations with white women were grotesque, which fueled William's rage to an extent he'd never known before .The man grinned as he turned his back on the boy. William seized his chance and lunged with what little strength he had left. The outlaw anticipated this; he sent a sickening blow to William's face with the butt of the gun. The loud crunch tasted of salt and iron as William was struck hard to the dust, his jaw broken. The others surrounding the men shifted, looking desperately ill at ease. They didn't want no part of this any longer. How much farther would this go?

“Fair attempt, son. While yer travelin' up to heaven, tell the good Lord that Robert Redding's waiting for his judgement day,” the man smiled, showing a row of gritty teeth. A blaring boom penetrated the night as William was knocked senseless. The speedy bullet dug like a hoe through his scalp in fervid hot pain. He wriggled for a moment in defiance of death, but eventually collapsed on the dusty prairie as the blood drained through his head like a steady pump of water.

* * *

Mary Joe roused from an uncomfortable slumber and realized that all that had happened the night before was not a dream. Observing her surroundings, she noticed that she was in the mouth of a cave. The sun was shinning brightly and almost blinded her at first. But when her eyes adjusted to the morning light, she saw the men from the night before, cut to pieces and shoved in heaps at the mouth of the cave. Feeling faint, the poor woman clutched her chest and lost all her breath at once.

“Morning, ma'am,” came a husky voice from behind. Caught off guard by the sudden knowledge that she was not alone, she began to tear up as she glanced towards the voice. The Indian that had carried her away on his horse was lying away from the others, motionless, except for the steady trickle of blood moving down the sides of his face. The man who spoke was kneeling beside the figure, an ax in one hand and a bowie knife in the other. Mary Joe collapsed to the ground in shock. She realized he was the man who had murdered her son. “Now, now. Don't cry, ma'am. It weren't the best o' men. This Indian here had awful intentions, didn't ye know? If I hadn't a stepped in...” he stopped, “Things'd be differnt”. She didn't care about the Indian, or the other white men for that matter. Her thoughts concentrated on one solitary figure.

“You killed my boy. My William...” she sobbed.

Robert Redding scratched his head with the bowie as he let out a convincing sigh. “I'm mighty sorry 'bout his death. I never meant no harm to whites like us. But I had a deal with this Indian. He turned 'em all 'ginst me,” he motioned towards the severed bodies. “It went back on it's word. Now I'm awful ashamed at my behavior. I'm not a bad man, really. I'd be Catholic, ma'am. Jist tryin' to save er skins.”

“You killed him, still. A mere boy,” she wailed, her hand over her throat.

Robert Redding left the Indian's side and shuffled towards the trembling woman. She backed away with disgust, fearful of the weapons clutched tightly in his hands. “I don't think ye realize what this beast proposed to do with ye. Do ye know what Indians do with white women?” he said, kneeling before Mary Joe. Tears began to blur her vision, and she could not see that the cold black eyes of her captor were resting on her plump bosom. “No? I'll tell ye then,” he whispered, holding up the bowie knife. “Ye see this? This bowie here? Very sharp, in't? Well, this Indian, it don't like whites much for taking what useter be it's—this open country. So it takes what is rightfully yers, don't it? Seems fair, but it ain't. Now women er easy targets for a demon like him. And what do women cherish more'n anythin'?” he questioned, looking into the woman's eyes with deceitful earnestness. When she didn't answer, he continued, “Their purity, their good Christian ideals, and their children. That devil there were goin' ter cut ye in yer genitals, ma'am. Ye know why? Fer sexual slaves I supposed. Indian's pay a lot fer revenge, don't they? And I stopped it before I knew it's rightful intention. I'm a right mess knowin' all the things i've done wrong. I wish I didn't shoot yer boy. Fine lad, trying to protect ye. Raised him good. I weren't raised good. Maybe ye can teach me manners. A fine woman like ye can look b'neath first impressions, can't ye?”

