Arizona Blue: Scarlet with Rage (1844)
Arizona Blue:
Scarlet with Rage (1844)
(1844) He hadn’t forgotten his gun, it was in his hand—although he looked at it, but the sight that greeted his eyes was greater, his mother, and that was more important to focus on, she had vivid eyes, the man behind her made him grip his gun tighter, he would be her brave man, if need be, he set every nerve in his noble body on alert, truthful to the tingling he was but twelve-years old at the time,—expectantly he knew he had to do it.
“Attention,” screamed the voice behind his mother—rapidly he pointed the gun upwards, “Fire” the drunk said, as if he didn’t care, then a smug remark followed, “…if you can!” The drunk was scarlet with rage, the boy cool as steel, his gun heavy in his hand.
“Pa—step back from Ma…!” he demanded, taking aim, his mother bloody, broken nose, bruised ribs, weakly wobbling on her knees back and forth, sideways, and her eyes both closing from the red soreness that circled around them: the old man was drunk again, Blue had seen this before, but not quite like this, and now he knew how to fight back, his father taught him.
Blue made one last appeal—which would be his last in his lifetime, he so generously lent; then out of the corner of his eye he saw his father reach for a weapon (alongside him, believed to be a hunting knife he kept in his boot). A few seconds after this, with his father’s last fleeting glimpse—of insanity, and insensitivity, and a last look of devotion from Blue, a bullet penetrated his father’s flesh: he fell over backwards, and as he fell, Blue heard a cry, “Too late!”
(1882) Arizona Blue sat back by his fire, against a rock in Yellowstone National Park, Camping by himself with his horse Dan, now fifty-years old, and this reelection came back. Then he remembered his mother’s hands, and lifting her up from her knees…then going into the back of the wagon, and her tucking him in tightly with blankets to keep him warm for the night.
6-7-2007 (AP/Lima, Peru)
Scarlet with Rage (1844)
(1844) He hadn’t forgotten his gun, it was in his hand—although he looked at it, but the sight that greeted his eyes was greater, his mother, and that was more important to focus on, she had vivid eyes, the man behind her made him grip his gun tighter, he would be her brave man, if need be, he set every nerve in his noble body on alert, truthful to the tingling he was but twelve-years old at the time,—expectantly he knew he had to do it.
“Attention,” screamed the voice behind his mother—rapidly he pointed the gun upwards, “Fire” the drunk said, as if he didn’t care, then a smug remark followed, “…if you can!” The drunk was scarlet with rage, the boy cool as steel, his gun heavy in his hand.
“Pa—step back from Ma…!” he demanded, taking aim, his mother bloody, broken nose, bruised ribs, weakly wobbling on her knees back and forth, sideways, and her eyes both closing from the red soreness that circled around them: the old man was drunk again, Blue had seen this before, but not quite like this, and now he knew how to fight back, his father taught him.
Blue made one last appeal—which would be his last in his lifetime, he so generously lent; then out of the corner of his eye he saw his father reach for a weapon (alongside him, believed to be a hunting knife he kept in his boot). A few seconds after this, with his father’s last fleeting glimpse—of insanity, and insensitivity, and a last look of devotion from Blue, a bullet penetrated his father’s flesh: he fell over backwards, and as he fell, Blue heard a cry, “Too late!”
(1882) Arizona Blue sat back by his fire, against a rock in Yellowstone National Park, Camping by himself with his horse Dan, now fifty-years old, and this reelection came back. Then he remembered his mother’s hands, and lifting her up from her knees…then going into the back of the wagon, and her tucking him in tightly with blankets to keep him warm for the night.
6-7-2007 (AP/Lima, Peru)
posted by Dennis and Rosa Siluk at 9:27 AM
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