aplus
01-26-2005, 01:34 PM
http://slumz.boxden.com/showthread.php?t=162019
This is a work in progress, so critique on a high level please - spelling, grammar, or whatever I can improve on this one. I am not sure if this one is worth me continuing to work on, so let me know what u think...1
Quiet Burn
Brian emerged from the tool shed lugging a dust-covered jug of kerosene and an Aim-N-Flame. I instantly assumed he was crazy. I thought that he was plotting to burn down his lakeside cabin and the surrounding woodlands in some self-sabotaging fit of fury. He had been somewhat edgy lately, and I knew that Brian wasn’t afraid to embrace insanity. We had been friends since high school, and that was enough time for me to have witnessed his demented side on several occasions. I asked him to remain calm and rational, but he hushed me with an abrupt wave of his hand. Then he marched to the backyard with purpose.
At that point, I was curious yet slightly nervous. Therefore, I watched all of his actions from a safe distance away. Brian removed a tarp that had been covering a sizeable pile of junk. It was tactically positioned about eighty feet from the rear porch. Underneath the canvas were several garbage bags filled with romance novels, sundresses, picture frames, and other trinkets that had undoubtedly been purchased by a female.
I focused on the image of a dainty, white-laced nightgown that sheepishly hung from an umbrella. It waved in the fall breeze like a truce flag, a coincidental symbol of Brian’s feelings since his nasty divorce. The custody battle for his children had been painful, and coming up on the losing end of a lengthy trial had left him emotionally lobotomized. With languid nonchalance, Brian doused the mound of memories with flammable liquid. Hoping to prevent a catastrophe, I streaked over and asked, “What are you doing?”
Brian looked off into the clouds, recalling some random thought that was too agonizing to share. “Have you ever cared too much about someone?”
I briefly contemplated some past superficial relationships and the whorish nature of my college years. Coming up empty, I shook my head and responded, “No, I don’t think I have.”
“But you’ve had some serious girlfriends though?”
“Sure.”
“You’ve got one now, right?”
“Yeah, I do. I’m going to visit her after we get back from this trip.” I studied Brian’s dark eyes, searching for any subtle signs of intoxication within his pupils. After all, prior to this outburst we had been drinking Olde English and watching football. But I could tell that frustration was fueling his logic, not alcohol.
Brian’s right hand clutched the container of kerosene tightly, while his other tinkered with the child-resistant igniter button on the grill lighter. The flame reluctantly flickered to life. “Does she love you, man?”
“I think so.” I coughed out of nervousness, recognizing how tentative my response sounded. After a deep guttural sigh, I tweaked my original statement by using a more definitive tone. “Yeah, she loves me.”
“Well trust me, one day she won’t.” His forehead wrinkled with determination as he leaned over and ignited the pile of personal debris with the Aim-N-Flame. Brian silently smirked as the kindling, his ex-wife’s old love letters, was consumed by the inferno. He seemed content observing the incineration of the misleading words that she had etched onto paper, words whose meaning had faded like her promise to remain faithful. A warm, new verve was spawned from a solitary spark. The combustion started sluggishly, but then it suddenly erupted into a huge bonfire, one larger than either of us could have imagined. I stepped backwards and watched gray wings of smoke trace the meandering path of the wind.
After an initial moment of hesitation, I retreated inside and grabbed the fire extinguisher from the kitchen. I returned with it in hand, eager to play volunteer fireman before the blaze got out of control. But as I aimed the stubby black hose, Brian stepped in front of me. “Stop that,” he said dryly. “I need this to happen.”
“Sorry.”
So I stood there and watched this passionate fire grow. Soon it spread recklessly to the rest of her things, transforming it all into unrecognizable ashes. What amazed me was the tranquility of all this destruction. Aside from a few stray pops and crackles, there was literally no sound. The quiet burn mimicked Brian’s tight-lipped reluctance to discuss what was psychologically wounding him.
I appreciated the bonfire, but I couldn’t really understand. Not then. Not until I was in front of my own townhouse five years later, trying to figure out what I should with all this extra stuff that I couldn’t sell. The “Everything-Must-Go-Sale-of-My-Untimely-Breakup” was a failure. No one was interested in what I had to offer. Soccer moms cruised by in their minivans and peered out at the array of price-tagged junk. And then they drove away, sensing my desperation to get rid of everything that my live-in girlfriend had left behind after eloping with some other guy.
I sat at a card table in the mouth of the garage and sipped a vodka lemonade, watching potential customers come and go. Every once in a while, an adventurous shopper wandered up the driveway, their hands behind their back, inspecting my ex-girlfriend’s old college textbooks. Or her vintage rock records, all in mint condition. Or her cutesy angel statuettes in various shapes and sizes. Or her collection of stolen ashtrays. Or her heinous orange Naugahyde sofa. But nobody wanted to bite. Nobody wanted to purchase secondhand memories. Nobody wanted to rescue me from owning all those unwelcome reminders of a botched relationship.
After an empty afternoon of waiting for buyers, I thumbed through my mental Rolodex, searching for someone who might have a solution, or at least would willingly listen to my whining. Glancing at an abandoned bottle of kerosene stashed in the far corner of the garage, I suddenly remembered Brian. I called him on my cellular phone and we talked for the first time in half a decade. We spoke about past sorrows, future successes, and of races lost, but ran.
Ten minutes later, I lugged all of my ex’s stuff behind my house and violated several municipal laws by torching it all. I reveled in the quiet burn of the fire. I discovered peace within this deliberate act of backyard arson, despite the vocal complaints from my neighbors.
