The Demolition of a Mother, Part 2

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An Excerpt

There, in the lamplight of his narrow above-ground hole, air-conditioned cool, but still damp, like the earth itself, without any television or radio, he sipped at his vodka, reminiscing, watching a water bug and a silverfish route themselves amicably to a common goal found somewhere behind the wall. Once the vodka glass was empty, he rose from his seat, went to a closet near his bedroom, pulled out a lock box, unlocked it, and wrapped his hand around his .45. He gave its muzzle a kiss, loaded a magazine into its grip, then went outside and around to the back of his trailer, where he shot at some shredded targets, practicing his grouping.

“Guess I’ve got to call some time,” he said, after the magazine was empty.

He went back inside, and after returning his pistol to its safe, he sat back down and poured another double-shot. He stared into the dark TV screen, contemplating while he sipped on his vodka. About halfway into that glass, he picked up the phone and dialed the number. The line did not ring; it went straight to voice mail, which confused Ernest. When the beep came, he stammered, “Yeah, uh, listen, Terrell, this is your father; I know: long time, no see. Or hear. You know. Yeah, uh, listen, Terrell, your Grandma Maude is dead. You can call me back. If you want. Yeah. Okay, bye. Love you.” He searched for the button on the number pad which ended the call. “I wish you could just hang these things up.” Vodka had made him forget that he could simply fold the phone closed.

The Demolition of a Mother, Part 2

The Primal Flower, Chapter 4 (Part B)

Finally, people get killed, and we learn the protagonist’s name and why he’s leaving town.

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An excerpt:

An army had broken through from the east two years ago. They did not destroy crops or buildings. They did murder people. They murdered brutally the leaders of the people. I had never heard this. Perhaps it was said to me, but I could not hear. Now I could hear because I was going into this country. Was it not the King’s country? Certainly! No?

An army returns through the same country, wounded. Both are wounded, both the country and the army. The people are wounded to the point of survival. They have no leaders. Ordered leadership, no. Natural leadership, perhaps. Natural leadership brings envy and unrest. Hordes follow natural leadership. The people are not merely a horde; they are a bloodthirsty horde. A natural leader gives them a sharp point. No, not a sharp point. A natural leader gives them a blunt weapon. No, not a blunt weapon. What is a weapon that tears with a powerful grip, tears flesh? Teeth. A people wounded to the point of survival sees their attacker with his back turned, unsuspecting. A natural leader gives the people a taste of blood, and they drink their own death. This is a people dead. This is a people which did not survive its wounding. For two years this people has torn at itself, tasting blood, having now an insatiable hunger for blood, and more than blood, for fire, for everything destructive. These people have become barbarians. They had ample property, treasuries of wealth, ample stores of food; crops and buildings had been spared by this king from the east, with a far smaller population to support. They had no need for ordered leadership to live easily. And so each to his own, without allegiance to anyone or any principles. Their wrath certainly had spread beyond the countryside beneath the mountains.

These people were the King’s own people; these people are my people. These people swarm the roads and passes of all the land between the city and the North country.

And I fell asleep.

 

The Primal Flower, Chapter 4 (Part B)

The Primal Flower, Chapter 2

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An excerpt:

All the twelves saw their mighty enemy for the first time under the light of day without the distance of the heights of mountains intervening. They were a host, truly, a horde. They were like flies, swarming, without sense or order, but they were a swarm, indefatigable, with one man upon another man. Each man of the son of the King of the Mountain Kingdom looked and saw that this horde was of men who could be his brothers. Their faces were painted with the dust of the plains, and their war-clothes were sewn from cloth of the plains, but pigments and threads were not distinct under the probing eye of the spear. When they saw this to be true, a kind of fear came over the twelves, and the commanders were sore pressed to maintain the twelves in their ranks.

The prince, the true son of a man, a savior of men, perceived this trouble, as perceiving a storm rising up just before battle, drew his sword, and pointed it at the sky. He took his station before his men, and said these few words: “These men are your brothers, your cousins, your very own flesh and blood, but war is upon them because we must take the secret paths in and out of our land. They themselves offer their swords to our daughters in our land, sneaking through the passes into and out again. My father, the king, once offered them tribute to leave us in peace. Now he has given me a command to recover his tribute from the belly of my brother, Il-neth-ta, his very own son, the son of treachery!”

The Primal Flower, Chapter 2