The Boy Eats Crayons

The Boy Eats Crayons

                Louisiana, Bronson, and Roman all sat hunkered down in their foxhole. Shovels were mounted above them shoved ever so slightly into the ground so that they stood erect; quite the phallic idol for the bunch. Bronson was sound asleep in the foxhole, the moon was beating down on his position amidst the dirt and foliage; ever so often he let out smooth snores that carried up into the mountains around them.

                “Hey Roman, do you have a lighter?” said Louisiana, a boyish smile now spreading across his face.

                The old man shifted his gaze from the top of the hole over to where Louisiana was crouched down.
                “I ain’t got a lighter no more, but I’ve got some matches on my helmet. The fuck do you need a match for anyway, boy?”

                Louisiana’s face lost some of the light from its smile, and said

                “I want to light this glass bottle of tequila on fire; I’ll call it the Mexican Molotov.”

Louisiana was scowering the supplies in the hole, he wanted the lighter.
               
                “How in the fuck do you still have a bottle of tequila with you” said Roman as he watched Louisiana pull items out of his rucksack.

                He smiled and picked up the bottle of tequila, tossing it into the air and spinning it around in his palm with a haughty grin across his face.

                “Bet you I’m the first person in all of America to think of the Mexican Molotov” said Louisiana

                Roman picked up the cigarette he was rolling and licked it twice over, hammering out all the creases, leaving a smooth and flawless cigarette behind him in his wake.

                “You seriously think you’re the first corn fed white boy to bring race into weaponry?” said Roman.
                He took the pack of matches from his helmet; they were held in under the elastic bound lining the bottom, and gave them a sniff.
               

                “I got an M14 right here that the boys back at camped deemed the “Gook Removal Service,” and you can god damn bet that we weren’t the first to come up with a name like that.” Said Roman.

                There was only one match left and Boston still hadn’t found the lighter; Roman sat in silence as he finished his cigarette.
               
                “You better hope I light this first try, boy, because beyond once, this matchbook is going to be pure tinder.” Said Roman.

                “Why are you putting your last match on me, man?” said Louisiana

                Roman took the cigarette, pressed it gently against his lips; he fastened it between them like a juicy vice grip. He took the nearly empty match book, grabbed the single match, flipped it around so that it was against the striker, and snapped. The match let out a soft purr; the whipping of the flames could be heard echoing out in the foxhole.

                “Found it!” said Louisiana.

               

                Roman’s match was already lit, it gained some traction and managed to singe the ends of his cigarette, but after a few puffs, half of the tip lit while the other half lay dormant.

                “Mother fucker” said Roman.

                The cigarette now dangling from his open mouth, half of its end burning, the other half cradling it like a canoe.

                “You found the lighter? Give it here, boy, this cigarette is about to go tits up” said Roman.

                Louisiana felt a blank wave rush down his face like rain water washing aside dirt and mold. Boy was a name solely reserved for him, Bronson was not much older, but Roman never called him boy. Bronson and every other man Roman came in contact with never once brushed arms with being called boy. This feeling of emptiness spun to anger, Louisiana’s brow furled, they recoiled in a haze. It began reaching ever further up to his hairline, pushing the boundaries of what angry eyebrows could do. When his expression was fully flexed, a mean set of brows pointed angrily at Roman.

                He twirled the lighter in between his fingers passively aggressively as he scowled at Roman.

                “Keep calling me boy and see what happens. I’m getting tired of your bullshit.” Said Louisiana

                Roman pitched himself at an angle so he was facing Louisiana and said,

                “You know damn well that you’re not a man. Until you prove yourself, you’re going to remain a boy, but oh, what a pretty little boy you are.”
               
                His gaze matched Louisiana’s, each man had a face caked in dirt and sweat. The ground around them was moist and damp.

                “You’re still just a pretty little runt who got drafted into this war, you didn’t sign up because you wanted to fight for your country; you signed up because the law said so and you don’t want to let down your little community back home.” Said Roman

                Louisiana looked down at the lighter, then back to Roman; his cigarette still clinging to the fringes of his lips, still burning into a paper canoe.

                “Call me a boy again old man” said Louisiana.

