Past Hurt

dave

I need to know …

When the pinch inside my heart

is pressing, and a nervous rush of fear

recalls a frozen moment of confusion,

will it always void the possibility of a lesson learned?

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Will THAT THING always be there?

I’m no longer afraid.

But does it ever end?

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In Defiance of Pain

A WARNING:
The following post is extremely graphic.  I really hope it achieves the goal I have in posting the story.  And that is what it is – a fictional story.  I originally completed it in Sept ’09, but I find the timing of publishing it now is good.

I am undertaking a process of cleansing.  If you have read any other posts of mine or my bio on the blog, you can see that I experiment with my life all the time and I am on an incredible journey right now (as I write).

There are several reasons why everything is done as it is, so …

Please forgive me if I offend you in any way at all.  As well, I hope that you understand on a deeper level of my writing this piece of creative writing.

I will let you know this though, it will become more apparent in this coming year as I commit myself to public speaking and publishing a book.

So, on with the show …

Image

Heard from the summer hot barn, the piercing wails mercilessly caroms off the dusty walls, and the sting of his own screams shoot right back to the heart of the little victim.

With his eyes held tightly closed, all he wants is the stabbing pain to stop; he wants the musty foreign smells to go away; he wants the gurgling heavy breath to tell him to run away and go home.  Yet it doesn’t … it just won’t … end.  Then a pause, and a bright flash and a quiet zeeeeeeee fill their little hideaway.

The boy, no more than eight years old, resigning himself to however worse it was going to get, begins to pray.  He can feel himself moving towards that godly place to seek refuge from the terror in the hope of hopes that maybe at least He could help – at least that’s what his parents always told him so.

“Our Father, who art in … am I going to Heaven?” whispers the boy to himself through his sniffling.

Suddenly, the boy feels warm and the hair on his arms stand up – a gentle wave of trust rushing through his trunk and extremities.  In calm wonder – he feels himself slowly drifting high above the terror.  He could see the large black mass, and it seems like he could almost reach down and touch … the … boy; and there is this sudden amazement to see it was he himself being inflicted with gross indecencies that he could not even possibly understand.  Now there is no longer pain … there is no longer feeling … there is nothing but a total relaxing numbness that convinces him to survive the ordeal.  … And again … another bright flash.

“Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha,” laughs the Voice. “If there’s anyone in Heaven right now kid, it’s me, not you.”  The Voice laughs, groans, then laughs again.

No longer with the urge to cry, that inner voice again. Always wondering.  “Then I am not dead?” The echo of the laugh in the barn bellows shamelessly as the Voice works furiously to finish his work.

The poor broken boy, lying on the table in a sea of sweat and blood, resembles nothing of the sweet and innocence that brought him to this hell-hole of terror in the first place.  His still trusting eyes, now circled with dark blue bruises, are unable to look behind him to see who could do such things – to make him feel such pain.  His tiny wrists, tied to restrain any bodily movement, are burned and bleeding as he struggled in vain to fight the onslaught of new pain.  A thousand knives jab him inside over … and over … and over again.  Even with his eyes closed, the boy sees another bright flash.

With the exception of heavy wheezing, there is an unusual silence – no crickets, birds, or passing cars blaring the latest pop hit.  The dusty and oily-smelling barn seems to be transported to another universe.

The boy peers his eyes open and shifts them stealthly from side to side.  If not for another time and place, all he sees is the warm afternoon sun slicing between the decrepit walls allowing the slices of dust to dance aimlessly free in the air; and it would get sticky inside his wet nose.

A few seconds of waiting for something to happen makes the boy’s heart race even faster.  He wonders and waits.  Another bright light makes his body jump like a paddled cardiac patient.  He begins to whimper again.

The cool edge of a large and shiny blade presses against his face and reflects the outside light into his eyes.  The Voice leans into him and all the boy smells is the overpowering odour of stale sweat, urine, and alcohol.

“What do you think I should do with you now, little boy?  Should I cut your throat or set you free?”

“Please let me go?  I won’t tell anybody.  I promise mister, I promise.”  The boy could no longer stop himself from crying.  His big chestnut eyes begin to spill forth tears like a broken dam.

“I know you won’t tell, little boy.  If I let you live, you’ll never tell.  I know your mother, your father, and your two sisters.  I know everything about you and your family.”  The Voice lets the boy digest his words.  “If you ever even think about telling, I can easily come back and kill your whole family.  But you know that, don’t you little boy?”

The Voice chuckles to himself.  “You know kid, maybe it will be better if I do kill you – you know, to save you the memories of today – because you will probably never forget this day.  Not next week, not next year, not even when you are a grandfather.  You will always remember this day because you will always wonder ‘what if …’.  Every time you are with your girlfriend, your wife, your kids – you will wonder.  So the question to you, little boy, is whether you want to live or not.  You tell me.”

