Winstin was a child who shook with anger. They say he was incapable of venting its surges.
Not many things sent the boy this direction. For at roots he was a child who yearned to be happy. To be thankful, and to have fun.
. . . like other children.
Winstin's cousin, Sara, was someone who made him happy. Happy to be alive. For she was a goodness.
Sara and he would ride round-about on wooden cable rolls across so many meadows, for so many hours. They would shoot bows and arrows, made of rubber band and twig.
Laughter and light-heartedness were the colors of the times they had. And no one could separate the two when each came to visit the other
One time Sara had asked Winstin why he'd seemed so serious lately . . . Winstin wanted to say. but how did one share such things . . .
"There's a fire that comes to visit me at nights . . ." That's how he would have started to explain . . . but where to take it from there?
All he'd actually said was that he was fine. He just wanted to pick up their play where they'd left off.
The truth is . . . very few children had ever known rage like Winstin had. He'd learned it from his father. --who was quite the volcano!
But mostly he'd learned it from himself. From the darkness . . . For Winstin was a tea-kettle which didn't vent steam . . . -only stored it.
Winstin's mother worried about him. His father just dumped more rage. His Pa was angry enough. . . for all 3 of them.
Only he could vent it. Steam off with the best of them. He left ravaged things . . . --in the wake of his storms
But Winstin . . . He was a time-bomb
Waiting to happen . . .
One day Winstin came home to find his mother in the corner, huddled up and crying. He couldn't get her to talk.
But he knew what was happening. It had happened so very many times before.
Winston went to his patio. That private spot, in the back of their home. . . Where he'd shake and tremble.
Like an earthquake in the desert.
Sometimes the neighbors would notice their fences vibrating. They always had a feel for what was going on. But never did they see it.
Winstin's mind scoured the earth. looking for a place to dump what was in him.
He wanted to rage. Oh how the ocean of him was ready to inlet. . . . but Winstin cared too much.
for others to be hurt.
And so he held on to it. Like a boy who must pee, but can't find a restroom.
One morning Winstin actually found it. His place to spill . . .
He'd been walking to a spot he sometimes went to collect cans . . And he witnessed a "bully" dog chase down another.
The one dog wanted nothing of a fight. . . but no matter where it went . . . or what it did . . . --the other beast would not let it be.
And something flipped. like a switch in Winstin's brain.
Pearl Jam, a rock bank in the early 90's, had sung a song about a kid named "Jeremy" who "spoke" in school one day. . . . but Jeremy had only harmed himself.
The shockwaves in Winstin . . . They vibrated at a frequency which was something a little bit different. And nobody really saw it coming.
Children weren't born to the world to harm or be harmed.
But what is that. . . to a Sun burning down . . . ?
Winstin also spoke up one day. But when he gave his speech . . . There was something a little more to it.
Bullets flew . . . flesh tore . . . Sadness and anger . . . flooded the halls.
But then each morning, he'd wake anew. Shaking . . . sweating . . . trembling . . . praying . . . Crying.
but inwardly, not outwardly yet.
Winstin knew he was . . . a ticking time bomb.
that's what he'd wanted to share with Sara. but how did you share such things? -especially with the beautiful?
They'd say, . . . the world of ordinary people, . . . if ever Winstin's dreams . . . became somebody's reality. . .
They'd say it was the gun . . --that was surely to blame. of course
IT ONLY MAKES SENSE- . . .Only they would be wrong. They would know nothing. Nothing of the rages which burned in his soul.
Nothing of the things he'd seen with his eyes.
Winstin was a timebomb. But can we stop him . . . in time? humans are the bullets.