gains heft. Not a lot. It’s not heavy. Just noticeable.
Strong willed. Strong minded. Mom always said I could do anything I put my mind to. Later she told me the same philosophy saved her marriage once.
Mom and Dad never agreed on anything. They both knew the right way to raise their only heir. It just wasn’t ever the same way.
I had the best of both worlds in between all the worst.
It gave me balance. I’m grateful for it.
The speech therapy didn’t hurt either.
Mom and Dad had reached a boiling point around the time I graduated.
Bus drivers and house wives don’t make enough money for couples therapy and sending a son to school.
The army could though. It kept Mom and Dad in counseling for a few more months, but it paid for college.
I never saw a day of battle. I stood at the thirty-eighth parallel for two years. I shot a lot of birds. Rick, Jeremiah, Sammy, Brent and me. All drinking, all smoking weed, and all roasting whatever birds we hit that day.
Who says war is hell?
Hell was when Jeremiah confessed to falling for Brent. Thankfully she was the captain. Jeremiah never worked up the nerve to ask her out.
Good times. Good experience.
Don’t forget the feeling of the ball bearing trapping the ink. Remember how it’s stained; how it writes thick on my finger when I press against it.
If I practice this enough, I’ll never be allowed to bowl again.
Fill the mind. Use it. Use all the energy it has.
I’m actually called a veteran now. Pigeons beware.
Brent said, “Always be ready for the unexpected. Your life will depend on it.”
It took two weeks, but the rest of us figured out the truth. Nothing really happens when the armies are at a standstill. We shot a lot of birds though. I taught everyone Euchre.
It’s coming quickly now. Recalling the boredom. That must’ve helped. It’s getting hot. My chair is sticky. The mind hates boredom.
Maybe with enough practice, I’ll get to drive hands free. It takes discipline though.
Rick was a better shot then me or Jeremiah. He always said he just focused and thought, “Now.” Rick had energy.
Rick had a twin brother I never met. He always forgot asking if I had any siblings. All the time, he’d ask it, as if it meant something. I never got angry though. Rick didn’t have the discipline. He never even made it through middle school. No attention span. But the government gave him a uniform, a gun and a knife. If my country doesn’t care, why should I?
I always told him I was an only child.
Mom cries too much.
I was honorably discharged just after deciding to stay on for a few more years. The accident happened before I could ship out to Somalia. Stupid broken traffic lamps.
I’ll never have to grab that handle in the bathtub again.
Remember the pen as a whole. Feel my sweat draining. Feel my hair standing.
Two green lights and me in a crosswalk that said I should walk. The last thing to ever tell me to walk.
It could’ve been worse. A man can live without knees. Corneal damage is a bitch. There was a little brain damage too, I’m told. I don’t notice. But everything’s out of reach now. I hate that.
It only takes a few squealing tires to tip your balance over the edge.
Well, squealing tires, a Porsche’s front bumper and the side of an El Camino.
The pen is cold.
My veins are boiling. Almost there.
“Life doesn’t follow a schedule, or even a route. It always gets you somewhere good though.” That’s what Dad said.
I hate how he told himself that sort of thing, but never Mom or I. Especially after the accident.
Speech therapy was good for teaching me to curse without sounding stupid.
Real therapy was good for teaching me to look at my life as a whole.
In therapy, they always tell you to clear your mind. They always tell you to cool off. They don’t understand the concentration. The discipline. They don’t understand what the mind is capable of when it’s exploding with energy.
I have an easier time remembering the feeling of a pen over a pencil.
Mom always worries about me. She calls every few days. She still says she feels bad about the army not paying enough for law school. Instead I’m a stenographer.
Dad’s just happy I’m not a school bus driver.
“Dad, bus drivers have feet.”
I hate myself whenever I drop or spill something.
I hate having to lie on the floor to clean.
I’m roasting. I can feel the energy; the heat radiating off my arms.
It’s time.
It’ll work this time.
Do it now.
Mom always said I can do anything I put my mind too. I think about that a lot.
I hate it when things are out of reach.
The pen!
I open my eyes and look straight at the desk. I feel the energy, static in my mind, pulsing through my muscles. It seeps to my shoulder and rattles through my arm. I ball a fist to collect it, but it’s too powerful. I can’t keep my hand closed. My fingers spread and tremble as I raise my arm. I can feel the energy flowing from my palm, across the room. It surges to the desk until it clutches something. I jerk my elbow back. I pull my energy back inside. When I feel something hit my palm, I clench my fingers. I have it. It’s mine.
It’s cold. It’s bulky.
It’s bulky?
I open my eyes. I’m holding the stapler.
“Every fucking time!” I scream as I throw it at the floor.
I grumble a few more curses.
I sit.
I shiver.
I’ll try again in a few days; after I regain my energy.
It just takes discipline.
It takes balance.
###
About the Author
Native to Michigan, Keith Blenman is an author, teacher, and all around swell guy.
Other books by this author
Please visit your favorite ebook retailer to discover other fiction by Keith Blenman:
The Vecris
Necromantica
Whisper (A prelude to Necromantica)
The Ferrelf Trilogy (coming soon)
Roadside Attraction
Book One: Siren Night
Book Two: Tramp Stamp Vamp (coming soon)
Book Three: Ruff Stuff (coming slightly less soon)
Other fiction
Bartered Breath
Bonnie Before The Brain Implants
Braaaaaains
Entrees & Statistics
Tender Buttons Two: Disco Wrecklord
Where Dogs Sweat
Connect with Keith Blenman
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