“I want to live – please!” begs the boy without hesitation.

As fast as a magician’s hand, a ‘sing’ of the blade set the boy’s wrists free from its bonds.  The Voice looks down at the boy on the bench and smiles a long, satisfied grin.  He brings an instant camera to his face and takes a photo.  Without moving from his position, the boy watches the Voice adjust himself.  The Voice throws a soiled rag on the boy’s bleeding body and takes one last photo.

“Sure, little boy” replies the Voice.  “I’ll let you go because you were my best in a long time.  You were wonderful, absolutely wonderful.  Maybe we can do it again sometime.”

And without another word or sound, the Voice disappears.  It is so sudden, the boy isn’t even sure whether he has actually left.  He waits for a moment and then decides to look around.  When he’s sure he’s alone, the boy slowly lifts his painful body from his fetal position.

On seeing the large knife, he reaches over and inspects the razor-sharp edge closely.  He realizes how this powerful and intimidating knife held his life in the balance – and just a kid, too.  In this case, it set him free.

He is free.

The boy takes a deep breath and pauses; and then slowly and gently, he lies down on his back.  First from his left arm and then from his right; rich, dark blood rhythmically spurts in an arc above him.  He closes his eyes and waits for freedom to slowly take him to Heaven.

Lac Cabaret, PQ

 

Great memories and one with nature.

Paradise

I love to paint.  I found this one recently from 2004.

Kevin

A memory captured.

The “Blue & White” Blues

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Verse 1: The 60’s

 

In another era, quite some time ago,

The Leafs ruled the game, and it always showed.

Every night they came to skate,

We die-hard fans would celebrate.

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The Leafs stood proud and played the puck right,

Armstrong and Keon would win the night.

The Stanley Cup was ours to hold,

We’ll keep on winning – for years, we’re told.

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CHORUS:

 

We’ll always be contenders,

The Leafs are not pretenders.

     We want the Cup,

     We won’t give up,

So we shall not surrender.

 

 

Verse 2: The 70’s

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The next few years, the team would build,

As trusting Leaf fans, not exactly thrilled.

We’ll turn the corner, we’ve nothing to fear,

Cup’s on the horizon”, that’s what we’d hear.

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We traded, we drafted, we played our cards smart,

Sittler, McDonald and Williams brought heart.

We fought through the brawls, we raised a few heroes,

But where it most counted, we still had fat zeroes.

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CHORUS:

 

We’ll always be contenders,

The Leafs are not pretenders.

     We want the Cup,

     We won’t give up,

So we shall not surrender.

 

There’s always a next season,

The Leafs are only teasin’.

     We’re behind you,

     We’re bleeding Blue,

We’re fans beyond sound reason.

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BRIDGE: The 80’s

 

They fiddled, they fuddled, and generally muddled, all fans can do is drink,

Without all this hope, we’re just dopes on a rope, because the Maple Leafs stink!

 

They pittered, they pattered, as if nothing mattered, and still the Cup they’d deny,

With Ballard – no wins, yet we still hung in, and we promised we wouldn’t cry.

 

 

 

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Verse 3: The 90’s

 

After years of waiting, the Leafs have arrived,

The Cup is soon ours, we won’t be denied.

Burnsie had wisdom, and the skills to lead,

As fans we went crazy, we’ll finally succeed.

 

The season brought promise, the Leafs were legit,

With Gilmour and Potvin, we readied to commit.

We got fired up, and prepared for great advances.

Then that damn Gretzky, he killed our chances.

 

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REPEAT CHORUS     …..

 

 

CLOSING (slow):

 

So here we sit,

another year gone,

our beer is warm,

another yawn.

We want a winner,

is that too much to ask,

‘cause if you don’t do it soon,

We’ll kick your ass.

 

 

REPEAT CHORUS     …..

 
 
 

Feeling Wonder

Today,

as my thoughts are borne from my heart;

I am calmed from

my soul blessing my misunderstandings,

and returns gratitude through my daily expressions.

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In those moments,

as I sense the love of fulfillment in my purpose,

I am reminded –

Another rainbow of possibility

is lighting my way to living my destiny.

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© July 2012

An Enlightenment

This poem is written as my ode to possibility – a possibility within everybody’s reach.

K

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Descending from my frozen mountain

I meet the yawning sea,

Reflecting my many memories

Crying back at me.

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My face lifts skyward, takes in air

A floral springtime breeze,

Reminding me of happier days

And brings me to my knees.

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The soil invites me to rest my soul

So rich, so soft, so warm,

Inside the bosom of Mother Nature

To leave days long forlorn.

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I bare my breast to the waking Sun

It’s song of love sedating,

With childlike wonder I breathe again

My heart no longer waiting.

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My stretching limbs reach for the sky

Embracing life’s energy,

My mind wide open, my heart now settled

And now my eyes can see.

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(c) 2012 – Kevin Collins