Putting down the ax, he reached for the woman's hand and gently kissed it. “I know you ain't gonna want ter trust me after my behavior last night. But I need te repent fer my sins,” he sobbed, forcing a tear down the side of his face. Mary Joe covered her mouth and watched the figure continue to declare his injustice and wrong doings with what she believed to be sincere repentance. Yet, she eyed the man suspiciously and saw that he never dropped his knife. Redding continued to kiss her fingers, then her palms. She could feel herself giving in to the temptation. It had been so long since she'd been touched, kissed, loved by a man. 'This is wrong. This is silly,' she thought. He continued in this fashion for several minutes. “Please, please, stop,” she said, attempting to move away from the man without actually doing so. She wanted to believe him. William was right in his speculations. But she meant nothing by it; she was silly, gullible, and a hopeless romantic.

He grabbed her wrist and yanked her forward. “Now, ma'am. I still need money. 'nd yer a right, pretty one, ye are. I'm gonna need ye te hold still. Now, now, don't cry mum. I'll try to make it enjoyable fer ye,” he whispered in her ear as he slowly descended on her small, curvy figure. Grabbing her wrists with one hand, he held her tight while slowly edging down her thigh and up her skirt with his bowie. When she began to plead and pray for the Lord to save her, the man let out a haughty laugh. His black hawk eyes pierced her own, and she knew the blade would slice her at any moment. Staring intently at the man's eager face, she heard an earsplitting crack and noticed that his eyes dimmed and emptied of all desires. His mouth hung open as his hands released Mary Joe; blood began to spill from his leathery lips as he fell to her side. Startled at his sudden withdrawal, she noticed that he was dead, a shotgun blow to the side of the head. Looking towards the entrance of the cave, William stood hunched over, a gun raised. His features were distorted from the earlier casualty shot to his face, yet his broken jawed smile lingered in a satisfied smirk.

“Judgement day,” he whispered. “and the Lord's a waitin'...”

A Daunting Return: assignment of abuse

A Daunting Return

Every light in the kitchen was ablaze; the stove was turned high, causing the heat to settle and mount in agony for Tammy. She had already spent a blazing two hours at a tee ball game she coached for her two youngest children. Much of her strength had left her earlier that day while playing in the summer heat. Not even the comfort of her small home could cool her down. Beads of sweat formed like salty crystals at her temples while another form of liquid spilled just above her right eyelid. Brushing them away, she looked at her children sitting at the circular table at the other end of the narrow room. They were smiling, discussing their harrowing victory with excited gestures; their laughter nipping her ears from their high pitched tones. Not wishing to deter the children away from their own incitement, she did not bother to ask them to help her clean the unstable table filled with mail. Though it was important to keep the faulty table intact, it had been weeks since she'd seen them smile.

Turning towards the sink, she looked out the shapely window as a sigh escaped her lips. The sun was setting, yet the air was moist enough to touch had one ran their forefingers together. Another new strand of beads formed between her cleavage making her feel revolting and uncomfortable. If only we could pay for air conditioning, she thought to herself while squirming with discomfort. Feeling that it would be inappropriate to shove her hand within the contents of her shirt and wipe the mess away in front of her children, she allowed the sweat to form and dribble slowly down the ends of her bra.

To her dismay, she opened the window and felt a warm breeze touch her coarse skin. Not feeling relieved by her efforts to keep cool, she kept her wary eyes on the street connecting to their gravel driveway just ten yards across the lawn. Another lamenting groan burst forth from her coarse lips as she waited for the streak of light to shine from a Chevy Pick up Truck. It was eight o'clock... Where is he now?

When moving her hand from the sill, she saw that the white of the window's edge was smeared with red goo. The crimson tint was clustered as a ball, yet looked smooth from the hellish glare of the kitchen lights. To most, one would be reminded of a stray ruby circumvented from a ring; but Tammy did not think about the aesthetics of hand worn jewelery that are so commonly connected with conventional women. Rather than thinking of beauty at what looked to be an odd gem, her thoughts concentrated on nothing other than the fact that it must have been blood.

Upon further speculation, Tammy gained enough courage to pick up the piece and examine it closely. It was none other than crusted jelly. Feeling quite relieved that nothing had happened in her absence that would be cause for a dispute, she looked within the sink and found a cascading mountain of food and dishes. Feeling achy and pained, she began to wash the dishes as the inviting zephyr of Digornio Pizza began to circulate about the room. Tammy ignored the smell, knowing that if she raised it's suspicion, her children would be caught in a whirlwind of anticipation. Glancing at the children, she realized that their eyes were not on the stove, but on the clock, waiting...but for what? The pizza? Or their father?