This is a work in progress, so critique on a high level please - spelling, grammar, or whatever I can improve on this one. I am not sure if this one is worth me continuing to work on, so let me know what u think...1
Quiet Burn
Brian emerged from the tool shed lugging a dust-covered jug of kerosene and an Aim-N-Flame. I instantly assumed he was crazy. I thought that he was plotting to burn down his lakeside cabin and the surrounding woodlands in some self-sabotaging fit of fury. He had been somewhat edgy lately, and I knew that Brian wasn’t afraid to embrace insanity. We had been friends since high school, and that was enough time for me to have witnessed his demented side on several occasions. I asked him to remain calm and rational, but he hushed me with an abrupt wave of his hand. Then he marched to the backyard with purpose.
At that point, I was curious yet slightly nervous. Therefore, I watched all of his actions from a safe distance away. Brian removed a tarp that had been covering a sizeable pile of junk. It was tactically positioned about eighty feet from the rear porch. Underneath the canvas were several garbage bags filled with romance novels, sundresses, picture frames, and other trinkets that had undoubtedly been purchased by a female.
I focused on the image of a dainty, white-laced nightgown that sheepishly hung from an umbrella. It waved in the fall breeze like a truce flag, a coincidental symbol of Brian’s feelings since his nasty divorce. The custody battle for his children had been painful, and coming up on the losing end of a lengthy trial had left him emotionally lobotomized. With languid nonchalance, Brian doused the mound of memories with flammable liquid. Hoping to prevent a catastrophe, I streaked over and asked, “What are you doing?”
Brian looked off into the clouds, recalling some random thought that was too agonizing to share. “Have you ever cared too much about someone?”
I briefly contemplated some past superficial relationships and the whorish nature of my college years. Coming up empty, I shook my head and responded, “No, I don’t think I have.”
“But you’ve had some serious girlfriends though?”
“Sure.”
“You’ve got one now, right?”
“Yeah, I do. I’m going to visit her after we get back from this trip.” I studied Brian’s dark eyes, searching for any subtle signs of intoxication within his pupils. After all, prior to this outburst we had been drinking Olde English and watching football. But I could tell that frustration was fueling his logic, not alcohol.
Brian’s right hand clutched the container of kerosene tightly, while his other tinkered with the child-resistant igniter button on the grill lighter. The flame reluctantly flickered to life. “Does she love you, man?”
“I think so.” I coughed out of nervousness, recognizing how tentative my response sounded. After a deep guttural sigh, I tweaked my original statement by using a more definitive tone. “Yeah, she loves me.”
“Well trust me, one day she won’t.” His forehead wrinkled with determination as he leaned over and ignited the pile of personal debris with the Aim-N-Flame. Brian silently smirked as the kindling, his ex-wife’s old love letters, was consumed by the inferno. He seemed content observing the incineration of the misleading words that she had etched onto paper, words whose meaning had faded like her promise to remain faithful. A warm, new verve was spawned from a solitary spark. The combustion started sluggishly, but then it suddenly erupted into a huge bonfire, one larger than either of us could have imagined. I stepped backwards and watched gray wings of smoke trace the meandering path of the wind.
After an initial moment of hesitation, I retreated inside and grabbed the fire extinguisher from the kitchen. I returned with it in hand, eager to play volunteer fireman before the blaze got out of control. But as I aimed the stubby black hose, Brian stepped in front of me. “Stop that,” he said dryly. “I need this to happen.”
“Sorry.”
So I stood there and watched this passionate fire grow. Soon it spread recklessly to the rest of her things, transforming it all into unrecognizable ashes. What amazed me was the tranquility of all this destruction. Aside from a few stray pops and crackles, there was literally no sound. The quiet burn mimicked Brian’s tight-lipped reluctance to discuss what was psychologically wounding him.
I appreciated the bonfire, but I couldn’t really understand. Not then. Not until I was in front of my own townhouse five years later, trying to figure out what I should with all this extra stuff that I couldn’t sell. The “Everything-Must-Go-Sale-of-My-Untimely-Breakup” was a failure. No one was interested in what I had to offer. Soccer moms cruised by in their minivans and peered out at the array of price-tagged junk. And then they drove away, sensing my desperation to get rid of everything that my live-in girlfriend had left behind after eloping with some other guy.
I sat at a card table in the mouth of the garage and sipped a vodka lemonade, watching potential customers come and go. Every once in a while, an adventurous shopper wandered up the driveway, their hands behind their back, inspecting my ex-girlfriend’s old college textbooks. Or her vintage rock records, all in mint condition. Or her cutesy angel statuettes in various shapes and sizes. Or her collection of stolen ashtrays. Or her heinous orange Naugahyde sofa. But nobody wanted to bite. Nobody wanted to purchase secondhand memories. Nobody wanted to rescue me from owning all those unwelcome reminders of a botched relationship.
After an empty afternoon of waiting for buyers, I thumbed through my mental Rolodex, searching for someone who might have a solution, or at least would willingly listen to my whining. Glancing at an abandoned bottle of kerosene stashed in the far corner of the garage, I suddenly remembered Brian. I called him on my cellular phone and we talked for the first time in half a decade. We spoke about past sorrows, future successes, and of races lost, but ran.
Ten minutes later, I lugged all of my ex’s stuff behind my house and violated several municipal laws by torching it all. I reveled in the quiet burn of the fire. I discovered peace within this deliberate act of backyard arson, despite the vocal complaints from my neighbors.