The Sweet Spot Short Story

                                                            The Sweet Spot

    Max would find himself carefully walking down the creaky stairs of the house he lived in with his family. They didn’t check on him much, so he would find himself wandering. His mother would yell for him but never get up and look, his father when home would call for him but put off checking things out for just a few more minutes. Max was 9, and he was forcing his body to go down the stairs. His spine stiff, and his legs could barely operate, he raised one rigid arm up, bent the elbow toward his head on the stair railing to scratch his head.  It always seemed to itch near the beamer and loose wires. Each step cried for mercy and finally he made it to the landing of the basement. He could never remember why he would go through so much trouble to get down here.

    There was one room in the basement, therefor there was only one door, Max and his stiff legs humped over to the door, his leg always got caught on the door mat which simply read “Beauty.” He went through the door as always and fell over some boxes that always seemed to be permanently waiting for him. Max was growing bored and would soon give up on the adventure. But through a crack in the blinds he saw another door in the corner to another room. He crawled all the way over to it and threw his stiff arm up the handle, turned it, and entered. As he crawled in he felt all of his limbs loosen, he could turn his head without making a kink in his neck and he could think a bit more without any screeching sounds causing headaches. He stood and looked around but saw nothing, he felt a switch on the wall and flipped it. When it came on he saw the grey walls, the grey door was turning into what he would call Brown, as it was written on the door. The molding around the door turned what he would call white as it was labeled so, the letters were carved in to not be forgotten. The soft carpet floor was labeled blue, painted in white. At last he began to remember.

    He picked up a notebook, sat in the corner and with each page came back a memory. Green, Red, Magenta, Orange, Purple, Blue, Green again! There was a box in the corner and when he opened it he found liquids labeled paints, he used sticks with hair to paint pictures on the remaining open spaces on the wall. Next to what was labeled as the moon, he painted a big yellow fireball he called the son. With each splatter of paint a little piece came back, he wrote above the son, “Pray.” This was after he turned another page of the notebook and came upon these words.

    “Fire in the sky never fade for long,
                   I hope for you every night before bed.
                             I hope to walk and I pray to think when I can
                                       One day you will come back for good
                                                And the world will make sense again.”

    Each time, Max remembered the words, he always remembered why he came down here and it was always worth it, though he did not understand, it was too amazing to even question within his young mind. He closed the green book and in white letters painted “The Sweet Spot.”

    Some time must have passed as Max awoke in the corner of the Sweet Spot better rested than he could ever remember being. He had to get back upstairs though did not want to, ever. He put everything back nice, flipped the switch, grabbed the door handle turned it and rushed into the room, slamming the door behind. He made it to the boxes, stubbed his toe fell down, crawled back to the dark landing. As he got up his spine stiffened, each leg would now cramp if not moved properly, same with the arms and neck. His head perfectly upright, straight forward. The perfect posture of every human being. He then marched slowly up the stairs unsure of why he had come down there in the first place, the back of his neck tingling with electronic pins stabbing deep, relaxing. He marched up to the kitchen turned past his mother who was pouring a drink. Past his father who was drinking a drink staring at a screen. Past his sister who was sitting at another screen in another room.

    When he finally got to his room he walked in, past the screen that he could not turn off, and sat next to the window. He stared outside to dreary grass, dark streets and distorted people walking by, all under a plain bright sky. He had this brilliant idea, but could not remember it, when he tried really hard his head seemed to rattle with pain, when he tried just a little it was like he was clawing at a leaf in a pond, each memory drifting away, ripple in a pond, he could remember something, just never what.

-EJ Browne

A Short Story Selected From "B-sides and Rarities: Re-Writes and Tragedies" One day to be published soon.

A short story inspired by a vivid dream I had.

