Week 7 entry...
Just a quick note at the top here -- 'brouhaha' is something that for me, has always been just another word for 'fight' or 'commotion' or similar. The entry below is written with that definition in my mind.
The marching band trip I took in my senior year of high school is something I remember with unusual clarity. Not because it was a ton of fun (though it was), nor because we took first place in the competition (which we did). Rather, I remember it so clearly because it was my first true exposure to the cruelty people can and will do to each other.
The competition took place at a Six Flags amusement park on a gorgeous summer day. After the competition in the morning, we spent the rest of the afternoon and evening in the park; we rode the roller coasters over and over, drinking too-expensive pop while eating enough cotton candy, shaved ice, and pretzels to feed a small nation.
As darkness started to slip through the park, we were on a quest for a ride with a short line. After a day of the monstrous lines plaguing the coasters, we decided we didn't want to wait forever anymore. The first ride we found that had less than 100 people in line, we stepped right up and entered the back-and-forth cattle queue line. The last section of the line before the entrance to the ride area itself put you right next to the main park thoroughfare. People walking by, little kids screaming and laughing, exasperated moms asking their husbands how far they were from the exit, dads replying it had to be here somewhere for god's sake.
We're standing there, laughing and joking amongst ourselves, when a group of teenagers runs up and confronts a similar group of teens in line ahead of us. We turn around, startled, wondering what the commotion is all about. Words are exchanged, a few shoves, some 'Fuck you, asshole!' and similar words ring out.
Suddenly, the group in line bursts over the barrier and gives chase to the other group. Most are too quick and scatter into the park, disappearing into the shadows of the evening. One, though, stumbles. Two of the others tackle him, get control of him, haul him to his feet. A third appears from down the walkway and comes up in front of him. They are perhaps 20 feet from us at this point.
Fury sparks between them at levels so high I can feel it. This is not a dislike born of one kid picking on the other or taking his cap or stealing his girl. This is pure, raging hatred. The real kind.
The kind that is earned.
The held kid bucks and lunges, trying not to escape but to reach the boy in front of him. Those holding him are strong, preventing him from breaking loose. The standing boy leans in close, words are spoken softly. The held boy lunges forward one more time with all his hatred, right into the knife that is suddenly there to meet his belly. It goes in to the hilt and is lifted upwards to the sternum, all in one quick motion. The way you'd gut a fish.
The others drop him and run off, the wounded boy falling to his side onto the walkway. His arms run dark as his body pumps his life out in waves of red. The hatred seems to bleed away with it. His friends have now circled back for him; they grab him, hauling him off towards the fencing at the edge of the park. They are gone, though the blood remains.
The whole episode took perhaps sixty or seventy seconds. That's what I remember the most.
This is my entry for the seventh week of therealljidol. The prompt/topic this week was 'brouhaha'. As always, thanks for reading.
The marching band trip I took in my senior year of high school is something I remember with unusual clarity. Not because it was a ton of fun (though it was), nor because we took first place in the competition (which we did). Rather, I remember it so clearly because it was my first true exposure to the cruelty people can and will do to each other.
The competition took place at a Six Flags amusement park on a gorgeous summer day. After the competition in the morning, we spent the rest of the afternoon and evening in the park; we rode the roller coasters over and over, drinking too-expensive pop while eating enough cotton candy, shaved ice, and pretzels to feed a small nation.
As darkness started to slip through the park, we were on a quest for a ride with a short line. After a day of the monstrous lines plaguing the coasters, we decided we didn't want to wait forever anymore. The first ride we found that had less than 100 people in line, we stepped right up and entered the back-and-forth cattle queue line. The last section of the line before the entrance to the ride area itself put you right next to the main park thoroughfare. People walking by, little kids screaming and laughing, exasperated moms asking their husbands how far they were from the exit, dads replying it had to be here somewhere for god's sake.
We're standing there, laughing and joking amongst ourselves, when a group of teenagers runs up and confronts a similar group of teens in line ahead of us. We turn around, startled, wondering what the commotion is all about. Words are exchanged, a few shoves, some 'Fuck you, asshole!' and similar words ring out.
Suddenly, the group in line bursts over the barrier and gives chase to the other group. Most are too quick and scatter into the park, disappearing into the shadows of the evening. One, though, stumbles. Two of the others tackle him, get control of him, haul him to his feet. A third appears from down the walkway and comes up in front of him. They are perhaps 20 feet from us at this point.
Fury sparks between them at levels so high I can feel it. This is not a dislike born of one kid picking on the other or taking his cap or stealing his girl. This is pure, raging hatred. The real kind.
The kind that is earned.
The held kid bucks and lunges, trying not to escape but to reach the boy in front of him. Those holding him are strong, preventing him from breaking loose. The standing boy leans in close, words are spoken softly. The held boy lunges forward one more time with all his hatred, right into the knife that is suddenly there to meet his belly. It goes in to the hilt and is lifted upwards to the sternum, all in one quick motion. The way you'd gut a fish.
The others drop him and run off, the wounded boy falling to his side onto the walkway. His arms run dark as his body pumps his life out in waves of red. The hatred seems to bleed away with it. His friends have now circled back for him; they grab him, hauling him off towards the fencing at the edge of the park. They are gone, though the blood remains.
The whole episode took perhaps sixty or seventy seconds. That's what I remember the most.
This is my entry for the seventh week of therealljidol. The prompt/topic this week was 'brouhaha'. As always, thanks for reading.