Ma and Pa

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Humor  |  House: Booksie Classic
A little short story about the human condition.

Submitted: May 31, 2016

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Submitted: May 31, 2016

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Ma and Pa I did love my mother and father. Mother was strong and old. Father was quick and young. They were quite a pair, my mother and father. Mother, with her ever sinewy muscles and stern jaw and my dear father with his passionate auburn eyes and eager smile. He was hers completely, but she was not his. No, my mother belonged to only herself. My, was she one powerful woman. I once witnessed, in my youth, a biker, attempt to rob my dear mother. She graped him by the wrist, crippling his hand. He let out a cry of agony and attempted to back away. His retreat was in vain. Mother seized him by the shoulders and planted her hulking work boot in the crux of his shoulder blades. With a cry equal parts pleasure and pain, mother freed his now dead, limp arms from the burden of his weary body. He collapsed, in a pool of blood and shame. I looked at my mother with a newfound awe and respect. I doubted that I would ever find a woman up to par with her. Father was also an interesting character. He used to take me fishing and explain to me about the dangers of communism and interbreeding. This never diminished my fondness for the colored girl who would meet me behind the local goods store, but more on that later. Father was a kind man but he was also very cruel. He once killed the family dog because he believed that he was the devil. Fido wasn't the devil. He was my dog. This is perhaps why I still harbor resentment toward my father. It is certainly why, late one night when he was giving my mother his best which admittedly wasn't much, I poisoned him. I dropped rat poison in his bottle of Jack. He died peacefully. I never mourned. I did however, discover that I enjoyed the killing. So, I of course, killed again and again and again. I used to work long, tireless hours on my family’s farm. I was their slave. They hated me so. For I was an accident. Father never wanted a son. He wanted a daughter so that she would inherit my mother's great strength and bull like features. But alas, I was his only child. I was hated. This is likely why I lack empathy or compassion. There is no word in the english language to properly denote how little human life means to me. Zero itself is not sufficient or perhaps too sufficient. I loathe semantics and yet, I find myself a slave to them. I once made a vow to myself never to be like my parents and still, I look at myself each day and it serves as a reminder that as a human being I am no different from the highest saints and lowest sinners. I am an angel of chaos I could be you, I could be anyone. And at the same time, I have the power, as an able bodied man, to kill with or without discretion. Whatever I please. I could one day be the kind stranger to give you that extra three dollars to pay for your fucking futon and later that day. Later that day, I could beat your loved ones to death with a hammer, douse them in lighter fluid and set them ablaze. I couldn't care less. You people in your ivory towers find hope in the silliest things. The hips of a child. Tired religions and even one another. Answer me this. Why do you get out of bed? There are people in this world who hate you, almost as much as I love the scent of mint ice cream. God, I could just lather myself in mint ice cream and carelessly float into slumber. Bliss. Pure bliss. My mother died in the fall. We buried her shortly after. Funny, I'd always dreamed her immortal. We are all as strong as comets yet as fragile as glass. My greatest regret in life is never buying that blue wagon from the town Witch Doctor. He also sold potions. They tasted like raspberry and rubber and made me feel cold. This is possibly why I can no longer see in color. I miss yellow, almost as much as I miss Ma and Pa. I attempted to buy that wagon it was broken and rusty, but it was the most milky shade of blue I had ever laid my eyes on. I orgasmed at the mere sight of it's majesty. It filled me with passion and lust. He sold me a complementary portion with the wagon which caused me to fall gravely ill. I lost my eyesight and cast fire upon the charlatan's wagon in a fit of fury. I died with that wagon, though I did not join Ma and Pa, for they had died fully. Only my spirit had died... Along with the charlatan for I devoured his thorax while masturbating to the tune of Yankee Doodle. I love my country. But I don't love me. I only love Ma...and Pa...and my country. I loved the wagon, but now it is as dead to me as rap is to music. Who do I kid rap is alive but my love for it has scattered and failed, like a lamb in a wood chipper, or Vladimir in a Gay Pride festival. I would have loving intercourse with Vladimir. We've only done it detached and without love. I want him to love me, not just my body and my small but mighty love stick. He never pleasures me. Only I, him. I sometimes wonder if I take after father in the way that I will never truly pleasure my lover physically and the will never fulfill my needs emotionally. Jesus, I am Pa. I once poisoned myself, I merely did not know it at the time. As he collapsed in a pile of his own shit and sadness. I too fell in. Or at least, who I would be. I'm sorry, Pa. I'm not Mother, I am you. I long to deposit my seed in a woman who is fruitful and ripe, so that she may deliver a strong daughter unto my house, so that I may finally be able to swallow a bottle of xanax and drift into a wakeless slumber and escape this cancer we lovingly and blindly call life. Why do people feel compelled to live. I only live to eventually reproduce because any less would be a crime against my Mother's herculean genes and stern jaw. After my seed is passed I will die. After it is passed the burden shall be hoisted from the grounds that hold it. My wings loose, I will soar in the clutches of my long awaited death.


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