Rebirth

Between deep blue skies and swaying green fields lies a house of significant grace and warmth standing up out of the ground with purpose. The curtains in the open windows of the second floor mimic the dances of the curtains on the first. Inside A mother prepares a meal, flowing around her kitchen with ease as her two eager daughters watch with anticipation of what she will do next. The taller one stands with her fingers wrapped around the top of a bowl full of cake batter, her eyes peek over at whats inside, the curls on her head cascade down the sides of her head to the top of the dress she wears.
A smaller one leans on the counter tugging at the taller ones dress, curious eyes peer up from a head bearing the same curls as her sister. “What’s going on? I can’t see.” The little one asks, dragging out the word see until she is out of breath. The mother notices and makes the time in her flow to grab a stool and lift the little one to the table where bread is being kneaded out. Through the open window there are sounds of a hammer out by an old wooden fence. A man kneels down showing a young boy how to set wooden lengths through holes in posts creating a nice wooden fence to compliment the architecture of the house. Two horizontal lengths of wood sit connecting on both ends to vertical posts at lengths of roughly 8 or 9 feet. The lengths are triangular in shape, appear weathered and have a twist that wraps around it self several times.
The boy has a small toylike wood workers hammer in the loop of his tiny blue overalls. His blond hair is starting to shag into his blue eyes which are full of wonder while watching his father construct the fence that the boy believed would keep out any and all evil. “Lunch is ready!” the taller one call from the front door, with the little one by her side. The father with a smile picks up the boy and lifts him to the broad perch of shoulders and before they turn around as one dust can be seen kicked up on the dirt road in the distance. A mammoth of a machine can be seen, two tank like tracks in the rear pushing two guiding wheels in the front, eight or so shiny helmets peeking over the top in the back. The father turns towards the house, “Tell your mother the world has come!” As he approached the door he took the small boy and held him in his arms as they hurried inside. With the door locked behind the parents rushed to close windows, and gather us all together so that we could hide. The eldest sister stood holding onto the boy and the little one near the staircase.
Through the ears of the boy, the mammoth is heard near the end of the driveway and ultimately near the front of the house. I hear the men yelling, I look to my parents who are making final preparations, I hear the boots stomping the ground looking for us, I look to my sisters who stand in shock. It is at this moment I break out of their arms and run through the back door. In a state of confusion the family huddles in a crawlspace behind a small table underneath our staircase. I run, my feet hit the hard dry ground until I reach the fence which has some small uncleared brush I decide to hide in. I see the soldiers storm around the house some have their rifles raised as they search the perimeter. Others are wrapping cloth around the end of long wooden sticks then lighting them aflame. I watch as a tall man oversees the operation with a cold stern face, his arms are crossed and he dawns a large officers hat. The soldiers who are dressed in full uniform wear dark clothing, their equipment clanks and rattles as they surround the house. One man fires several shots into an upstairs window as the other throws the flaming stick through it. Another knocks our first floor windows and is followed by soldiers tossing the flaming sticks emotionless and obedient. All I can do is stare, in shock I stand up and slowly walk along the outside of our fence. My hand glides along the lower rung of wooden lengths which are at my waist. I watch the smoke rise blackening the beautiful blue sky, orange flames begin eating away at the ride wooden skeleton of the house my father built.
I stop and stand in awe, the smoke like my families souls pouring out of our windows. This is when the officer takes notice of my prescience, the soldiers are standing in the front yard some keeping watch while others light cigarettes and stare at the ground. The officer makes his way towards me but I barely notice, my knees sit on the ground my hands sit calm next to them. The brush sways, time continues but I am stuck, the fence I am sitting in front of has the top length hanging in one post while the other end sits on the ground by the horizontal length, the last piece my father and I would have connected to finish the fence. I look to the left and see the officer taking a knee next to me, not looking at the house or anything else but me. Behind him is one soldier squinting and scanning the fields, and another soldier facing away from me clutching the muzzle of his rifle and the butt on the ground, probably wishing he was somewhere else. I look back at the cold face of the officer staring through my skin, his strong passionate eyes. He pauses, does not say a single word, and when I think he will pull out his pistol, he opens his arms to me and I jump into them without hesitation. It is at this moment that I feel an intense sensation of love, not regret or sorrow, but compassionate love.

