Monday, June 20, 2005

Kuhio

(Sunday scratch fiction bleeding over into Monday, now...)

Nothing nothing nothing is better than this, thought Kuhio, shoving home another cartridge and lifting the gun to his shoulder.

There in his sights the other, guy like him, perfect shot in the upright at the end of the muzzle, square frame showing him where the bullets will go, the chute they will ride along, pure and hot to their place. Just wait, wait while the other swings the gun off his back, let him almost bring it round to his shoulder, now, now.

Nobody back home will understand this, working the drive-thru at the Wahi'awa Mickey D's, Kuhio won't be able to talk to them after months in the Sandbox, they can't know, they think it's important who's going with who, who served long rice at the beach, or warm beer, who's gone Mainland, who's going Townside for a night out, none of them can know this, stripped down, everything down to this: gun, bullets, sun. Quick pop and a whole life done, too fast even to notice, not like the movies, not drawn out slo-mo, so quick it's done before you half know it started.

Maybe the old men, he can talk to the old men, and Auntie, who told him never forget he was named for a Prince, he can sit out back and talk story with the old guys, they know from Korea, and Nam, and even some guys, real old ones, were there when Japanese planes came in from Windward, tearing in low over the harbor, they know.

Never forget you were named for a Prince, Kuhio.

A pop, and the guy is on his knees, looking into Kuhio's eyes, he recognizes something, is that a smile? Kuhio wonders when he hears a buzz and his knees stop doing their job, they fold up, he can't help smiling too, he gets the joke, the guy in front and the other, the one he didn't see all share the joke no-one else would get, it isn't his life flashing by, it's this, this Now, this that it all led up to, he was named for a Prince and he is falling, he is a Prince now and always, Auntie would hold her chin up, she would understand, he takes his place, stepping (falling) into the light.

4 comments:

Daniel Heath said...

you got this tendency to end your scratch fiction in luminous ascent... I think it's because you like to write about the bleeding edge of light and self. it's very Flannery O'Conner that way...

Daniel Heath said...

by the way, on this topic, Youth Radio just won an Edward Murrow award for their series on youth returning from Iraq; check out "Reflections on Return":
http://www.youthradio.org/reflections/index.shtml

Chemical Billy said...

Nice link, monkey.

Maybe all my ff stories are starting to sound the same because I'm out of ideas. But, your explanation sounds better, I'll take that.

Daniel Heath said...

out of ideas? when the sun runs out of hydrogen, c.b...