"TALES FROM THE ASHES ARCHIVES"

Volume One...Issue Eleven...January 1, 2001

Published by "The Wizard of Odd"

-With the promise of a new year, we must look back at the Legacy we leave for our children-

(-All items are the sole property of Wayne Brown. Use of my properties without my express written consent, is against the law!-)

"NAVIGATION BUTTONS"

POEM.....GAMES.....SPONSORS.....COPYRIGHT INDICIA

"SOMEDAY SON, THIS WILL ALL BE YOURS..."

by Wayne Brown November 1982.

A blackened sky, yet not of night, laid shroud to the war-weary, disabled Earth. The clouds of Death did blot the sun, her warmth and tickling abhorrent to their needs. The child cried from confusion, as his modest, handmade kite suddenly met with an unseen obstacle and plummeted for the ground. The string was taut, the crossbars firm, and the wind was fresh, yet she had not proven sea-worthy. Why such disgust for his long-labored gift?

The tears burned from the salt in his eyes, as he noticed the thunder laughing at his folly. His lips quivered with a sense of foreboding, and he longed for the comfort and security of his Mother's breast. Yet, the fires of war had at least somewhat tempered him, and he would not be traumatized by this bully's display. He thought of his Father and his never ending strength against all consuming odds, and slowly, a calm came to his mind.

He began slowly to rewind the guidewire, turning the spool gently and carefully, so the line would lay in even, disciplined rows. He stepped cautiously amidst the rubble, feeling the chips and shards of concrete, glass, and wood beneath his naked, calloused toes.

As the spool thickened and impatience betrayed the discipline, the fallen plaything and it's misbegotten fate became apparent. The boy looked helplessly at his now shattered handiwork. Her orange silk was shredded like the hungry flames of a roaring fire, the fragile cross-bars splintered as broken bones and the once livid tail was absent for the wake. The youth stared with futility and contempt at the remians, and tossed the now useless spool towards the grave.

A casual survey found him an outcropping on which to sit and pay his respects. The kite had served him well, giving him much pleasure and diverting him from the horrors of the day. The concrete outcropping soon proved uncomfortable, and the boy shifted his weight to rise. As he did so, his naked toe chanced upon something soft and wet. He recoiled immediately, and inspected the foot with discomfort and curiosity.

Beneath a broken cinder block, distended from the rubble, a rotting and maggot-infested hand reached inanimately for a hold. The fly larvae feasted ravenously upon the deceased, pale-blue flesh, and the ichor of death assailed the boy's senses. He drew back in horror shuddering, stumbling and falling backward over the outcropping which had only moments ago given him rest.

He cursed his clumsiness, crying and clutching at his certainly broken (...but probably sprained), ankle. As the initial pain and shock subsided, his horror again came into focus. He fought his way to a standing position and favoring his right leg, leaned against the outcropping and vigorously began wiping away the slimey, viscous detritus which had adhered to his skin when he fell. As he regained his composure, to his increased terror, he discovered the substance to be more of the rotting, maggot-infested flesh that had barely covered the skeletal hand.

He began to cry and shake in abject terror. The ravenous maggots inhabiting the nurturous slime, writhed frenetically as the boy brushed the horrors from his bare skin. He leapt with panic, still brushing with frantic hands at the viscous substance. His first step found still more of the rot. He screamed and sped from the site, leaving behind the pain in his ankle and the shattered kite. He brushed at his body relentlessly as he raced back to his home. Upon reaching the shelter, he was still wiping away maggots and rotting flesh from behind his ears and between his toes.

Days later, after several bathings and careful inspections, he could still feel the twitchings of a hungry worm between his legs, or up his nose. His dreams were likewise infested and it would be many a night before the child would sleep without the frightful company of his memories of that day.