Stericide

Awake in the real world, this is destruction, corruption, and now interruption from your everyday lives; a glimpse into a reality populated by dazed minds and dull eyes.

Brown, Black, White, Red, and Yellow none more shocked, none more mellow, these are the depths of demo graphical prey, equal to buy, free to choose between the most catchy song or flashy sign.

We are top dogs with bottom dollars..., get rich or die trying, this aint a game, it's a way of life, now give meaning to my soulless existence, and give treason to the righteous resistance.
Give pleasure
Give work
Give your days away
Yield no treasure
only entrapment enslaved

I pledge allegiance to the dollar, a misunderstood message from and unidentified caller.
So if I die before I wake, I prey the bank my soul to take.
Then will they repay all my debts, and clear my conscious.
My body
My time
Never ending
These crimes

Prison cell zoned residential housing
free to leave, but never return free of money,
you land your lives rot, comfort turned to running.

Freedom curbed by social mobility, it's no longer racism; but insanity.
young children playing their position
cops and robbers
reciprocation without inquisition
So how many times have you thought or bought an idea? Flew it on your flag pole of self desire and pathetic compassion. Yielding looks feeding off hooks in your ceiling.

Beauty is in the eye of the beholder, within the depths of a wallet, shrunken heads beg the differ; these individuals hold the key within a drifter. As jaded eyes fall on the city one arm begs for mercy the other cries forgiveness. Stumbling legs drunk with power intimidate others who fear and cower. This misshapen human poisoned with venom singeing their veins forever, and ever, this is a fantasy we live and encourage. A day to day job of routine ignorance

I am the wreck less abandonment of what once was.

https://youtu.be/cvPMdLNcubY

Real Things

Standing at the edge of a cliff my dreams fade away.
Are these the hopes and drams of a robotic youth
desperately thrown astray A fit of rage? Fury, and hope
for the new day.

My toes, nothing underneath, my soles on solid ground,
my well being of a soul content, wondering where all
the wonder went. How did it come to this, why? By what means,
a cruel trick devised, and plotted by the best of the them, thick as thieves,
thin as their lies. All gone out the window seen by the peering eyes of the
widow who knows just a little bit too much.

Information is a crutch, its a shame both legs are broken, you'll never get
to the mirage they have chosen. We the forsaken, doomed, laid to rest
among the young, the old, the stressed.

Whats left to do? But count backwards from one hundred.

These are the good ole days,
I lose my footing,
and plummit.

Flash

Salute the sun for the new day,
you can build the largest of things,
with the smallest of strings,
an with all the hope Im given,
is enough to cope with livin,
i know ill be here tomorrow anyway.

Atop The Grave

This is not a tear I can just lick away
wreckless words of the soul from atop the grave
convey your fix your poison, that you crave
you cant run away from something you can save

when you say, those words to me
all i see is your decay
and when i run, dont be afraid
because where i seed is where i lay

i know that where your from is who you are
your not an empty bottle nor a shining star
convince me on this day that your not to far
you must first starve, before you find out who you really are

this insanity has the best of me,
all that prey can see is an enemy
in an empty sea, alone adrift reality
there a lighthouse burns,
with intensity.

Whos Winning?

Who’s winning?

If you can’t see me, I don’t want to be found,
I alone created this war, the human race will finish the rest,
In the depths of ones mind it’s easy to drown,

I am not a scapegoat, nor the one to hound,
Underneath the cover of guilt, I blend in like the rest,
If you can’t see me, I don’t want to be found

Day to night to day, the world spins around,
We continue to think we know it all, and that we are the best
In the depths of ones mind it’s easy to drown,

Matter, volume, elements, and life all in one mound,
We were given this planet, a gift that we now infest
If you can’t see me, I don’t want to be found

They all have their own way, and it changes seemingly without sound,
As for us, we have used 3 branches to craft our nest,
In the depths of ones mind it’s easy to drown,

When we are gone, a new species will be crowned,
But, I hope they know they are but a guest,
If you can’t see me, I don’t want to be found,
In the depths of ones mind it’s easy to drown.