                The two men lay locked in eyes. They were both leaning up against the sides of the foxhole. Dirt was caked onto their uniform in a ravenous fashion. Roman, now passive aggressively eyeing down Louisiana, opened his mouth, the cigarette stumbled out and sent a wave of light as the cherry hit the ground. His eyes lingered further down towards the twirling lighter in Louisiana’s hands. He noticed that the boy was balling his fists and breathing heavily. Roman watched as Louisiana grew in size, his entire being puffing up in anger.

                “What are you gonna do, boy, hit me? You look like a god damn chicken all puffed up like that. Come and gives us an egg, I’d love something scrambled up” said Roman

                Louisiana pelted the lighter at Roman’s head, it made a deft clunk and fell down his shirt and onto Bronson’s resting figure. As soon as the lighter had hit Roman, Louisiana lunged forward, reaching him before the lighter came to a stop in Bronson’s lap.

                Louisiana was not much of a man to almost everyone he met, but technically he was still an adult male from The Unite States. He was a ripe 18, three months into adulthood; he was lanky and tall, and his oddly shaped head was shaved bear, the military equivalent cut of a newborns butt. The new recruits had their heads shaved to scalp right before they’re shipped off. His newly shaved head did nothing to help his argument against being a boy. He just wanted someone to hold their chin up to him. Louisiana’s shaved dome was shaped in an awkward manner. The upper portion of his skull expanded more than he welcomed; creating a sort of mushroom cap as his skull extended upward. He was hounded for looking like a dick head and shroom cap within minutes of meeting Roman. The hardened old man had tons of names for him, dick dome, penis pal, dick boy, headass, the list goes on. Roman had grown accustomed to calling him a corn fed white boy and Daddy’s little defect this past week. The two had been going at it for a long time now, each altercation building into something more and more malevolent. Bronson would break up the spats the two would start getting into; he’d pulled Louisiana back away from Roman. The last time this happened, he narrowly stopped a fight from breaking out. It was an intense spout, Louisiana was in the bunks shirtless in his skivvy’s humming as he stared down Roman while cleaning his bunk late at night. Roman had gotten up to go over to the boy, but Bronson had grabbed him before he made it halfway past his bunk. Bronson shot Roman a stern look as he pulled him away, and in one quick glance said “Leave the boy alone” without opening his mouth.
                 Bronson was not older than Roman, but nowhere near as young as Louisiana. He had been in the suck for a few years now; he’d seen plenty of the hot headed young guys on edge over being enlisted.  He’d dealt with the young who only just started chewing on crayons, and the mannered old ones who’d been eating crayons their whole life. Roman’s life was expendable, he was a marine, and he was smart enough to know we weren’t going to win this fight, but not smart enough to go beyond eating crayons. A marine’s life was that of a grunt, they weren’t the brightest, but they came in all different colors and all of them weren’t smart enough to not eat the crayons during arts and crafts.
They didn’t call him Bronson because he was a movie star, they called him Bronson because he was a bull of a man who’s named happened to be Charles. Louisiana, Roman, and Bronson, all soldiers, each with an idea of a marine in their mind, each still nothing smarter than a toddler who eats crayons.

                Louisiana’s lunge sent him crashing hard into Roman’s body. His arms begun wrapping themselves around the old man’s body, his legs tied up with by the boys; Louisiana had entirely entangled him. Two half nelsons deep, legs that tangled up like grapevines, and a balled fist the size of a small melon, Louisiana pinned Roman to the ground.

                “Arggghhhh, get off me, boy” yelled Roman
               
                Roman struggled for several seconds, and much like a deadly plant, when Louisiana felt him struggle, the tighter he would wrap himself around him.

                “Who’s the boy now you piece of shit” said Louisiana.

                He raised is fist far above his head, and began raining down a gavel like hand onto Roman’s struggling face. Bronson had woken up, staring blankly at the situation to his right, he blinked, looked up at the moon, and then stood. Bronson smacked Louisiana in the back of the head,

                “You let him go now. He’s done nothing but fuck with you. He calls you boy because you react like one; be a man” said Bronson instinctively picking up on the gist of the fight.

