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Hammers and anvil stand ready, but empty silence drones
A man enters silence making it cadence, rhythm and tone

The fires are lit and lick hot spit into a single melting shard
Muscled master and musical strikes shape the twisted bar

The work gives him worth as day bleeds away arterial, dead
The crescendo increases with the tempo unceasing, metal red

Sweat gathers quick, muscles hammer and twitch eternal
The conceit of a master makes perfection a metallic mural

The silence creeps back as the strikes slowly cease their attack
He looks at the piece, the perfection and memories come back

He glares at the piece hung in a sheath in the shed of his youth
The thought comes in as painfully as sin and blossoms truth

His arms are strong, just two flexible tongs, but his two eyes
Are better far as flaws reveal the near invisible cracks as lies

A shrieking rage of unfolded pain that rises higher and higher
His hands hold tight with rage a light as rod is inspected by fire

...

Here is my submission:

Stats:
Length (in words): 481
Time to Create: 15 minutes
Passive sentences: 2%
Flesch Reading Ease: 86.4
Flesch-Kincaid Grade Level: 3.8 (Yes! Fourth graders can read it! :0
Messupedness factor (on the Gregor-McLintok sclae): 6.2

A Child at Rest

No one had ever made this much noise before! It was wheezing, muffled and indistinct underneath the pillow, but to him, it sounded like an avalanche! He could feel her voice creep haltingly past his tooth-scarred left hand. The slightly high, slightly feminine voice echoed about the room and reverberated like some shimmering phantasm. Her pale, small hands beat at him in an odd pattern producing more sounds ... oh; those sounds would get him caught.

He had to be quite. He had to press ... just ... a little harder. He couldn't be caught. They all loved him. Why did she have to ruin it! He felt the flush of anger as he pressed more deeply, more passionately on the pillow. Then, out of nowhere he remembered mom. He remembered painting on one of her vases. She loved those vases as much as he loved her. That day was Arts and Crafts day and he learned about color and the power of his fingertips. His fingers were different colors and anything could be his canvas. He could change the world and make it bright and beautiful. It was such a good day. He ran home that day in ecstasy, drenched with anticipation. He applied his powerful fingers to the vase and made them so beautiful and so red. But when mom got home he knew he had done something wrong. He could see it in her eyes. Right before she loosened his left tooth, Danny thought that maybe she loved the vase more than him! But, she always sang to him afterwards. She had such a lovely lilting soprano. She sang just for him and it worked. She loved him with her songs and that was enough.

He could share his mom with the vase, but not another child! He began to sing to his sister in a wispy, childlike voice that sounded concerned for her struggling hands and clenching toes. He sang with a saccharine sweet melody ... trying desperately to calm her twitching and hiccupping sobs. It worked. She began to calm down and the noises were deeper, throatier. He heard her say, "Thank you brother ... she should love you anyway. You paint such lovely pictures!" He heard her mutter thanks again and again until; at last, she was asleep.

It was a long time later, but he still needed to thank her. He understood how much she wanted to live and his stomach felt sick. He started to sob a little and climbed into her bed pulling the covers around them so the dawn wouldn't interfere. She felt different than normal. She felt odd and he couldn't figure out why. He tried to tell her it would be OK. He tried to tell her that she could have some of his toys. He tried to hug her, but it just felt like he was hugging mom.

The burned embers of his cigarette rolled away in the rushing wind, silently fading. He could hear the piercing honks of cabs through the near arctic twilight. The wind howled protest and tormented the right side of his face; the face, which he named Glen three days before. Glen imagined how his face must look to the outside world. He imagined what they would remember? He smiled ruefully as he thought of the word They. They - the infinite unknown masses - would see a man of disturbingly average qualities. They would notice his average height inside a dirty trench coat, stained and brown with the filth of poverty. They would notice his muffled, disjointed shuffle and slouching body. If someone got close enough, a thick purpling scar would even be seen on his chin - seen and remembered. The accursed, They, would think of him and treat him like a bum; a smelly, but thankfully quite, bum. He was just another piece of stinking, asymmetrically folded trash to be avoided. And, everyone was an expert at avoiding responsibility, as luck would have it. Seemingly, They, would notice -- and seek to avoid noticing -- every external facet of his make-believe persona. But, with practiced non-observance They couldn't have seen important differences between him and other bums. They would never remember the nervous clench and release of his right hand nor the odd way that the level in his wine bottle never changed. And, of course, They never looked at his dark green eyes. He kept them hidden so well under his beaten black Raiders hat; They would have thought his eyes were holes in reality.

