Do Work, Son!

With the tenured belief of religion, the red balloons sparkle in the air while the letters of regiments and commands permeate the hearts. The freedom of illusion is masked behind black wraparound sunglasses, fogged with ice and snow. The militant rule is ending and the only person acknowledging is lost up in the sky, peering down on the world with piercing blue eyes, contrasted by the tuft of straightened red hair bathed in a pool of crimson blood. The mountaintops hide the structure of the goals that they thought would help the country conform while offering a safe haven to those desiring a newly found independence.

The regulations have been scribed in obsidian by the masters and to abide them is to live in corruption and burdens. Yet that is all they know and as such, the commandments are followed because they know no other boundaries. Even the melted tips provide few reliefs for their weariness combined with their victory. A dictatorship is only as powerful as the followers and the followers remain in light of the demise.

In one arm is held a book and the other, mathematics and the duo persevere to topple that which was forced into the brains of those huddled around the fire in classrooms. The books speak of tongues and black poetry but they are no longer banished onto the trays hidden in the cupboards marked, “Forgotten Lore” for they are now indispensible relics of history. An arm raised in salute to Hitler and Nazi-ism is a symbol lost on this new culture, a metaphor that has given way to the military helmet, heavy winter coats, and black sunglasses that people have cobbled together to speak of this freedom from fear.

-David Hunter

Literary Magazine Home Page »