Not Exactly Dustbowl--but it's Clex!
2/5/05 08:17 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
roxyHappy Birthday ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
shattered Thanks for the CPR!
Thank you, TQ--let's see where this takes us!
So, this thing that's got me-- I thought I'd go ahead and drop it here-- see what happens.Tell me what you think. And pray for me to finish that other thing, eh?
Hot. It was all Clark could think about. I’m so hot. And so sweaty. Sweat ran down his back and his face and pooled in the hollow of his throat and wet his lip, it slipped in when he opened his mouth and made him grimace with the salty bitter taste of it.
The heat rose around him like a live thing, stuffing his nose with the dust-wood-old paper smell of the church, stuffing his head with cotton, driving his eyelids down, and whispering sleep, sleep in his ears. Oh, yes please…sleep,yes…
Sunday service seemed to last a lifetime, and the Pastor droned on and on and Clark’s head dipped and wobbled as he fought to stay awake. Lord, help me keep my eyes open. and felt guilty for the thought. Next to him, Mom fanned herself with a little half moon paper fan and nodded along with the Pastor’s words, and with a mother’s ability to see their children without using eyes elbowed him every time he drifted off.
Dad sat next to Mom, his tie slowly sliding open each time he tugged at his too tight collar, every so often, he’d run his thumb under his suspenders, uncomfortable where they pressed his shirt against him and made him sweat. Clark knew the feeling and hated it too. Every Sunday dinner, Dad thanked the Lord during grace that he didn’t have to wear a tie too often; claiming he was happiest in his overalls, and it never failed to make Mom scold, and it always made him laugh. Inside of course, it wouldn’t do to let his mom hear him.
Clark watched his dad’s hands clasp and unclasp the bible he clutched. His knuckles were rough and raw, his hands red and dry from scrubbing with laundry soap in a losing effort to get the soil out of his skin, just another thing that marked him as a farmer, like the deep wrinkles around his eyes and mouth, his deep tan, and sun bleached hair. It was a harsh and unforgiving way to make a living Clark thought, and he prayed daily it wouldn’t be his way. Sure, it was what Dad did, and Granddad did, and it was a way of life they loved, heartache and all-- but it wasn’t the life he wanted. He wrote about the things *he* wanted in his journals, notebooks that he started keeping not long after he found out how different he really was.
Clark fidgeted, and Mom gave him a warning look. He smiled at her, knowing she couldn’t help but to smile back. He kept watching her after she turned her attention back to the service, she was so pretty his mom, it was pretty the way the sun made her hair a red halo around her face, and made the green of her eyes shine. She was a picture from head to toe—pretty dress and brand new pumps—the ones just like Katherine Hepurn wore in that crazy movie with the leopard, right down to the little bows, and he knew too much about stuff like that—it was Dad’s fault. Clark had to take her to all the movies Dad wouldn’t go to—women’s movies. Clark thought some of them were pretty good—not that he would tell Dad or Mom for that matter. He snorted and Mom looked again, smiling,inquiring and Clark shook his head and pointedly looked to the front of the church. She breathed out a tiny laugh and looked to the front herself.
The lines around her eyes and mouth turned from worry to smile lines when she was in church, it truly gave her spirit a lift to be there and Clark was happy for her— for him it was just an empty spot he tried hard to fill in his heart, another way he tried to fit in like his parents told him over and over and over—don’t stand out, don’t talk about the difference, don’t show the difference, act like everyone else.
It was sinful to give into the temptation to be different. God surely wasn’t pleased when he did—so Dad said. Well, God wasn’t living his life, Clark thought and quickly apologized to Him.
Sin and the way *not* to sin was why Clark spent hours and hours the day before repairing the fence line on the far edge of their property, covered with sticky dust that sweat turned to mud in the creases of his neck, and the creases of his elbows, heck, any place he could bend, there was mud. Spent a whole day doing it, when he could have finished in an hour or less. It made no sense. They hired dowsers and dug and dug for water, spending money that was hard to come by—when all he’d have to do was look in *that* way and he could find it—or he could run into the next county and look for work, bring in extra money…he couldn’t understand why it was sinful—why would God make him that way if it were? Why give him these gifts and not let him use them? Clark groaned. His life was one long series of unanswered questions. I bet no one else has all these darn questions--. No body could feel this alone and dumb and scared… scared all the time about doing something bad, something wrong—Am I going to go to hell? Does anyone else worry about that? Probably not--Look at Whitney—I know he doesn’t, he’s got everything, lucky dog, Clark thought and stared at the back of Whitney Fordman’s head.
The Fordmans. They always sat in the front pew, like they were Kansas Royalty or something. Lana’s his girl, he’s the big man around school, he’s good looking and smart and everyone likes him and they’re practically rich—The Fordmans owned the big store down town where everyone shopped —everyone knew and liked the Fordmans. Especially Lana. Lana, whom he wished desperately knew he was alive. But no, she only had eyes for Whitney Fordman, Prince Whitney, Clark thought. Not that he wasn’t a good guy and all, he was and he liked Whitney a lot, it was just… Clark frowned. Lana and Whitney…he wished he could just ignore his feelings; just pretend he didn’t have them.
Just like he tried to pretend he didn’t have certain…powers. He tried hard not to use them, really truly tried not to, but sometimes at night, when the stars hung low he could swear he almost…heard them sing, and the moon was right…right… *there* and all he had to do was reach out his hand and cup it in his palm--when nights were like that he *had* to run, to feel the wind pull at him and touch him all over, push against every bit of him, so cool and firm, like a giant hand pushing him, petting him… Clark blushed—it felt better than good sometime—another sin, Clark mourned. Sin was like the doggone Shadow, lurking everywhere.
shattered Thanks for the CPR!Thank you, TQ--let's see where this takes us!
