The following is an exercise in writing. The subject is violence. It is told in the 1st, 3rd, and 2nd person perspective, in that order.  

 

 

Giraffes go smoosh. Raise fist mighty warrior. Elephants go splat. Make tall city. Make tall empire. Make tall—to make go boom! Cat. Die. Dog. Die. Pig. Die. Plastic fence. Die. Big red farm with white painted doors and brown roof and plastic hay inside—gets crushed! Monster roars! Give the monster what he wants. Run puny humans! Run green soldiers! Here comes foot. Here comes first. He-man? No-man. She-ra? No-ra. Transformer? Transform into my fist. Big globe in my hands. Carry world over my head. Look out below Potato-land with your potato-people. The monster is hungry! Feed the monster! You too blondie with good-looking boyfriend. Monster is your god. Tell monster he is god. Or eat foot! Eat fist! Take that city. Take that airplanes! Airplanes can’t stop me. Batman can’t stop me! Spiderman can’t stop me. Run puny humans under bed! Run. Monster is strong. Monster is feared. Monster…monster is tired. Monster takes nap in his city. Puny humans keep monster harm. Puny humans don’t make noise so monster can sleep.

 

 

He yanked at his wedgie and got up his farm animals on the kitchen table. With the neatness and the precision of a watchmaker, but the subtle eyes of a chef sprinkling salt into a sautee pan, he arranged his cows and goats and chickens, he placed down his barn, and either didn’t know, or didn’t care that giraffes, and elephants don’t get sung by old MacDonald. Not that he had old MacDonald watch his farm. He recruited He-man and his wife She-ra, arranging them like American gothic, proudly posing in front of their keep, Barbie and Ken to visit, like a good daughter, freshly engaged, the ring not even old enough to tan her finger. They drive a fancy semi-truck, tall red & blue, and reposing in the background against the farm, the boy built them a city, like Superman’s vignette, the son of a simpleton all grown up for the life of a cynic. To protect them all, the boy arranged green soldiers and tanks, hung airplanes from wires, gave them a sun for a light, and breathed them winds, as the afternoon crawled along, the hands of the clock keeping pace with every tick and every tock of another piece, gently set in place on his green sprawling American landscape.

           

And he saw what he did. And it was good. Good enough to take his fist, raise it high above his head, and smash it down for his own personal doomsday.

 

 

 

Get up, boy. You sleep too much. The day don’t make itself you know. Here, takes some juice. Wipe that crud out of your eyes. No, you don’t have to work, but you don’t get to sleep either. Go ahead. Use the kitchen, if you want. I an’t cookin’ tonight. Good. Take out the cows. What? No bulls? How you gonna make more cows? You don’t get that do you? You know what a cow and bull are good for? No, you don’t. Who we kiddin’? You finish that juice first. You know how to wash. Nah, whom I kiddin’ again. You don’t know nothing. Look, you puttin’ giraffes in your farm. Giraffes are from Africa, you know. You know where they have farms? Not in Africa. Take He-Man. Good. Take She-ra. What? Make them kiss. Good. Now make them veal. Veal. You get it? Baby cow. Take He-Man. Take She-ra. They’ll make you a veal if you know how to shake them. Salt & pepper. Use it. Shake. Nah. Alright. What about Ken and Barbie. Let’s say the veal’s all grown up. That’s it/ You built yourself a nice farm. Good farm. Productive farm. You don’t get productive by sleeping. Good boy. You keep building your farm. Dad, he’s gone off. You keep building. Make it nice for me when I come home. Make it good. Make it good.