His eyes were interesting even to Glen. He knew some predators had the ability to make their eyes hard and dangerous. The eyes seemed to relate some primal code - a whispering code in unsteady cadence. It was the tune of death. But, he didn't have it. The gift to make others fear was completely lost to his eyes, which were both welcoming and sad. And that killed faster than a knife to the throat. Sadness and welcoming eyes were death invitations in the world of Glen.

He rubbed a dirty finger on his chin and took another drag just as the wind forgot to howl. As the warm smoke entered his lungs he examined his current decorum and slowly exhaled thin tendrils of steamy smoke. In many ways, the alley belonged to him. He had more in common with this alley than the "they." On the outside the alley was buttressed by the modern marvels of human ingenuity. The outside contained a world in which the modulus operandi was relatively clear. Things had a place and these places were justified. And, wasn't he a marvel of ingenuity? He had survived Las Delores High School for almost three years. He had survived that vicious bitch Helen - the woman he had called "honey","love" and "sweet set." He had survived the burning fires of the Second National Insurgency. Losing his identity or the name of his face had been an unpleasant side effect of continued life - and he had barely noticed. He had even survived, well - he had survived everything that mattered. Just like this filthy alley had survived more change than was probabilistic. The cigar fell from his listless fingers and into the pile of filth that juxtaposed his life. Glen put his hand in the yellowish sludge like a priest blessing a saint. The inside was filth; and, that made Glen and this alley similar as well. They shared this sacred firmament of internal filth. It kept them together even if the gleaming bricks of the outside fell. On the inside, there was nothing but dejected permanence and perpetual grime inside a coating of lifeless existence; it was like a Twinkie, even. Glen's stomach growled independent of his will, while a passing thought meandered into his laconic internal monologue. In a rush of psychotic connections a Twinkie started dancing in his mind. It bent and meandered through a maze of irrational doors until it turned black and cracked. The crack propagated into a vicious smile, spewing white frosty filling in frothy pools. It was an evil Twinkie. It was as much of a brother to the sludge filled alley as it was to him. He was an evil Twinkie. He was an evil Twinkie. He was an- "Hey mister, you O.K. down there?" The face named Glen looked slowly up as his hand came out of the grey, sacrosanct ichor. He was a business suit with pinstripes and a face. But, the face was a sign, easily read. It said - please mister, oh pretty please ... protect me, please. When their eyes locked it was a moment in time; so small and insignificant in the grand scheme of a life. In the book titled "The Life and Times of a Man Named Suit" the look was a fraction of a period on the end of a sentence. If the suit could read his biography, he would have realized the danger. If he could only have read, it would have been different. It was the last period of the last sentence of the entire book; a book that was now closed.

The mad rush that accumulated during the time between 5:00 - 6:00 P.M. was a sight to behold. The masters of the business community responded with a force derived from unrelenting efficiency. They had to shave minutes off of their homeward commute. These precious minutes needed to be captured and subjugated. These minutes and sometimes seconds, were roughly treated and, served as slaves to the family of physical closeness; before the unpleasant "work-commute" regime continued. It was necessary to be close to the family because it was all they had. Then, they avoided contact by watching a 47" plasma screen with the proximal family - not too closely loved. This loop played everyday at the same time. The business wheel spun with a "whir" and the suburban residents did not resemble hamsters at all! So, it wasn't odd that no one noticed the suit slip into the alley. No one noticed the needle slide out of his neck. No one noticed the bum dragging the suit toward the blackened hotel with his right hand clenching and releasing in rhythmic spasms. And, no one noticed Glen's sad, inviting green eyes.