So, this thing that's got me-- I thought I'd go ahead and drop it here-- see what happens.Tell me what you think. And pray for me to finish that other thing, eh?
Hot. It was all Clark could think about. I’m so hot. And so sweaty. Sweat ran down his back and his face and pooled in the hollow of his throat and wet his lip, it slipped in when he opened his mouth and made him grimace with the salty bitter taste of it.
The heat rose around him like a live thing, stuffing his nose with the dust-wood-old paper smell of the church, stuffing his head with cotton, driving his eyelids down, and whispering sleep, sleep in his ears. Oh, yes please…sleep,yes…
Sunday service seemed to last a lifetime, and the Pastor droned on and on and Clark’s head dipped and wobbled as he fought to stay awake. Lord, help me keep my eyes open. and felt guilty for the thought. Next to him, Mom fanned herself with a little half moon paper fan and nodded along with the Pastor’s words, and with a mother’s ability to see their children without using eyes elbowed him every time he drifted off.
Dad sat next to Mom, his tie slowly sliding open each time he tugged at his too tight collar, every so often, he’d run his thumb under his suspenders, uncomfortable where they pressed his shirt against him and made him sweat. Clark knew the feeling and hated it too. Every Sunday dinner, Dad thanked the Lord during grace that he didn’t have to wear a tie too often; claiming he was happiest in his overalls, and it never failed to make Mom scold, and it always made him laugh. Inside of course, it wouldn’t do to let his mom hear him.
Clark watched his dad’s hands clasp and unclasp the bible he clutched. His knuckles were rough and raw, his hands red and dry from scrubbing with laundry soap in a losing effort to get the soil out of his skin, just another thing that marked him as a farmer, like the deep wrinkles around his eyes and mouth, his deep tan, and sun bleached hair. It was a harsh and unforgiving way to make a living Clark thought, and he prayed daily it wouldn’t be his way. Sure, it was what Dad did, and Granddad did, and it was a way of life they loved, heartache and all-- but it wasn’t the life he wanted. He wrote about the things *he* wanted in his journals, notebooks that he started keeping not long after he found out how different he really was.
Clark fidgeted, and Mom gave him a warning look. He smiled at her, knowing she couldn’t help but to smile back. He kept watching her after she turned her attention back to the service, she was so pretty his mom, it was pretty the way the sun made her hair a red halo around her face, and made the green of her eyes shine. She was a picture from head to toe—pretty dress and brand new pumps—the ones just like Katherine Hepurn wore in that crazy movie with the leopard, right down to the little bows, and he knew too much about stuff like that—it was Dad’s fault. Clark had to take her to all the movies Dad wouldn’t go to—women’s movies. Clark thought some of them were pretty good—not that he would tell Dad or Mom for that matter. He snorted and Mom looked again, smiling,inquiring and Clark shook his head and pointedly looked to the front of the church. She breathed out a tiny laugh and looked to the front herself.
The lines around her eyes and mouth turned from worry to smile lines when she was in church, it truly gave her spirit a lift to be there and Clark was happy for her— for him it was just an empty spot he tried hard to fill in his heart, another way he tried to fit in like his parents told him over and over and over—don’t stand out, don’t talk about the difference, don’t show the difference, act like everyone else.
It was sinful to give into the temptation to be different. God surely wasn’t pleased when he did—so Dad said. Well, God wasn’t living his life, Clark thought and quickly apologized to Him.
Sin and the way *not* to sin was why Clark spent hours and hours the day before repairing the fence line on the far edge of their property, covered with sticky dust that sweat turned to mud in the creases of his neck, and the creases of his elbows, heck, any place he could bend, there was mud. Spent a whole day doing it, when he could have finished in an hour or less. It made no sense. They hired dowsers and dug and dug for water, spending money that was hard to come by—when all he’d have to do was look in *that* way and he could find it—or he could run into the next county and look for work, bring in extra money…he couldn’t understand why it was sinful—why would God make him that way if it were? Why give him these gifts and not let him use them? Clark groaned. His life was one long series of unanswered questions. I bet no one else has all these darn questions--. No body could feel this alone and dumb and scared… scared all the time about doing something bad, something wrong—Am I going to go to hell? Does anyone else worry about that? Probably not--Look at Whitney—I know he doesn’t, he’s got everything, lucky dog, Clark thought and stared at the back of Whitney Fordman’s head.
The Fordmans. They always sat in the front pew, like they were Kansas Royalty or something. Lana’s his girl, he’s the big man around school, he’s good looking and smart and everyone likes him and they’re practically rich—The Fordmans owned the big store down town where everyone shopped —everyone knew and liked the Fordmans. Especially Lana. Lana, whom he wished desperately knew he was alive. But no, she only had eyes for Whitney Fordman, Prince Whitney, Clark thought. Not that he wasn’t a good guy and all, he was and he liked Whitney a lot, it was just… Clark frowned. Lana and Whitney…he wished he could just ignore his feelings; just pretend he didn’t have them.
Just like he tried to pretend he didn’t have certain…powers. He tried hard not to use them, really truly tried not to, but sometimes at night, when the stars hung low he could swear he almost…heard them sing, and the moon was right…right… *there* and all he had to do was reach out his hand and cup it in his palm--when nights were like that he *had* to run, to feel the wind pull at him and touch him all over, push against every bit of him, so cool and firm, like a giant hand pushing him, petting him… Clark blushed—it felt better than good sometime—another sin, Clark mourned. Sin was like the doggone Shadow, lurking everywhere.
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2/6/05 03:53 pm (UTC)