He would think of his Father often. His recollections were vague, but filled with nobility, courage, and strength. His favorite reveries were of the bedtime stories his Dad would tell him. Stories of knights and warriors, and wizards, all heroes on exotic quests and rescues, all handsome and brave and true. He remembered the stories well, and whenever his Father would tell him one of those tales, he would envision his Dad as the hero. Father had been King Arthur, Gandalf the Grey, and Sherlock Holmes, all rolled up together to make one man. He remembered their times together. His Father had taught him the making of kites. The boy had learned quickly and their kites had become the trophies of the love between them.

The youth seldom thought of his Father's leaving. It was a painful time for the boy and he often held that memory down in the deeper recesses of his consciousness. However, when the memories did surface, he would remember how his Mother cried and how it had changed her. He would remember the war, and how THAT had changed everthing. He would remember other people...friends. They were one reason that Father had gone to war...to protect his friends and family. Family, that was yet another of Father's words that had lost it's meaning. He remembered that it had something to do with the relationship he had shared with his Mother and Father, but he wasn't quite sure anymore of what that was.

He would sometimes think of the day his Mother left. Those strange men all dressed alike in uniforms just like his Father's. She seemed to be upset when they took her, but it must have been all right, because they had been friends of his Father. They wore the same clothes as he did in the pictures he had seen. Of course, he couldn't quite understand why the man with the patch had ripped his Mother's blouse when they came to take her, but she did stop screaming after he kissed her. Dad used to do that, too...kiss Mother when she seemed upset. The men had told her to stop screaming or they would have to take care of her son. She seemed less upset after that. They had made the boy go upstairs to his room then, and when he had finally come back downstairs awhile later, the men and his Mother were gone. They must have taken her to see Father. Yes, they must have been good friends of Father's.

The boy lounged in the tattered naughahyde chair. It had been his Father's favorite. He stared at the cracked, olive-green screen in the broken, wooden cabinent, and wondered why it had been so important way back then. He wished he could learn how to make the magic come back. He remembered the rabbit and the duck that had talked so funny, and how they would chase each other for such silly reasons. They had made him laugh. He had always wondered how drawings could move and talk. Mother had always told him not to touch the TV, and when she had left, the secret to it's power vanished with her.

The boy had long ceased wondering about the other children. He hadn't seen anyone since his Mother had left, and that seemed like forever. At one time, he had quite a few playmates. Toby, who had been his best pal had moved away. He knew that, but what of the others?...Like Billy, and Jimmy, and...and Dee-Dee? She had called herself Dee-Dee because she couldn't say Diedre, the way her Mother had wanted her to. She was special. She had always made him laugh...and cry. She was incredibly clever at "Hide 'N Seek". Now there was no one left to play the game with. He felt as if he were "It", and everyone had found an impenetrable and untraceable hideout...and no one would ever come out, because it was never time for dinner,...or a bath,...or bed.

He jumped up from the chair. He was uncomfortable with the past. It always brought the tears, and he didn't like to cry. It felt good when one was finished, but burned like acid when one began. He grabbed a basketball, miraculously inflated and which had lain amongst his other toys, now scattered throughout the wreckage of the living room, and began bouncing it off the remaining walls. He started making his way down the hallway, heaving the ball harder, and harder as his fervor increased. As he caromed from room to room, he targeted specific artifacts and possessions of his parents. He smashed a seven foot mirror with a gilded frame which had miraculously survived the bombardment of years ago. He laughed pathetically as he saw the bearded visage in the broken shards, as the glass tinkled to the marble floor.

He then managed to finalize the destruction of a cut-glass chandelier, that had hung in the hallway for many years. He relished the carnage and eventually made the rounds throughout the entire manse. He had worked up a sweat with his efforts, and as he re-entered the living room, with one last vestige of frustrated anger, he hurled the ball into the television screen. It shattered completely and then fell onto the floor. The exhausted child then collapsed into tears on the naughahyde chair.

"FATHER!...MOTHER!...Daddy..."

He cried that way for an eternity...

-The End-

(I have made some minor grammatical changes to the original MS. -Wayne Brown)