Wordsmithing update
Everyone is lit with a certain brilliance, if you have the vision to see it. When I was little, my Dad took me to one side and explained it as the light given off by someone's soul as it burns through life.
"Just like we burn fuel for a fire, our spirits burn up life," He explained, "It's the fuel that runs our bodies, here in the physical world. But most folks can't see that light; they look kinda funny at those of us who can still do it, so pretend you can't, okay?"
It's a tricky thing, pretending not to know the obvious. But I got in the habit; Dad's playing a long, teasing solo - something that sounds kind of latin but with a burring, blue tone - when I see his light flutter wildly. I should've spotted it sooner.
I see the veins pump up in his temples, then in his neck; I shove forward, needing to get to the stage. The crowd resists.
I shove past an old Brit with leather skin and get clotheslined by a muscular woman with a buzz cut. I change strategies, use high school soccer skills and the residue of almost-forgotten martial arts lessons to slide and slip through.
Up front, I have to be more brutal, have to fight the serious fans and music geeks. I don't hesitate to make them bleed. They return the favor. As I fall, I see my father sway, like a great oak caught by a killing wind.
I scramble, but the crowd surf-slips my traction away.
When I was five, Dad told me color wasn't invented until after World War II - old photos and movies were greyscale because the world was greyscale back then. I laughed, already knowing better.
Tink is suddenly there, opening a gap in the crowd with a flurry of kicks and punches; I've never seen him serious, never seen my best friend without some hint of a sarcastic smile on his face. He looks me in the eye and gets out of my way; I grab a floor monitor and pull myself up.
Dad once told me that the law is like glass; it makes a pretty sound when it breaks but will cut you to the bone if you break it. He taught me about machinery and old electronica and poker and Batman and everything else he thought might be important to me.
His light shudders, dims to a slow, soft glimmer. I'm caught against the safety fence - a minute and I could get free, but I'm out of time. I reach, outstreatched hands at least five feet short.
My father was powerful, brutal, and famously short-tempered with the rest of the world, but he was always careful and gentle with me, quietly teaching a very different path to manhood than he'd taken.
He smiles gently, nods goodbye wordlessly. Then his left eye goes swiftly, wetly bloodshot, the pupil blooming violently wide, and the glimmer around him sputters, guttering nearly out.
Slowly, he sinks to his knees; blood sketches pencil-thin lines from his nostrils, from the corner of his mouth. Mercifully his eyes roll back and close, but his hands never falter, never fail. He's dead already, but stubborn, so stubborn, he won't go until he's done this one last thing.
His hands play the last few ringing notes and outro, then drop to his sides; his Les Paul counters their weight, leaving him balanced perfectly on his knees for a few brief seconds.
His light flares once, silently brilliant... and goes out.
"Just like we burn fuel for a fire, our spirits burn up life," He explained, "It's the fuel that runs our bodies, here in the physical world. But most folks can't see that light; they look kinda funny at those of us who can still do it, so pretend you can't, okay?"
It's a tricky thing, pretending not to know the obvious. But I got in the habit; Dad's playing a long, teasing solo - something that sounds kind of latin but with a burring, blue tone - when I see his light flutter wildly. I should've spotted it sooner.
I see the veins pump up in his temples, then in his neck; I shove forward, needing to get to the stage. The crowd resists.
I shove past an old Brit with leather skin and get clotheslined by a muscular woman with a buzz cut. I change strategies, use high school soccer skills and the residue of almost-forgotten martial arts lessons to slide and slip through.
Up front, I have to be more brutal, have to fight the serious fans and music geeks. I don't hesitate to make them bleed. They return the favor. As I fall, I see my father sway, like a great oak caught by a killing wind.
I scramble, but the crowd surf-slips my traction away.
When I was five, Dad told me color wasn't invented until after World War II - old photos and movies were greyscale because the world was greyscale back then. I laughed, already knowing better.
Tink is suddenly there, opening a gap in the crowd with a flurry of kicks and punches; I've never seen him serious, never seen my best friend without some hint of a sarcastic smile on his face. He looks me in the eye and gets out of my way; I grab a floor monitor and pull myself up.
Dad once told me that the law is like glass; it makes a pretty sound when it breaks but will cut you to the bone if you break it. He taught me about machinery and old electronica and poker and Batman and everything else he thought might be important to me.
His light shudders, dims to a slow, soft glimmer. I'm caught against the safety fence - a minute and I could get free, but I'm out of time. I reach, outstreatched hands at least five feet short.
My father was powerful, brutal, and famously short-tempered with the rest of the world, but he was always careful and gentle with me, quietly teaching a very different path to manhood than he'd taken.
He smiles gently, nods goodbye wordlessly. Then his left eye goes swiftly, wetly bloodshot, the pupil blooming violently wide, and the glimmer around him sputters, guttering nearly out.
Slowly, he sinks to his knees; blood sketches pencil-thin lines from his nostrils, from the corner of his mouth. Mercifully his eyes roll back and close, but his hands never falter, never fail. He's dead already, but stubborn, so stubborn, he won't go until he's done this one last thing.
His hands play the last few ringing notes and outro, then drop to his sides; his Les Paul counters their weight, leaving him balanced perfectly on his knees for a few brief seconds.
His light flares once, silently brilliant... and goes out.