James Boland

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Neal

Why do little things always bother Neal?

Not like this stuff is, or should, be a surprise to him... it's just not going to be another starry night in his eyes. "What," is all he could say, and not without staring either.

Anyway, this is getting off the track. Did anyone ever stop to think that maybe he was a little too impatient anyway? For one thing, he wasn't shouting or tying his words together in conversation. Light conversation, like the talks he would have with his mother in solitary confinement. "Impossible," was his answer for things like that back then.

If anyone had any suspicions about things, it would be in a way he could probably suspect. Because he was a self-proclaimed realist, with no expectation of anything beyond that very type of attitude that always got him into trouble when things were just a little too quiet.

Any day was better than the new day, or at least the possibilities it posed, was the firm belief he could hold on to daily just before the first minutes of sleep. Not that this was a big dream of his, but that it seemed to make him a little less irritable when he had his most personal acceptance of his milder fears.

The bottom line is that things still bothered Neal. Even as he walked past the hustlers and kids, there was no chance of him apologizing for someone he cared for, someone who made the biggest ass out of him only three days earlier. "Enjoy making me out to be a creature of distraught belittlement!" was only half of what he said. The other half, "You others not there, now still simple for who's the oldest," was of course picked up on by the "friends" he called beasts.

"What a horrible human being you strive to be," seemed to be the general consensus among the others in the driveway. Before Neal could finish saying, "What," for the second time, one person stood up on top of Neal's car and said, "What did you mean by, 'You enjoy others making not me there out now to still be for a simple creature who's of the distraught oldest belittlement?'" Neal could do nothing but shudder. Something was eerie, and he wasn't sure if he knew what déjà vu felt like.

Not to matter, because he was INCREASINGLY less concerned as the minutes turned into hours, the years into eras of paranoid false hope, and as the blood dripped down his forehead, he could feel himself fighting back the tears and said, "Simple for a creature of who's still making the oldest belittlement." Panting and brushing back his hair, he continued to say, "You enjoy others, not me, to be distraught out there, now."

"Bye, cow! Bottom stands," also followed by the "f" word, made them the most reactively ineterested in his thoughts, which, as he could only hope, was a punishable offense. Alas, Neal died decrepit and not-so-bissfully ignorant.

©2002 James Boland

Other Writings
The Great Elf
The Lady From The Supermarket
The Indignant Bastard Troll
She'll Piss Herself
The Unauthorized Biography Of Mike Bellina

 

   

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