The Lightning Rod (2016)
Sitting in a school bus, floating down
a tranquil river of streets, passing neat rows of houses aligned like teeth on a
flawless smile that radiates nothing but compassion.
Home.
It is so
beautiful.
Daddy got a new job. Mommy was happy. This place is so beautiful...
Going downtown with daddy, such a special treat. Fill up that little bag with candy from the corner store. Ring up a purchase of shimmering diamonds at the counter, where Old Joe cracks those old jokes more than he cracks his hip.
The sun dances across the lake's surface. It speaks of a lighthearted and eternal happiness, which I quickly intrude with my fishing pole. Daddy says never harm anyone you haven't had a talk with first. Never kill the fish, give them a chance to tell their tale about the bottom of the lake.
The truck drives into the smiling neighborhood. The sun's reflection off the attic windows tells you you're where you need to be. Driving past a stretch of wood, then a small open field
"Daddy, what's that tall thing over there?"
"That's a lightning rod, son."
"What's it for?"
"It attracts lightning when there's a storm, so the lightning hits it every
time."
"Why would they make something like that?"
"Well, to make sure the lightning never hits our beautiful home, or our
neighbors', or their neighbors'."
It protects those beautiful houses, that rusted old tower. Casual visitors never see the hideous blend of rust and cement that is attached to the neighborhood like an ugly wart.
Then the house, isolated by a ring of police cars. Uneasy bunches of people hovering around it, never going closer than they dare. How quickly the smiling place became angry and terrified... even neighborhoods have their occasional mood swings. The terror, once conceived inside the walls,
spreads like a virus, a terminal illness ready to kill anything in its path.
Grandfather: Nailed to the side wall like an obscure work of art. Upside down, embracing Jesus' famous pose; don't think its blood, wine dripping out of his head. Stained streams branch out from the ankles high up, meeting with others and converging below the eyes. They are face to face
with Lucifer.
Grandmother: Bundled up like a pile of laundry, arms and legs sorted out and exchanged with each other. Crude stitches fill the dark red seams. Eyes on heaven, hands nailed together in bloody unity, praying for a better end.
Mother: Womb ripped open, maternal affection turned inside out, a fetus lies, alive enough to have witnessed but not comprehended. Her gracious figure inverted, an elegant stature shattered. The baby never cried.
Brother and Sister: Their faces exchanged, stapled imperfectly onto the pale flesh. No blood, on the innocent young saints. They have not yet been corrupted, but they are mutilated just the same.
Blood spots nearly gone out of the green grassy lawn. Truck rolls away, its occupants fate predestined, they listlessly await false sympathy and compassion which is theirs down the road, near a therapist's office but not in it. Passed by the defeated lightning rod, it lies crying; its cement
skeleton shattered to pieces, rusted arteries will not throb.
"Mr. Jones, are you awake?"
"Uhhh..."
"Don't worry Mr. Jones. You just passed out from a bit too much Novocain. Nothing out of the ordinary, I assure you. This happens quite often with root canal operations."
"Uhh, Uuhh..."
"So, your insurance plan covers today's visit. Just rest here for a few minutes, and the sleepiness will be gone in no time. You did great today, Mr. Jones."
"Ugghhh..."
34 S. Monroe Avenue apartment 19-G. 19 flights up. Nineteen. A nice apartment for its cost. Wise investment. The door boy needs to get the newspaper faster, evening is coming. Open the door; the window, in need of fresh air and more. Shoes over the edge slightly, stand there, admiring life magnified by a factor of nineteen floors the other way. Seeing loved ones closer just got a whole lot easier.
Daddy got a new job. Mommy was happy. This place is so beautiful...
Going downtown with daddy, such a special treat. Fill up that little bag with candy from the corner store. Ring up a purchase of shimmering diamonds at the counter, where Old Joe cracks those old jokes more than he cracks his hip.
The sun dances across the lake's surface. It speaks of a lighthearted and eternal happiness, which I quickly intrude with my fishing pole. Daddy says never harm anyone you haven't had a talk with first. Never kill the fish, give them a chance to tell their tale about the bottom of the lake.
The truck drives into the smiling neighborhood. The sun's reflection off the attic windows tells you you're where you need to be. Driving past a stretch of wood, then a small open field
"Daddy, what's that tall thing over there?"
"That's a lightning rod, son."
"What's it for?"
"It attracts lightning when there's a storm, so the lightning hits it every
time."
"Why would they make something like that?"
"Well, to make sure the lightning never hits our beautiful home, or our
neighbors', or their neighbors'."
It protects those beautiful houses, that rusted old tower. Casual visitors never see the hideous blend of rust and cement that is attached to the neighborhood like an ugly wart.
Then the house, isolated by a ring of police cars. Uneasy bunches of people hovering around it, never going closer than they dare. How quickly the smiling place became angry and terrified... even neighborhoods have their occasional mood swings. The terror, once conceived inside the walls,
spreads like a virus, a terminal illness ready to kill anything in its path.
Grandfather: Nailed to the side wall like an obscure work of art. Upside down, embracing Jesus' famous pose; don't think its blood, wine dripping out of his head. Stained streams branch out from the ankles high up, meeting with others and converging below the eyes. They are face to face
with Lucifer.
Grandmother: Bundled up like a pile of laundry, arms and legs sorted out and exchanged with each other. Crude stitches fill the dark red seams. Eyes on heaven, hands nailed together in bloody unity, praying for a better end.
Mother: Womb ripped open, maternal affection turned inside out, a fetus lies, alive enough to have witnessed but not comprehended. Her gracious figure inverted, an elegant stature shattered. The baby never cried.
Brother and Sister: Their faces exchanged, stapled imperfectly onto the pale flesh. No blood, on the innocent young saints. They have not yet been corrupted, but they are mutilated just the same.
Blood spots nearly gone out of the green grassy lawn. Truck rolls away, its occupants fate predestined, they listlessly await false sympathy and compassion which is theirs down the road, near a therapist's office but not in it. Passed by the defeated lightning rod, it lies crying; its cement
skeleton shattered to pieces, rusted arteries will not throb.
"Mr. Jones, are you awake?"
"Uhhh..."
"Don't worry Mr. Jones. You just passed out from a bit too much Novocain. Nothing out of the ordinary, I assure you. This happens quite often with root canal operations."
"Uhh, Uuhh..."
"So, your insurance plan covers today's visit. Just rest here for a few minutes, and the sleepiness will be gone in no time. You did great today, Mr. Jones."
"Ugghhh..."
34 S. Monroe Avenue apartment 19-G. 19 flights up. Nineteen. A nice apartment for its cost. Wise investment. The door boy needs to get the newspaper faster, evening is coming. Open the door; the window, in need of fresh air and more. Shoes over the edge slightly, stand there, admiring life magnified by a factor of nineteen floors the other way. Seeing loved ones closer just got a whole lot easier.
A rock in shallow water, a boulder in a pond;
cadaver falls to father
then to mother and beyond.
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