Sore Wrists


Wednesdays are guest author days. I’m looking for young voices who will fit in with the mold of this blog, discussing frustration, communication, and humanity in terms that encourage the reader to grapple. I am not looking for rants or diatribes; I seek creative work that would help shape the voice of youth, a voice that all its life hasn’t had a home. If you’re interested, please find my email address on the contact page and submit a sample.

Amos Parker will supply next week’s guest post. He’s a colleague and friend, and I cannot state my esteem for his humanity or creativity highly enough.

Now enjoy another piece from James Gregory!

**

He sits in front of an old TV. A TV so old the color is draining out in patches and it’s bigger than him cause it’s a tube projector. It has a videogame system hooked up to it. He’s been sitting in front of it for about an hour.

He’s playing a videogame. His hands are sweaty from how long he’s been playing it. His thumbs feel raw. Twitches run through the backs of his hands and he can’t miss any of the bones rubbing against each other in there.

In the game, he’s a sexy, tan girl with big breasts and a tight butt. The girl possesses enough fighting ability to apparently take on some sort of large ogre monster. The object of the game is simple: hit the ogre till it dies.

She’s been hitting the ogre for close to 45 minutes. Punches, kicks, throws, and a lack of clothing have yet to stop it. She’s come close a few times. The ogre seems to always pull it out of the bag at the last second.

The ogre is large. It’s much bigger than her. It has a giant mouth, scaly skin, and big arms. It knows kung fu and she can only dance around doing break dance style fighting. It always laughs when it wins.

He sitting there playing away. Earlier, he’d seen a girl he liked. She had big breasts and a tight butt too. She dressed like a normal person. Jeans and T-shirt uniform. Her hair color was not what he liked but her face was.

Personality was a different matter. She always laughed when she won and she always won especially when it came to him. He would look at her and say, “Hey Alex,”(because Alexandra was much too long too say for anyone) and the laugh would begin almost immediately, small and beautiful. She would say hi back then turn her head back toward a different person in whom she had a much more vested interest, and the laugh would come in full.

It wasn’t that she was cruel. She just couldn’t comprehend him. She didn’t understand what went through his head. He couldn’t possibly expect her to care about him.

She would watch him walk up in clothes that were either too tight or too loose and begin to cringe. She’d fight it. His hair would be a mess. Sometimes, it was greasy like he hadn’t showered in days.

She was always impressed by how clean his skin was. His head was dirty and so were his clothes, but his face and the bits he kept mostly hidden were the cleanest she’d seen. She looked at his clothes like at a poor disguise.

His voice was a sticking point, an odd combination of male and vaguely feminine. The words he used were always the most needlessly vague and complicated. She knew he did it cause he was shy. She also knew that when he calmed down enough his voice was smooth and even. It was never high or cracking. Just calm and rather enjoyable. She also knew it would only take her talking to him for five straight minutes before he would calm down around her. So she would limit the time to only three minutes.

He loses again and the ogre laughs. A curse leaves his lips. He’s gone and clocked in another fifteen minutes.

Her elbow attacks combined with her flipping kicks have done the most damage so far. The ogre’s life bar dropped down to about quarter left. He has this move that gives him health back that saved him in the end.

He thinks she’s the most beautiful woman on the planet. He thinks her hair isn’t even a problem. It takes a lot for him to get past a girl’s hair color. He thinks her eyes are perfectly shaped and that her lips curve in perfect ways.

He likes the way she talks. It’s the plain words that suggest way more than he thinks she’s saying. It might be in his head.

She knows just like he knows that he won’t leave cause of her. She knows she should have never been nice to him. He knows she will never be that kind to him again. She knows he won’t give up and that he’ll keep talking to her. He knows he wants to feel like someone actually cares about him and that he probably isn’t going to find it there again. She knows she can’t give him what he wants.

He’s been playing for an hour and a half now. Still hasn’t won. His wrists and hands are sore and his feet are falling asleep. He keeps playing. He doesn’t know what else to do.

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Author: James Gregory

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Filed under Features, Fiction, Guest author, Writing

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