Gravely, she turned the oven down and continued to finish the dishes, knowing fully well that they had to be finished. No...they must be finished. As new beads of sweat formed at her temples, one had actually touched the cut placed above her right eye. It seared with pain, yet she pulled the ball cap labeled “COACH” forward to hide her wincing. The innocence had long left her children's eyes; she had no need to give them new reasons to worry, or to think about blood as often as she already had. She would send them to bed early, she thought.

“Mama?” came a tiny voice.

“Yes, Westley,” she said without turning.

“Are you alright, Mama?” he asked.

“Of course. I'm fine, Westley. We won today. You and Britney hit the ball really well today. I was impressed how strong you are getting.”

There was a deep silence, one that reminded Tammy of the clam before the storm. Both of the children exchanged looks as though they could feel the effects of the storm begin to creep upon their skin despite the blazing heat of summer nights in California.

“Not as strong as....”

“Not as strong as who, sweetheart?” Tammy encouraged, “Not as strong as Babe Ruth? Roger Marris?”

“...Daddy,” interjected Britney. Tammy whirled to face her children. She did not mean to seem appalled or alarmed. But their faces were pressing, severe even. Glances were exchanged between them. Westley lowered his head while Britney continued, “He doesn't wish to be as strong as Daddy,” she murmured as she looked directly into her mother's wound.

Tammy felt a shortness of breath as she pulled down her ball cap for the second time. Not wishing to turn away from her children, but to show them courage, she regained her slouched posture and pulled the pizza from the oven. It landed with a plop on the circular table, creaked, then cracked in two, allowing the pile of mail to spin and flutter in a tornado of chaos while the pizza landed face down on the dirty, unfinished tiles—unable to eat.

“Uh-oh,” the children moaned in unison as the familiar lights of a Chevy Pick-up truck glared across the kitchen and pulled into the gravel driveway.

Jamestown Settlement: assignment discussing historic landmarks; took the perspective of my childhood self

Educational Adventures Tour Guide: But Where Is the Education?

They call these tours for the youth “educational adventures”. I don’t understand why. Due to misunderstandings that were fabricated by the inauthentic design of these “tours” I, as a child, learned very little about the lives of those who first claimed land and began the Jamestown settlement. “Listen here, youngster,” began an old man dressed as if a blacksmith. “You can’t brandish that sword that you’re so willing to lay upon your friend,” said the old man with a glint in his eyes taking the very sword from my small eager hands. “We are not barbaric, nor will we resort to violence here at this settlement,” he scolded. Liar!

If there is one thing I’ve learned about the history of America, it is that settlers played a daring role to rid the Indians of their own land through raid. How little I had learned from that expedition to the original Jamestown Settlement. The characters were only too eager to direct 'youngsters' such as myself to the path towards the neighboring villages where the Indians resided. Public schooling had taught me that Indians and white settlers did not get along too well; therefore I was in a strange position as I remember thinking “do they want us to die? Why are they encouraging us?” Of course, I didn't realize at that time that they just wished for us to move along and explore the 'New World,' like those settlers on the fated day of May 14, 1607. The nearest Indian village was nearly twenty yards from the camp of the settlers, which confused me even more. “Enemies that close? What is going on?”

As I stepped closer with the rest of my group, I saw metal spikes glued together by cement in order to make tepee. More confusion loomed within the inner contents of my delicately growing brain. “Cement, eh? I thought it was clay...” Being so young, I actually believed that these false villages were made from sticks, stones, metal spikes and cement. Why would I be on this trip during school hours if this whole thing was a sham? I went along with it, taking detail as I thought that I could prove my teacher wrong when I told her what we, as a class, actually witnessed.

A blond headed woman was sitting calmly outside one of these tepees, knitting. I looked upon the woman with blonde hair and blue eyes. This was surely no Indian. Only once before had I seen a white person portrayed as an Indian, and that was in a movie called “Dances With Wolves”. But I was smart, and I knew that movies were merely fictional. This was the first successful settlement from England, so she can't be white! If she was from Europe, she would at least be Spanish or Portuguese because they were actually the first to reach this strange inhabited land. “You’re no Injun!” I said, immediately stereotyping her. “Yes, I am,” she replied coolly, setting down her yarn. “See little girl, I am wearing skins of animals to protect my body from the cold. Just like any regular Indian would do.” I furrowed my brow and touched the sock she was making with the strings of yarn. This too was very odd to me. Why do they need socks when they have no use for shoes?

