|The day the CPOD Circus came to town. (standard:drama, 3987 words)|
|Author: Anonymous||Added: Jun 13 2004||Views/Reads: 1801/1127||Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)|
|A group of kids stop drugs in their community.|
The day the CPOD Circus came to town. By Donald R. Williams “Lieutenant Cobb, we found this journal left on the bed in the kid's room. There are no clothes or shoes in the closet. Someone must have helped them clear out, it is the neatest room in the house. Both parents are on the way to the Martinez Rehab Clinic, to dry out. We found the mother huddled underneath the kitchen sink, and the father hallucinating in his bedroom closet. Who ever called this in wanted us to find the parents.” The patrol officer said handing the wire bound tablet to his superior. “You guys watch your step, and for God's sake beware in how you reach for stuff. There are Crack vials, and dirty needles all over the damn place. All I need is for one of you guys to get stuck, and come down with HIV, or worse. Just be careful.” He responded with mixed emotions of disgust at the surroundings and concern for his men. He walked out to his unit, sat down, lit a cigarette and started reading the journal. The reason we had to do this. My Mother and Father are hooked on drugs. For that reason, my seven years old sister, Martha and I live in a world, which is not real. Our world is filled with imaginary friends. They are invisible goddesses, heroes', warlocks, shamans, and white witches who cast their magic spells. These saviors rush to our rescue, and calm our fears at night. Stuffed green turtles' with masks and swords let us cry on their furry laps. Our muted comforters listen with us, as we absorb the echoing sound of time-rusted bedsprings, in synch with the male grunting of yet another stranger groping our mother. Martha trembles with each footstep pausing at our bedroom door. I hold her closely and whisper false reassurances in her ear, praying to any god that would heed our call. Because of our fear, we've learned to sob silently, waiting for the day we'll leave. Time is our Jekyll and Hyde. Our pharaoh, returning each evening, brings with it a darkness from the shadows of the street; spewing its harvest of whistles, sirens, screams, shattered windshields, screeching tires and gun shots which seem to only happen during its nocturne. Our saving grace is the dawn, mercifully pushing the scary things away. Each day, before Martha and I began our two?mile trek to school, our parents performed their habitual morning ritual. Half sleep, half hung over, and unsure of exactly where he is at, my father would feel his way down the short hallway of our two bedroom Morgan Project's home. Loud gurgling coughs are, usually followed by horrid sounds, producing large globs of clouded bloody sputum, propelled upon faded decorated mirror tiles. He would desperately search for an acceptable cigarette butt among the menagerie of empty beer cans, cheap wine bottles, junk food wrappers and discarded crack vials. From withdrawal ticks, he constantly scratches his vein-collapsed arms, and then rubs his filthy hands across his soiled face. Cockroaches never ceased to emerge from his matted dusty brown hair, quickly descending his skeletal, scarred body. After putting a flame from the burner of our badly stained gas stove to a half smoked cigarette then beckons us to him for a hug, afterward he slumps on the kitchen table as if exhausted from a hard night's work. He would reach for a leftover, half-filled beer bottle, swig the stale amber fluid, and swallow. Never failing to issue instructions to take care of my sister—as if I had a choice in the matter. It was a sure bet he never would. His breath reeked of vomit and his clothes of shit. Father always a stranger to gainful employment, is a dead man waiting to take his place among the dishonored dead. His sole contribution to our family's survival had always been covertly pimping our mother. I still love my father, but I do not know why. Mother would shuffle slowly past us to my father; shoving a wad of crumpled currency into his hand. Trying to conceal his pleasure at the money, he stuffs it into a waiting pant pocket. Needle tracks, tired eyes, and an array of bruises spot my mother's caramel colored skin. By looking, a person might guess at one time she had been very pretty. In the days before the drugs came along, she was a cocktail-waitress, her Click here to read the rest of this story (318 more lines)
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