Channels by Peter Marra

I

The young boy sits at the kitchen table, not noticing that the neuron surrounding his home is stretched to the limit, but he senses something is wrong…Extremely wrong….

He likes the movies, but just for entertainment. He’s only 11, thin and geeky, not knowing how things really are, not knowing the experiences of sex and death. He has had inklings, but he isn’t exactly sure about it; isn’t certain if he is afraid or happy about this.    

II 

“Goddammitt!” his father screams as he takes a chair and smashes it and smashes it to the floor. The mother is upstairs yelling and nagging.

“Goddammitttt!”

The wood splinters dance in the air then settle to the floor. The boy keeps on doing his homework; if he keeps on doing his normal routine things will be okay. The Spelling assignment that he is working on requires him to make a story from the 10 words of the week. 

“This will be a good story.” 

The chair smashing goes on; the boy stops, leaves the kitchen and enters the television room. TV on. Watches and watches, drowning out the noise in the kitchen. The sound of the chair breaking, the sound of his mother screaming, drowned out.

It doesn’t matter what’s on the tube right now, just as long as there is movement on the screen. Every so often he glances towards the kitchen where the noise of splintering wood is continuing. It doesn’t bother him anymore, the television is here. He watches the screen intently. She moves seamlessly through the fog.

Suddenly the noise has stopped and a door slams. The father is gone, went out for a walk. His mother is silent also. The only sound is from the television. Pale and wan, the boy watches while shadows and images ricochet off the walls. He goes up to bed not bothering to see what happened to his mother or wondering where his father went.

He goes to bed and doesn’t dream.

The neuron band gets tighter. The white noise gets brighter. 

III 

The clown demon crept in during the early morning. Images of solace; the child obeyed and rid himself of the pain.  

Morning had come quietly and there was no sign of what had happened the night before. The boy walked around the house admiring the handiwork. The splintered chair was gone, the mother was gone and so was the father. Smiling broadly, he went to the refrigerator and took a box of Wheat Chex down from the pantry and had breakfast. Calm. He brought the cereal into the living room and switched on the television. He watched contentedly and ate his breakfast. When he was done eating, he left the bowl in the living room and went upstairs. The television was still on. He wouldn’t come down for awhile. The white noise grows brighter. Meanwhile the shadows he had left behind started to cry. They missed their son.

© 2011 Peter Marra

Peter Marra  lives in Williamsburg Brooklyn. Among his influences are Tristan Tzara, Paul Eluard, Edgar Allan Poe, Russ Meyer, and Roger Corman. He has either been published in or has work forthcoming in Caper Literary Journal,  amphibi.us, Yes Poetry, Maintenant 4, Beatnik, Crash, Danse Macabre, Clutching At Straws O Sweet Flowery Roses, Breadcrumb Scabs,Carnage Conservatory, and Dark Chaos. He is currently constructing his first collection of poems.

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