“Injuns are naked,” I said. “Let’s see you naked. Are you browner in your skin color under the skins that you’re wearing? Aren’t Indians supposed to be brown?” I questioned. Eying me carefully, she put down her knitting and examined the group of tykes idly standing before her. All the children began to mutter amongst themselves, trying to patch together loose strands of information. “I am an Indian. Truly,” she said, affirming her stance. Some of us gasped. Our perception of this land was somehow wrong. Had our school failed us? Questions began to form within the baffled group. Screaming ensued once the children began to argue over eachother about the facts. Possibly feeling threatened, the Indian called over the Blacksmith who had taken away the sword I was playing with earlier. “Don’t call him over,” I told the woman. “He will kill your people. He is the enemy, isn’t he? Why are you so close with the enemy? Quick, run! He will take your land,” I cried as I attempted to help her. Seeing me amongst the frazzled young woman, the Blacksmith quickly took me by the arm and led me away from the group. I was surprised that he came after a fellow white instead of attacking this Indian.

Amid the confusion, the children walked away with ambiguous knowledge. Those that read the plaques bolted to the trees had little insight, but no new information beyond our prior knowledge. Unsure of what to believe, the children lost interest in the facts. To occupy the rest of our field trip time, the gift shop opened early due to the increase of student's apprehension to leave. This, unfortunately, became the ultimate attraction. Cork pop guns and tomahawks gratified the children, and all the misplaced information was forgotten. Only later in life did I realize that my speculations were correct. That man was not a real blacksmith, nor the blonde hair blue eyed woman a real Indian. What has happened to these so called “educational adventures”? Sure, they can be fun and entertaining, but are they entirely truthful? Perhaps seeing is not believing after all. The entirety of the trip was ruined by this false impression of how life was lived during the settlement of Jamestown. Even Disney suggested that there was conflict between Pochantas’ tribe compared to that of John Smith’s white settlement. What truth is hidden behind this false stage of reenactment when the production is meant as an attraction instead of an actual “educational adventure”? The entire student population did not care for the ships, the history, nor the common life of the Indians purely for the fact that it was incorrect. Arguments over the authenticity began to surface, which led to a depression that extinguished the excitement of meeting a “real Indian”. By allowing us to walk around and read small bronze plaques bolted to the trees, the children were deceived by this new creation of the Jamestown Settlement. As one of the children in the group of “educational adventurers,” I can tell you that most children are influenced when their imaginations come to life, not when their perceptions are skewed. No correct historical timeline was learned, nor any insight into the first successful settlement of the English in America. All that was gained was an extended recess where an Indian woman taught an old Blacksmith how to knit while children sat around the circle outside the tepee. If the original settlers and Indians would see this, would they be proud?

Santa Cruz: A Neverlasting Sentimental Tale - my first attempt at beat poetry

Santa Cruz: A Neverlasting Sentimental Tale

The distant land above the city provides such elegance.

What is the ingredient for such romantic modernism that ends in reality?

$27,000 a year

2 teaspoons of Hidden artifacts and numerous journeys

1 bucket of hemp

1 ton of laughter

½ tons of obstacles

The entire contents of my heart

You

All contents should be accounted for.

When I wish for such a temporary vision, I begin the mix.

Thrown into a blender that flows and stains the counters.

I lay my head across the concoction

and soak up its heavy earthy residue with a smile.

The thoughts of scenery pour into my head,

but your face remains the prior scope.

The tarnished stains embedded in my mind brings

wondrous, yet fragile and unnerving thoughts I've never before possessed:

Walks in the dark through the insomnic nights

have never brought us closer

to the truth of our primitive origin, or the beauty of such a delicate world.

The bench stands steady, inviting as we fumble

down the path through the dark.

Astonishing images pass as we look out,

your arm closing tight around my shoulder.

The sun is rising and a new day beginning.

