Surell

I want to start with a short story i wrote for a scholarship, called "To Ashes." FEED ME BACK.

Lightning crashed, and the tree it struck exuded spark from its top; only the rain kept it from bursting into complete pyre. The wind pushed the trees of the park next door into an unbearable bend, just before the breaking point.

John Manson took only slight notice when the explosion slightly lit the wall opposite of him. His Cubistic portraits were illuminated momentarily, but faded back into the burgundy wall once the bolt’s damage was done; the paintings represented the Analytic movement mostly, and acted as his own mirrors, as he kept none around. He was longing to create a Synthetic piece, but could never execute the collage quite right.

John was reading pamphlets he’d received on his way back from his Psychiatrist, who claimed he was making remarkable strides. The medication for his Posttraumatic Stress Disorder was working ‘without a hitch’, and he may be on his way into ‘ordinary functioning.’ John complained of faint burning within his chest, which the doctor attributed to a side effect, one which would likely ‘smooth itself out in short time.’

The pamphlet spoke on behalf of a Candidate who was making a speech at the nearby Town Hall, of which John was not aware existed. The Pamphlet said he would bring this ‘mighty nation’ out of its ‘ash of bankruptcy’ and into a ‘renaissance of prosperity and justice.’ John felt the distant inferno in his breast enflame, yet he recognized it as a somewhat empty feeling. He went to turn on his radio and tuned it to the clearest station in the gale. It began with fuzz, but finally he could distinguish “Jugband Blues” from the feedback.

He began to wonder what exactly this Candidate had planned for this nation they shared. The statement included ‘ending the aimless war in which we’re entrapped’ and cutting from Social Security due to ‘priorities.’

Lightning struck another tree closer by, and the wind pressed with much tenacity. John did not look up this time, though; he was stunned.

The radio’s voice sang clearly:

“And the sea isn’t green.
And I love the queen.
And what exactly is a dream?
And what exactly is a joke?”

The song softly resonated and faded, with a moment of silence. He gripped the pamphlet tightly and fell back on his sofa. The DJ came on in importance and announced the Candidate’s ‘possible cancellation’ of his appointment if ‘the storm should resume until its starting time,’ around 6:30 PM. John looked to his nearest clock, which read 4:44 PM. The DJ stated he was ‘crossing his fingers,’ and put on “Fortunate Son.”

John couldn’t believe the audacity the Candidate was displaying. To make such grand decisions and declarations at the expense of the general public and then be thwarted by everyday occurrence; to belittle entire demographics, identifying their strife as the root of this ‘mighty nation’s’ problems; to take the name of war and its warriors, the name of the ‘mighty nation’s’ protectors, and cast it in the realm of “aimless.”

He looked to the pamphlet again, disbelieving himself. But the words were there, with the permanence of an engraving on stone. He looked to the cover of the slip, to find the Candidate’s bust in total focus, with the stars and stripes draped behind. The seemingly malicious grin on his visage seemed ages old to John, as if passed down for generations in politics; he faintly recognized it as a contented Nero.

John then looked to his table, a cluttered space where he gathered significant documents, and dug out his disability check stub. His medicine, the treatment which may end his need for the payments, took up much of the allowance, along with his rent and minor food costs—the medicine took away his appetite. He was still making payments, however, on his parents’ funeral costs and alimony.

He tossed both slips beside him and buried his face in his palms. His eyes were beginning to water, but tears seemed intangible; all the while, some hellfire seemed to rage in within his bosom, consuming his metaphysical being right down to its core. The wind outside grew furious as the song reminded John “it ain’t me!”

John sat in reflection, observing all the mirrors he’d made. An atypical piece caught his eye, as it included a friend in the portrayal. They were in the same platoon, and found that they were actually from neighboring neighborhoods. They regularly played chess, as the painting displayed in the piece, in mirror-like profile symmetry. The piece is solemn, as it is a memorial to his friendly opponent who overdosed on his prescribed medication, as well as to his wife, who had taken the photo of inspiration a few months before leaving.

Then John was snap backed to the moment, to the song’s military son verse and succeeding “it ain’t me!” refrain. On this cue, John rose and walked steadily to the radio. He stood above it as the wind picked up pace and a distant thunder roared. Then he raised his fist high above his head, shouting “Enough!” and brought his fist down on the machine.

Lightning crashed nearby, upon a tree immediately outside, splitting it; the wind then toppled a neighboring tree. The impact shook the earth beneath John.

The world was silent; even the wind eased up. After the pregnant pause, Corporal Mason went to his closet and retrieved his retired uniform, along with his military-issued Colt .45. He then went for partially-drunk bottle of whiskey he kept in his fridge for such an occasion. He threw all his paintings into a pile on the hardwood, along with all his documents from the table except the pamphlet and doused them in the elixir. He reached for his box of matches, the pamphlet, and his check stub from the table, igniting the sheets and tossing it on the pile. The Corporal turned to depart from the cave into the now sun-bathed streets.

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