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Stitching
There was once a man in a house. This man was not an average man; he was a man of a horrible accident. He now resides solely in his house, as he is ashamed of the branding left by Lucas. He sits in his chair and gazes out the window on most occasions. His window is a chilling blue, melted and matted from a forgotten rain. Staring outward in a most inward fashion, a boy is cast, cast as quickly as a midday shade and twice as refreshing.
The boy is a younger vision of himself, fond memories fluttering in the foreground in the recesses of his thought. The middle-ground is simple and composed of a singular entity; a boy unlike himself, vague and unfamiliar is jumping rope as if he is the internal metronome of our window gazer. A duelist perspective held in the background, furthest from the minds eye, is darting between two contrasting visions; past and future. A man stands proud, dressed in a rich garb, a chair nestled on the ground (not unlike the one he sits in now), his hand placed atop the backing. A whip in the other hand held strong but laying loose behind the man is ready and waiting. The man cries out, bolstering a voice that is crisp, clear and commanding.
"Lucas down!"
A thunderous crack of the whip takes hold. The frame freezes; the boy is still jumping just in front of the crack of the whip and an echoing shout. The background changes; crowds are standing, cheering, clapping and roses are being tossed to the mighty performer.
"Lucas open," is heard as the crowds are humbled and simply fade. The reality of the past takes hold. The man now bends down and thrusts his head into Lucas' mouth; he shouts an order. The order is never heard as the crowd recoils in shock and an awe that rivals that of divine inspiration. A bite, a crunch, a crew, and a dark year is cast.
Flick. The stitching is still in place; it always will be. Forcing his return from a now saturated window, the raindrops and sounds of rain were rightfully drowned by the memories.
The background is gone - a fading vision of what could have been flashes last - a large circus tent with lights galore, his name beaming bright, colorful flags flickering in the wind: each representing a circus show passed through generations. An image barely seen as it is enveloped by the boy jumping rope. The man notes that this boy's rhythm is keeping time with the drops (as do his eyes), shifting to a solemn sunken state.
He gropes further around his neck on each side, feeling the deep running scars left by a masticating friend.
The rope has dropped, the boy walks forward. With each step closer to the foreground, the boy becomes less amorphic and more of the man's childhood.
Such sweet memories fade as his hands latch onto his stitching - a loose tug places him back in reality. Five words mumbled before a stiff tug.
"Lucas, you stubborn, magnificent beast." As the world spins, the window is gone but still passes, as does a lumbering figure placed in a chair. As the world slows to an overwhelmingly lame pace, his gaze fixes on the ceiling without much choice. Thinking of his excursion through the window pane and the triad of visions layered in his mind, this man remembers what he should have been.
Another shrill mumble echoes - a famed lion tamer, not this headless horseman reject. A body by the window and a head on the floor - and is released to a single weep.
~ R.D. Von Ludwig