Ryfe Greenwood
Direction is ubiquitous in my life…
The malodor emanating from my 11 month old daughter’s diaper directs my nose to come closer to verify the need for a diaper change. The virulent stench directs my brain to activate the gag reflex. The gag reflex directs my eyes to close and my mouth to open forming an elongated ‘O’. Duty directs me through my own discomfort to the changing table where the diaper is changed. Discarding the diaper reveals a brimming Diaper Genie unwilling to accept the brown ordnance, which directs me to fit a new bag. Awaiting transport to the trash can, the lumpy, blue, new arrival laying on the floor directs my daughter’s curiosity, directing her to come over. Attempting to poke her fingers through the plastic immediately directs me to redirect her. The location of the trash can directs me through the hall– *OUCH!* – whereupon a spiky toy directs my eyes away from the corner of the wall, down to it, permitting the baby toe on my right foot to be stubbed. Impulse directs me to curse. Dregs of fleeting self-restraint direct me to hold my tongue.
Peeping a clock during my sojourn through the kitchen to the trash can directs me to start preparing lunch. The abrupt wailing of my daughter directs me that she is hungry-or teething-or in pain due to bumping her head, which sequence directs me to discover that I am confused. Approaching the refrigerator, I observe the Archimedean precision in my wife’s instructions for our daughter’s lunch. This level of precision directs me to ask myself if my wife believes I have the fatherly competence of a nincompoop. The meditation further directs me to conceptualize a joke with the same content to employ when she arrives home from work later. I do not finish the joke, but looking down I see my daughter between my legs rummaging through Archimedes’ refrigerator.
This directs me to realize that my daughter is now able to access more places. Mentally inventorying all of the known spots of danger within the house directs me to my nightstand in the bedroom. Extracting the cold, ready Glock 19 I am directed to review that the proper storage safeguards are in place. Subsequently directing me to check the magazines. Seeing the polished tip of a hollow-point bullet directs me to ensure that this magazine is primary in the potential sequence of defensive action– which directs me to hope that that sequence will never come. Hoping directs me to the acknowledgement that it still might come. ‘Might come’ directs me to revisit a clarion conviction, and to check on its state. “I will end an evildoer’s corporeal form and rewrite their course if they present lethal force against my daughter or wife.” Preparation directs me to visualize standing in front of the misdirected individual who is aggressing against my family– I verify the threat(this doesnt take me long), attain the sight picture, assess my field of fire (foreground, at target, behind target). I hear the shot. I see the gore. Seeing the assailant grounded directs me to perform emergency first-aid procedures. Wrapping up the intense mental exercise directs my countenance to soften and my muscles to relax.
What is that?
My left ear’s acoustic reflex directs me to peer out of the bedroom, toward the front door. An image of my wife laden with her work stuffs directs me to take it in. My eyes observe her face. Soft curvilinear lines wrapped in Lululemon direct my eyes downward… there are her tan and purple Jordan 6’s directing her path to me. Social convention or love directs her to utter, “Hey.” A knowing glint catches my eye as we embrace. She knows and I know, and the knowing directs us both to… propriety directs me to stop here.
This composition has directed you to believe that I am either a sycophant or a writer. And if the latter, I am then directed by the code of the wordsmiths to finish what I have started. Without a doubt your understanding will have directed you to believe that I can go on writing like this for a considerable span. Alas, selflessness directs me to value your time. And I do. So I cant be a sycophant.
My dedication to the craft of writing directs me to deliver upon the commitments I have made to you, the reader. From here we revisit the assailant from paragraph 3 to see how their course was re-written. I indeed ended his corporeal form, as He did not respond to the life-saving measures. He was apparently sent to Hell.
Having met my commitment, I leave you here with the words of hell’s new captive…
RYF!-RYF!-RYF???!!! PLEASSE MAN DONT DO THIS TO ME! I-I’M SORRY I LEFT DA FOD BANK AT DA CHURCH AND CAME TO YO WHITE HOWSE AND CAME INSIDE AND TWIED ROBBING YOU!
*GASPING*
*sobs*
*GASPING*
I DIN’T-I DIN’T MEAN TO I SWAR! I TAKE IT ALL BACK MAN-I TAKE IT ALL BACKKK!!
*GASPING-GASPING-GASPING*
*sobs while recounting a childhood scene where his mama is standing in fron t of the church being photographed for the directory of the same*
IT’S BLAK HERE, ITS SOOO BLACK. THE BLETHER MAKES IT SO THAT YOU CANT BREATHE!
PLEASE! IT’S SO BAD HERE! DERE’S ROCK UNDERFOOT I CAN FEEL, BUT I CANT SEE FOR NOTHNG..’
PL—
(Blether – is black ether. It is the oppressive firmament of Hell, installed as punishment for that kingdom.)
*sobs*
*in the background constant shrieking, screams of pain, and howling travels up and down, sideways, and everywhere as a disorderly din. Sounds from what could be a world full of stadiums. The noise is tremulous and without cessation. Even the business of affliction has no order in hell.*
THESE DEVUHLS COME AT ME ALL TIME OF ANY TIME AND THEY CLAW AND DEY SCRATCH AND DEY TORMENT. I TRY ASKING EM’ QUESTIONS,–I TRY PLEADING! BUT DEY NEVER TALK BUT TO THEMSELVES–HISSING, CURSING, GROWLLING AND–OW! OW!! OWWWWWOWWW!–PLEASSE STOP! PL–
*GASPS*
*GASPS*
*so–GASPS–bs*
*GASPS*
PL—*GASPS*
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