10-04-2015, 04:02 PM
Action Figures
He grabs plastic action figures
out of his purple Scooby-Doo
backpack. His Brother configures
a tall tale of heroism
as they sit in that minivan
packing bodies, bags, and boredom.
He drops the ball, Brother says fetch.
He complies, reluctantly and
quietly removes his seatbelt.
Under the seat is a crawlspace
where crumbs and forgotten toys lie.
He fondly remembers laying
to hide from Mother and Father.
In the crawlspace searching; action
figures love to hide. He combs through
darkness, feeling discomfort from
seating rails, surrounding bolts poke
him sharply. Mid-search, an abrupt,
deathly rattle presents itself.
"What was that? Hm.. Oh well."
Action figure searching
commences. Father screams.
Like the roll of kaleidoscopes;
his body the little glass bits
revolving... Up, down, up, down, up-
out.. He regains consciousness, looks
around and sees desert, cacti;
glass bits rest on his wounds and ground.
A voice cries out, "whoa, whoa buddy!"
It belongs to the running man;
shirtless, shirt in hand, the action
figure if it were a man; an
angelic man who made problems
his own. He scoops the bloody boy
who screams in agony from his
wounds. The running man doesn't run
far to discover Brother. No
motion, eyes closed, blood painted skull.
The running man's wife, a nurse, says
with a tragic and somber sigh:
"He's dead." Words will never again
have an effect on the screaming
boy like this. The running man ran,
brother in each hand, life and death,
a concept a child is never
meant to understand. Yet the boy
sees it all too clearly. Laying
on the flatbed of a pickup
truck, observing lifelessness in
the life that was took. He wonders
about his family; pluming
black smoke rises from the mini-
van when a loud helicopter
lands, but the boy is now drifting.
They lift him up, his last wonders
are: "Why just me? What about my
family? What about Brother?"
He gives up as he gives in to
his torpid heart. An EMT
slaps his face, he hears "stay with me!"
but it's faint. He closes his eyes.
Darkness transforms into peaceful
light. Yet his eyes open, to his
surprise. He sees his godmother
pacing, grandmother patiently
waiting. They hold him as they cry;
he wishes he wasn't alive.
They feed him ice cream and give him
gifts as if it helps. He unwraps
presents and finds action figures.
He grabs plastic action figures
out of his purple Scooby-Doo
backpack. His Brother configures
a tall tale of heroism
as they sit in that minivan
packing bodies, bags, and boredom.
He drops the ball, Brother says fetch.
He complies, reluctantly and
quietly removes his seatbelt.
Under the seat is a crawlspace
where crumbs and forgotten toys lie.
He fondly remembers laying
to hide from Mother and Father.
In the crawlspace searching; action
figures love to hide. He combs through
darkness, feeling discomfort from
seating rails, surrounding bolts poke
him sharply. Mid-search, an abrupt,
deathly rattle presents itself.
"What was that? Hm.. Oh well."
Action figure searching
commences. Father screams.
Like the roll of kaleidoscopes;
his body the little glass bits
revolving... Up, down, up, down, up-
out.. He regains consciousness, looks
around and sees desert, cacti;
glass bits rest on his wounds and ground.
A voice cries out, "whoa, whoa buddy!"
It belongs to the running man;
shirtless, shirt in hand, the action
figure if it were a man; an
angelic man who made problems
his own. He scoops the bloody boy
who screams in agony from his
wounds. The running man doesn't run
far to discover Brother. No
motion, eyes closed, blood painted skull.
The running man's wife, a nurse, says
with a tragic and somber sigh:
"He's dead." Words will never again
have an effect on the screaming
boy like this. The running man ran,
brother in each hand, life and death,
a concept a child is never
meant to understand. Yet the boy
sees it all too clearly. Laying
on the flatbed of a pickup
truck, observing lifelessness in
the life that was took. He wonders
about his family; pluming
black smoke rises from the mini-
van when a loud helicopter
lands, but the boy is now drifting.
They lift him up, his last wonders
are: "Why just me? What about my
family? What about Brother?"
He gives up as he gives in to
his torpid heart. An EMT
slaps his face, he hears "stay with me!"
but it's faint. He closes his eyes.
Darkness transforms into peaceful
light. Yet his eyes open, to his
surprise. He sees his godmother
pacing, grandmother patiently
waiting. They hold him as they cry;
he wishes he wasn't alive.
They feed him ice cream and give him
gifts as if it helps. He unwraps
presents and finds action figures.