Lights shine and sparkle below the cliff from the morning schedule of society.

That glint catches your eyes that forever leave me dazzled

at the livelihood in Santa Cruz, but it's danger as well.

The breeze blows my hair in your face,

but we laugh at the forest's delights and its trails at matchmaking.

Perhaps this is what I love most about Santa Cruz,

the effective way it places a smile within the depths of my heart

that only surfaces when you are present

within this vast forest of freedom.

We stay inhabited above within this gentle world while we look

below at society.

I frown when I think of joining the enlightenment-

the truth we come to face, not as creatures, but humans,

is never quite as delicate. Not like it is here.

If only we could never part

from the forest, but society is like a kitkat and only allows breaks

from responsibility, from the “real world”—not the magical eternity I pictured.

If only there was no other world we could return to,

I'd know that I'd spend it with you here, in green.

Santa Cruz means hardly anything without you to share our love

of sights and sounds presented in this rendition of Eden's Garden.

But like all good things, they end.

Abruptly.

And so will we,

living in Santa Cruz, that is.

But not this poem. No. I have little more to say.

To be thrust and left alone will be a bitch.

Santa Cruz, dont let that hussy knock me down.

Don't leave me to be abandoned.

Dont pass by so quickly. Remind me to look in his eyes.

And together, we'll look through our eyes down upon those critters who blow

over to the great girth of society's penis.

We'll sit atop this hill and glance beyond we don't yet understand.

I never wish to join them if I have to leave this green, this life, those glittering eyes,

and that smile hanging soulfully from your lips.

Penelope's Ode to Odysseus

Resurrect me from this spiritless life,

It’s hard to live with feelings of yearning.

My soul is lost due to Distance’s strife;

Opaque thoughts if you’re even returning.

Don’t be guided by those Sirens away.

Evade from lonesome life to be with me.

The adventure and love you seek may lay

Within home, Our personal Odyssey.

I long for the love and comfort of home

That familiarity breeds within.

Hark! Help! With these monsters I am alone,

These sloth suitors who refuse to give in.

One must be chosen since ten years went by,

and I long for family, for tears to dry.

Country Kitchen: assignment to childhood kitchen

A tight, squeaky voice echoed through the halls as I crept barefoot on the decaying yellow tile. Though the voice was strained, tired, and high pitched in a lousy effort to sing, the song brought good tidings for the early, chilly morning. The house was dark, as it usually was at five o'clock in the morning. We were to be roused early in order to meet the country bus that took us to our school seven miles into town. Therefore, the only light that was typically left on was the kitchen's, signaling a beckon of warmth while enticing us with the sweet waft of homemade hot chocolate. I followed the voice and the smell, hardly noticing the dirty floors and various chairs surrounding the circular family table. The yellow and green tiled walls added to the agricultural setting when the house was built in the early fifties. The kitchen was long, not too wide; allowing a family of five, such as mine, to fit comfortably. Many times, the table we ate at would break apart and send my father into fits of fury at his failed attempts to keep the two halves a whole. Around the table were five different chairs, most of which did not match and further added to my parent's frustration. The right side of the kitchen held a semicircle of cheap appliances that hugged the wall. It was my mother's way of hiding the yellow and sage green tiles connected to the wall; a choice previously made by the original builders. Bothering my parents to no end, they tried to hide the tiled walls with many household appliances, only to find that we never had enough money to buy what we needed.

My mother was standing at the stove with a smile plastered on her face as she stirred her homemade hot chocolate in the large chilli vat. As I neared the table to sit, she would ask me the usual question while serving my tiny blue cup of cocoa: “Where is your brother and sister?”

“Sleeping still...” I would answer drowsily and quite moody.

Abandoning the hot chocolate, my mother would leave the kitchen to get the others up and ready for school. Allowing time for my own reflection, I would eat the piece of jellied toast on the table and stare about the room without much wonderment or care.

