December 17, 2010
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Scattered Stories: No Culture for Old Men
The father stood in despair, his hands clenched at his fists. “So the hole must be fed once more, this time with my own son’s bones?” he hissed. His son looked at him in defiance, but the son’s hand drummed nervously and quietly on the table. “Once more Gorgoth demands a virgin lad so that there may be rain on our fields. One would think the gods would grow tired of bodies and blood!”
His son stood himself, strong biceps and hips propelling him out of his chair. “I am not afraid, father! I am ready to climb to the cusp of Golgath and throw myself down as a sacrifice!” The father scowled. “And who told you that you must be the sacrifice?! Who told you that your scream must echo from the lips of Golgath? That foul priest Bar-gath, no doubt!”
“Father, I have heard the screams of joy as the young men give themselves to Gor…”
His father cut him off. “Yes, yes, that is what the priests rave about—the screams on the WAY to the bottom. Funny how they do not like to mention the men who miss the lake, who find themselves dashed to pieces on the rocks! Certainly the tickets paid by the idle to watch the jumps could not influence our noble priests!”
“What of it father? I am ready! Those men who miss were weak! You would have me wait like Jason…”
“Jason is an honorable man! He knows he is not ready. He resists the call…”
“Jason is a coward who stays indoors surrounded by his scrolls! All men must jump. You yourself jumped!”
“Yes, I jumped, and you will not throw it in my face!" The father let the spittle fly, flecks starting to wet the face of the son. "I jumped after years of training! I jumped off the east side, the safest side, and I knew your mother was waiting for me at the bottom. And I still was not ready! You! You want to jump after a month!”
The son refused to back down, pushing down on the table until his knuckles were as white as his father’s face. “I will not resist Gorgoth’s call. I will jump. I will make it rain.”
Deflated, the father sat down. He picked up a pencil and began scratching at the table. Finally he looked up. Each word he spoke forced itself out of his clenched jaw. “Will you use protection and wear the small parachute? It will lessen the chances you fall on your head from over-rotating.”
The son smiled a toothless smirk of victory. “Always, father.”
The father jabbed the pencil on the table and broke it. “Go then, son! Go feed the desire of the onlookers for blood! Add your bones to the pile! This is no culture for old men…”
Comments (5)
Hmmm, is this about sex? If not, I will probably sound... I don't know the word, stupid for suggesting it I guess, but that's what I kept thinking they were alluding to.
Wait.. was I wrong or right?
I loved this! I will admit, I was reading this intently, intruiged by the dialogue, and then I glanced over to the right & saw ur ridiculous profile pic & started laughing..... The story is awesome
It sounds like a story about sex, but then it doesn't. Well played sir.
*waves* Nice to meetcha! Be sure to visit the wonders cafe.
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