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| Poorly executed page scan of the publication. |
Thorns
Thorn, in the
thumb, thin prick. Blind pierce, but
then blood, a slow bubble climbing into the air. Jason sucks the digit, places the thumb in
his mouth without thought, and leaches the metallic taste. After a few seconds he removes it, glances at
the surface, sees the sliver of punctured skin and the second wave of
blood. He offers one more vampiric suck
before giving up and returning to the garden infestation of vines.
Behind
the wound, Jason can hear the voice of his father, a voice from his youthful
days when yard work was slave labor and not for personal gain. The words called to him, “Here, wear some
gloves,” but Jason always offered the same froglike grunt of no. Today, he considers buying gloves for the
first time. Internally, his mind already
knows the answer, knows he will not—if only from the pattern of
experience. Better to feel the burn, the
scratches, the destruction.
Dropping
to one knee for leverage, the moist ground kissing his skin, Jason grabs at the
vines and feels the thorn defenses being raised, the men called out to the vine
walls to attack the thick calluses of Jason’s palm, spears raised and digging
in out of fear. “No, we won’t go,” the vines chant, “No take this. Feel that.”
Anger welling, Jason digs in for
battle, his knee sinking into the ground, his body lurching against the rows of
vine pikemen assaulting his skin, and once again his father’s words, “Why don’t
you put on some gloves?”
“No,” Jason says,
“No. I don’t need a crutch, I don’t need
protection.” Eyes shut, he pulls against
the advice of his father, hears, feels the snapping, and falls backward vine in
hand. The shouting stops, his ears
discern only his own panting. His hands
bleed in jagged streaks.
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