"The body of the 26 year old financial consultant named Harry Coffike was found after a 3 day search involving two thousand people. Police detective Gary Christianson said the body was found in a hotel bathroom. The preliminary investigations have revealed no suspects at this time. But, the mode of death has been identified as blood loss. It would appear as if the victim was iced down in the bathtub and his organs were cut from his body. A really horrifying day here in the city and I can tell you it has everyone shaken. Back to you Liz.

Thank you, Chuck and be strong. In related news Police commissioner Eric Landon has issued a press release on this travesty, sighting the growing number of Columbian drug traffickers as a source of the recent increase in illegal 'harvest' murders. He also states that the new border control regulations will significantly reduce the frequency of these grizzly murders in the future. Some have criticized Landon for his political motivations stating that he underplays the actual source of the problem. Which, in their opinion is the rapidly increasing poor and ..."

Glen switched off the radio and cracked a window, satisfied by the afternoon report. A spasm of twitching muscles caused a ripple on his cheek as he breathed in the sweet smell of autumn. He knew the dieing leaves made the sweet stink in the air, but he chose to ignore the 'cynic' inside and just enjoyed the moment. His right hand clenched and trembled on the handle of a blue lidded cooler. Five minutes later he had already left and reentered his car. But, the twitching and jerking was becoming unbearable. He could never concentrate when his hand misbehaved. Glen took out a small white pill ... popped it in and crushed the pill violently between his molars. The bitter powder sapped his mouth of lubrication and saliva as he swallowed hard. Every swallow sapped the will of his rebellious hand. A few minutes of struggling and Glen's right hand ceased its' annoying jaunts of freedom. He tried to relax again, but heard the soft pitter patter of children playing tag outside his window. He turned to see the children only to find his eyes drawn to a black sedan pulling up to the North Fray's Park sign. The door opened and an overweight man with white - black jogging attire got out with briefcase in hand. He left the case a few feet from his car and wiped down a small river of sweat streaming down his bald head with a damp rag. The cool weather sifted into Glen's car like a friend's cold hand. Glen frowned as he watched the man and his puffy body search the Monkey Bars. After a long moment of searching, the man finally found his blue lidded treasure and exited the park in a fat impeded march towards his car. The spectacle ended with a casual drive out of the park and a short double honk. As the car left, Glen hastily retrieved the suitcase and got in his car. He turned on 97.4 The Blaze that Pays to the beginnings of Men at Work singing about "Down Under." He hummed along not hearing the words. Thinking of a Twinkie, he began to sing while looking at the park children; a little froth formed on the edges of his mouth. He sang:

Traveling in a fried-out body

A trail of death, head full of zombie

I met a man and took his organs

All he did was say, are you OK?

And I said

You come from the land above the gutter

Where people don't even suffer

Where Evil Twinkies act like buffers

Yes, Evil Twinkies and the cutter

Seeing red while I hustle

I can't even stop the bustle, baby!

I say, "Evil Twinkies act like buffers"

Then I smile and break some cartilage

I do say

You come from the land above the gutter

Where people don't even suffer

Where Evil Twinkies act like buffers

Yes, Evil Twinkies and the cutter ...

He sang and the children stopped playing.

He stood beside a statue of The Virgin Mary and a cork board filled with guilt and activities. His head was pointed toward the ground as he removed his brown baseball cap and strode up the aisle, passed some pews. The cap said, "I like babies in test tubes!", but he only got it because it seemed to match his shirt. The shirt was red with white lettering and along with a revealing picture on the front said: "Jesus loves me, but he always wears a condom." For the second time that day he thought of his new face and how "they" would view him. He was going for 'frustrated and possibly sexually confused sociopath' in this endeavor. His new face was Andy and for some reason he thought they were looking at him just right. Andy's clench and release of his disobedient hand occurred as a tremor of muscle spasms contorted his face. The congregation stared as the Cardinal's speech on humanity trailed off. In the center of the church pews Andy slowly raised his head and looked at the Cardinal with sad, inviting eyes. The congregation began to stand and protest; Andy put his hand inside his black trench coat as the Cardinal stepped back, blinking. He smiled at a little boy being led away by his mother and thumbed the safety off ...

... in shimmering air ...