When my sister and brother finally joined us, my mother would brave the cold weather and feed the horses. My brother, sister, and I would sit around the circular table at the left end of the room and hardly talk from being so sleepy. Since the kitchen had no heating, we were forced to share a blanket, making it hard and hilarious for us to eat our food My older sister, believing herself to be funny, would lean over and fart, while my little brother would eat his cereal with his eyes closed. After a few moments, the kitchen came to life with laughter. The sun would rise, and the room would get warmer, allowing us to no longer miss the heat from our beds and share the blanket at the table. Though the room wasn't exactly cozy, and may have represented hardship for my parents; my brother, sister and I didn't expect anything greater than what we've always known. What did we care that we could feel dirt under our feet, or see the ground in unfinished corners of the house? It was merely just a room.

To my parents, this house was outdated, but to me, the kitchen was just a kitchen. The frustrations that framed my parent's mind about our kitchen had never bothered me. In fact, if this outdated kitchen had taught me anything, it was that I was fortunate enough to learn the art of humility and simplicity.

Personal Induglence: the tale of a raper

Personal Indulgence

Though I pity the poor lamb,

I can't admit I'm not satisfied.

I take no pain as I stare down

upon the exposed girl.

She is mine for the taking.

A rush propels me as I hear her begging.

That sound, “Please, please,” she quietly

squeals, her voice so pleasant to mine own ears.

Threadbare, shivering, lovely.

Lamenting, bemoaning.

The perversion so fine, I am aroused.

Throngs of sadness for my action?

No! No repentance is needed.

She is not the first victim.

Her thrashing becomes belligerent.

I hold her hands above her head

and watch her breasts quiver

before my visage.

Unveiled, unprotected, alluring.

Whimpering, convulsing.

She cries louder, my only true fear!

I hope no one has heard, yet she excites me all the same.

Covering my free hand upon her mouth,

I feel the heavy quickened breath pace faster.

Shaking her head, tears falling from her eyes.

I lean to whisper in her ear,

“It will hurt for only a moment.”

I feel rejuvenated from her pain, but what crimson

flows from below? A virgin, and what luck

knowing that I alone have entered.

Praying, sobbing, pleading.

Jerking, repeating.

Smiling upon the shivering angelic being,

The deed is now well done.

“No need to feel sad young one.”

My withdrawal is fast, and I have fled,

knowing full well of her own dread.

Zagneth: This piece is based on an actual occurence; an assignment where I take one's own story and make it my own

Zagneth

The redwoods weaved in a majestic swirl as I hopped over one branch and landed on another. This tree was unlike any other. The others were tall, stretching towards the vast depths of the ever changing canvas known as the sky. At this moment, the world above was painted a dirty orange, suggesting that it was close to turning nightfall. A faint scratch caught my attention as I lunged into an opening on the forest floor. I finally had time to sit for a minute and inspect it. Nothing serious, I thought. But I should not have worn shorts, I noticed as I tapped the scratch lightly.

Coming into view behind the twisted tree was Collin, his shoulders strangely configured in an effort to squirm through the small opening between the trunks of the tree. He looked as if a cat, squeezing between fence posts. The broadness of his shoulders gave off an image of an earlier childhood toy: don't put the square peg in a round hole, I thought to myself. Feeling a little uncomfortable that I put him in such a tight spot, I ran forward to help him.

“Give me your bow first,” I suggested, holding out my hand through the thick branches.

“Good idea,” he said, his voice a little compressed from the Tree's pressure on his lungs. He handed me his bow as I placed mine on the ground to give myself a free hand. Without the clutter of his bow, he was finally able to escape the wooden prison, laughing as he stumbled forward. I laughed too as I handed him back his bow, then planted a kiss on his neck. We were no longer shaded from the thick timbers of the trees, therefore viewing the sky was easier than before. We had not noticed the darkness creeping in.

“It's getting dark,” he realized. I agreed as I pulled a flashlight from my pocket. Throwing it to him, I picked up my own bow and decided that it was finally time to start home. Our knives clanked against our belt as we walked between brushes, crunching them lightly as we tread softly through the wild. I put my hand on my side to soften the sound as we began to talk.

“It would be amazing to see a mountain lion right now, wouldn't it?” I proposed.

