Memoria - The Man

Memoria - Page 39

Introduction of The Man

Simple things are funny things. But predictable things are not funny things. Does simple always mean predictable? The world is simple. The world is predictable. The world is funny. The world is insipid. Is that hypocrisy? Is that duality? Still predictable. The sky is still behind the clouds. There is water at the bottom of the ocean. The tides are going to fall. The moon will rise. The earth will turn. Night will come. Waves will crash.

—To see the world in a grain of sand.

The brambly voice cut through The Boy's reverie. Neither shocked nor frightened, The Boy turns to the owner of the voice that resembles glass being crushed by a metal rolling pin. The Boy's cool gaze meets with a pair of eyes cut from glacier ice. The eyes pierce The Boy's normally hard gaze with their own ferocity. There is no malice, but an intensity that could make Santa Clause celebrate Kwanza. Underneath those optomic missiles, lies a wide, boyish grin set within a thick, salt-and-peppered beard that sits flush on cheekbones chiseled with a hacksaw. The wind rifles through the jet black hair that ripples in waves from his forehead to the base of his neck.

The Man moves with deliberate agility and slides down to sit on the red rock next to The Boy. The Man and The Boy sit in utter silence watching the waves crash against the beachhead and the faint silhouette of the sun rise higher behind the cloud cover. The Boy slowly turns to look at the strange man who sits stoically beside him, slightly out of place with his surroundings yet fitting in perfectly.

Memoria - The Boy

The streetlight above flashes red and green simultaneously. Smoke rises from a car askew on the sidewalk with a streetlight pole sticking out of its hood. People run around the street like chickens with their feet cut off. The Boy sits calmly amidst the chaos. He slowly raises his head at the commotion. His azure eyes slink out of the shadow made by the brim of his jet black fedora. He runs two fingers up and down the two-day growth of stubble along his jaw line and fixes his gaze toward the low rumbling of an approaching motorcycle motor. As it passes without coming into his visual range, he turns his zirconian eyes back to the smoking car. He studies the wreckage, his eyes crawling slowly, purposefully across the scene. It had happened minutes ago. He watched it happen from where he sat; a raving lunatic who drove into a street pole. He then jumped out of the car, claimed to have seen God fly out of the street lamp and proceeded to sprint down a back alley, presumably giving chase to the deity.

The Boy's eyes narrow on a tuft of blond hair peeking over the edge of the back window. He looks at the smoke rising from the engine block. The Boy stands. His hands ripple with burn scars as the sunlight illuminates the subtle waves of scar tissue. He unbuttons his suit jacket and straightens his impressive, subtly pinstriped suit. He pulls the fedora off his head as if a princess was standing in front of him and allows his haphazardly styled, chestnut-colored hair to fall over his forehead. He softly places the hat on the bench behind him. The Boy breaks into a dead sprint.

The Boy weaves between the people running away from the car and the people running after the driver. He slams into the back door as the first tendrils of flame spiral out from beneath the hood. He pulls the small child from the car and carries him away from the wreck. He sets the child down near the bench and turns back to the car. The Boy stands with the child and watches the car explode in a ball of flame. He tousles The Kid's hair.

"Beautiful, eh?" The Boy says softly. The Kid simply nods his head as the flames dance in the mirrors of his eyes. The Boy turns and picks up his hat from the bench behind him. He slips it onto The Kid's head and it falls over his ears and covers his eyes.

"Ehh, you'll grow into it," The Boy chuckles and smiles as he walks away humming "Sympathy for the Devil."