He shoved his tongue through the place where his tooth had been. It was smooth and cavernous, a hole not so different than the one when he was eight -- a puck to the face. He and his brother knelt on the pond ice and swept through puddles of freezing blood to find the thing. They figured if they had to go home like that, all fucked up like that, at least they better have it. His mother packed his face in ice, gave him some baby aspirin and took a picture. She put the tooth in a tiny baggy and shoved it under his pillow, her lips to his forehead, her fingers through his hair. Sweet dreams, she whispered, like always.

He shoved his tongue through the gap and wondered if he might be able to whistle through it. He could never make grass blades sing like his brother; maybe this would be his trick? He was always scrawnier than that dude, but now? Damn man, he looked tough, all toothless and shot up. With piss on his pants.

With piss on his pants.

It's always something different that breaks the sweet bubble of shock. Like fear and adrenaline, shock's a tender gift and it always breaks. I pissed my pants, he thought, which was the pin prick.

No more baby aspirin sweet dreams, he was suddenly a beast, twisting his neck and his torso, the only parts of his body he could move, but for his eyes, bloodshot and literally burning, darting, and also his teeth which he snarled and chomped in vain. His thighs chafed now from urine, from denim, from fatigue, his ankles raw from rope or wire or what was it? He couldn't run; he couldn't fight back. He was never so good at that anyway so this was it: he was a goner, just done for, just a bawling baby in the back seat of a car and why, he screamed. Maybe out loud, maybe not, he wasn't sure. Someone laughed and there were voices. A crack of something and then, blood getting caught in his lashes.

His mother with a kind ice pack above him. His brother with a sob and a puck. Her sugar-dusted pants, her backward glance, the letter in her hand then in his hand. Her walking away. 

Sweet dreams, someone whispered. 

Comments

[TwoBusy]

Sweet mercy, you do know how to make it dance.

"Shock's a tender gift and it always breaks."

That's one for the ages, right there.

[Ms Picket to You]

I was watching tivod Top Models, telling Paul that I will just finish this
stupid show and this bag of gummy bears... When instead? I was just waiting
for some proof that I don¹t suck...

How lame is that?

On 9/23/09 11:03 PM, "typepad@sixapart.com" wrote:

[Palinode]

Slick wears jeans? I'm fascinated by the way that I have to revise my picture of these people with every entry. Plus, he's from somewhere cold enough for frozen ponds in winter. More Michigan than Florida.

[Jett]

It's strange, being the navigator and reader of a story all at once. I get all excited: "What's next, what's next?? Where are these people going?"

It's exciting as a reader, and you guys are all so good at the wordplay. It's daunting as a writer, because I don't want to be the jackass that drops the ball.