“It would be something, Chey. A great story to tell, I'm sure,” he chuckled. Several minutes had passed before we heard any other distinct sounds besides our own. The sunset turned into an early evening before we knew it. My eyes, which had trouble adjusting to the dark, looked only towards the ground due to the fear of tripping. Collin was a step ahead, the flashlight before him. A rustle through a brush had jerked my attention away from the forest floor. I shivered, automatically thinking that it was the wind that could have made such a noise. But when it continued, I turned to look at Collin. He seemed to notice it too. He stayed silent for a minute before a large figure emerged from the bushes. It was engulfed in the dark, breathing slightly, hunched perhaps. Collin put his hand on the small of my back and turned the flashlight on the figure.

It's ears were perked, eyes strained, as if the light caused it some sort of anxiety. Perhaps it was the fact that he had been caught after supper. His furry snout was drenched in clots of blood, hanging lightly from his fierce, yet tentative jaws. A full figured mountain lion stood before us, trapped in the spotlight as if he were a stage performer completely caught off guard. His shy stance gave off the impression that he was caught eating a cookie from the jar.

“KITTY!” Collin laughed as he noticed the figure. I too chuckled, but only at Collin's easiness and careless observation. It relaxed me to know that he was not worried. The figure had startled me, yes, but I felt a little less weary now that I've known it had already eaten...the poor creature. The mountain lion, not understanding why we were so interested in him, looked confused and annoyed as if thinking, “What the hell are you looking at?”. When we did not leave and continued to ogle the beast, the mountain lion, neglecting us as annoying creatures, began to slink into a neighboring brush and out of sight.

Collin and I exchanged hurried quips about that “bad ol' putty tat” as if he were not a carnivorous beast, but a mere housecat. We continued on our way, talking about the mountain lion with extreme vigor and animation as we made up stories about it's origin, legend, and mystery. This led to many extreme discussions about ghost stories and other strange occurrences according to age old tales. We kept walking forward, the flashlight's steady beam as our only light.

“Zagneth...” I muttered just as airy as the wind.

“What?” he questioned. “What did you say?”

“Zagneth... the mountain lion,” I grinned. “I've decided that he is more than a mountain lion. He has to be something more. I bet he is a monster that takes ideas—puts his own in your mind!”

“That sounds like Jeepers Creepers, you know? Taking something outta you.”

“No. It's not like Jeepers Creepers at all! He takes your mind, not your body. A mind is different. More precious, I think...” I concluded.

“So he puts his own ideas where ours used to be?” Collin asked.

“Exactly!”

For the first time, Collin had slowed to a halt. He kept his flashlight ahead, but he looked around as if in a nervous twitch. I had no idea why he had stopped, therefore it was important to ask if everything was alright. He said he could feel Zagneth's presence. Then he put the flashlight under his chin and concocted a spooky face. “What if he is here with us now? What if he is taking over your mind, Chey!” he laughed as he grabbed me in a tight squeeze.

“Oh, please,” I smiled. “You're crazy.”

“Am I, Chey? Or did the Zagneth try to tell you that?”

“Zagneth didn't say anything, Collin!”

“Maybe that mountain lion was the real Zagneth. Wouldn't it be funny to think so?” His smile, twisted almost grotesquely under that light, began to reminded me of the Cheshire cat. Too many feline stories, I thought to myself.

“But Zagneth isn't real,” I retorted. “I made it up.”

Collin didn't look convinced at my retaliation. He continued to poke fun with me, slightly laughing as he did so.

“Did you?”

“Yes! I did!” I grinned as I pushed him away. I didn't want to show my fear. I tried to play it off.

“Perhaps you didn't. Perhaps he put that theory in your head...” Collin trailed off in a slightly seductive, unnerving tone. The forest felt as if it was creeping upon me, oozing within the very contents of my soul. Gradually, it started to feel as if bugs were crawling in my ears, making their way to my brain to devour it's contents, or to screw them up in a delicious frenzy in order to make the Zagneth powerful. I wanted to get out! I needed to get out! When I began shoving his hands away from me, he began to chuckle and admit that he was starting to get scared as well. Pulling our knives out of our sheaths, we walked to the car a little faster.

Though we continued to joke about the mountain lion in earnest attempts at fun, I have to admit that the gradual fall of unconsciousness did not come to me as easily that night. Lying awake well into the early hours of the mornig, I cringed at the very thought of the mountain lion. Of course, it was not for the obvious reason that most people would be frightened of such a scary find. It was the unrealistic qualities that I was afraid of; the qualities of Zagneth.