BOOM by Michael Whetzel Read Free Book Online Page B

the blankets and slid her arms around Jeffrey.
    “You’re kidding right?” She smiled in the dark.
    There was no answer.
    Jeffrey had fallen asleep.
     
    -FIN-

 
    THE AFTER WORDS
     
    This
story started with a clock. My wife bought a new analog clock from the store
and hung it in our bathroom. This clock is the bane of my existence. It has the
loudest ticking sound I have ever heard.  I would be trying to sleep or
changing clothes and the ticking would assault my senses.
    It became
so bad that even when I left the room I could still hear it. I would be on the
other side of the house and the ticking would be in my head. Tick tick tick
tick tick…..
    It had
this pervasive pressure that seem to accompany it. I began to imagine a bomb
ticking down in a movie or one of those spy TV shows. I felt like once the
ticking came to an end point, my head would finally explode or I would throw my
body through the wall or window. I’m always on edge around this clock (of
course my wife finds the sound soothing).
    And there
is the seed of a story…..
    The scene
with the couple in the jeep really happened. I was stopped at a light behind
the vehicle, listening to the radio when I saw the guy hit the woman twice. In
front of the baby. I was stunned and wondered if I had imagined it all. I
distinctly remember him kind of flipping his hair as if to say “Yeah, I’m a
man.” When they pulled away, I was still in shock by the whole thing. As they
disappeared over the bluff, a realization came to me: I wanted to hurt that
guy. Bad. Really, really bad.
     I’m
living vicariously through my writing.
     
    I feel
like I held back a bit on this story. I was adamant that Jeffrey never killed
anyone. It was a line he would not cross……yet.
     
    Mike
Whetzel
    May 2012

 
    BONUS
SHORT FROM MICHAEL WHETZEL
     
     
    PUNCHY
     
    Punchy couldn’t talk. He
couldn’t hear also. He had lost both those abilities seven years before, his
last time in the ring. It was Svenson who did it. Gordy “Knockaround” Svenson
who knocked around some wiring in Punchy’s head, cutting it loose from its
fleshy skull plugs. Synapses not sparking, pathways blocked or clotted or
severed by violent jabs to the head that Svenson had thrust at Punchy’s face.
     
    This last fight had left
Punchy lying spread-eagled on the mat, watching the little yellow birds dipping
and diving across his blurred double vision. Later, he remembered a massive
body of confusion running into the ring, leaning over him, blocking out the
bright lights of bloody fame he was used to dancing in. The ring. The beautiful
violent mastery of the squared circle. And this would be the last time he would
ever be in it, lying down as if he was back in his bed at home. Or patiently
waiting for his death shroud to envelop his sore body, and make the buzzing
pain finally stop.
     
    Back in the locker room, he
tried to make out what his coach was saying to him. Sweat and blood dripped
from his swollen face and mingled on the dirty green tiled floor. He watched
Tony’s mouth carefully; the lips forming each syllable, small specks of spittle
flicking their own way to the cold floor. Punchy registered no voice. No sound
vibrated his broken drums.
     
    The water in the sink
splashing silently into the drain. The reporters yelling questions from the
hall, snapping eerie quiet light bulbs on their cameras. The heavy oak door to
the room slamming shut into a noiseless vacuum. Nothing registered.
     
    And then not speaking. He moved
the muscles in his jaws, trying to form the words to tell Tony he couldn’t hear
him, couldn’t hear anything. Punchy could only point desperately at his mouth
and watch Tony’s eyes grow larger as realization dawned on the old man’s face.
     
    “Nerve damage” the
professional quacks diagnosed. Too many hits to the head, too much damage to
the brain.
     
    “Nerve damage” and a
promising boxing career was done. At least he thought it was a promising
career. A 21-5