                A light flashed in the distance up the mountain a ways. Not a second after the flash, Bronson heard a whiz shoot past his left ear. He turned to face the sound, another flash, another whiz, he collapsed on top of the untangling two, smashing them deeper into their foxhole. Flashes of light began firing off from a distance, one after the other; each flash was followed by a hard whiz of something cracking through the air.

                “Pop. Pop Pop.”

                “Both of you stay down” said Bronson.

                Louisiana detached himself from Roman and crawled back to his section of the foxhole. The three men were hunkered down, their backs facing away from the incoming fire; each one now toying with their rifles; they all exchanged glances.

                “Make sure you take that safety off of your rifle, boy” Whispered Roman.

                Louisiana’s shot a heated glance in his direction, his hand drifted over the safety just to double check that he had taken it off. He looked back up at Roman; his face was pale and ignited by the moonlight as it shone down on them, illuminating their positions now more than ever.

                “If you don’t get your ass kicked by the end of this, I’ll make sure to do it myself old man” said Louisiana.

                Roman winked at him, a smile drawing itself quickly across his face, he turned his gaze. Peering up from the foxhole, eyes glued to the continuing flashes of light, Roman prowled forward. Bronson and Louisiana followed suit, their guns sighted down the line, they pooled around the edge of the foxhole. Louisiana lifted his head slightly higher than the others. “THOONK” A man dropped from a tree with his rifle butt aimed below him. The rifle struck Louisiana on the top of the head and sent his face hurling into the side of the hole. Everything went black as his body slumped limply on the floor of the foxhole.  

                “Prepare to evacuate soul” rang out a voice in the blackness

                Louisiana’s vision had disappeared, all he could see was an all-encompassing blackness. He looked forward and tried to focus his vision on a particular space before him. With his eyes centered, he focused; little bulbs of light began to populate his black field of vision.

                “Is this space?” he heard himself speak.

                He was now in his field of vision, his floating body stood hunched over before him as he was being thrusted backwards. The point he was staring at in the distance was now where his body was, both were now speeding away from him as the bulbs of light began to extend as they moved through time. An image had formed halfway between his vision and his exiting body. It looked as if it were projected onto thin air, the blackness of the abyss surrounding him gave it a place to sit. On the screen flashed the image of Roman.
               
“You did it now, boy” said Roman

                One second he was listening to roman, the next he was watching the lighter as it fell down Bronson’s sleeping body. The images flashing before him floated violently in the blackness, never staying long enough on a single image. Single words began to emanate from the projection,

                “Prepare” said a woman as her image was cutting in and out of an image of the lighter. She had lips shaped like hearts and eyebrows that were wild and untamed. She stared blankly ahead as she repeated the word “prepare” over and over, skipping in and out as the image was cut in.

                “To evacuate” said a man multiple times as his image was being interlaced with that of a bottle of tequila. His face was long and worn, he had a handle bar mustache that was kissed gently by years of grey. He wore a manically serious face, his mouth droned open and shut rapidly as he said “to evacuate.”

                “Soul” whispered a floating white square now taking sole ownership of the projection in front of Louisiana’s vision.

                The projection disappeared, the lights bulbing around him had gone faint, slowly drifting out into darkness. Louisiana blinked, or he thought he did, his darkness had somehow gone a shade darker. He did it again. He was blinking. He could see his body in the distance again, he blinked as he looked at it. Each blink it moved forward a little bit. His body glided gently across the black abyss towards him; it flailed limply as it moved. Continuing to blink, now more rapidly than before, Louisiana watched as his body floated back into his range, he reached out to touch it, the body mirroring his movements reached out to touch him as well, but then he felt nothing as he tried to extend his arm. As he reached to touch his body’s outstretched arm, the body began to fade out into dust floating in the darkness. His chest and shoulders were the last pieces of his body to float off and leave a single arm remaining. The floating arm reached out and snatched his outstretched wrist. .It took his current being and thrust it downward. He saw the dim bulbs speed by as his face went down; suddenly his face was crashing into a dirt floor.

                “Prepare to evacuate soul!” rang out a voice over a megaphone.

                Louisiana was lying face down on a cold and wet concrete flooring, it smelled strongly of ammonia and afterbirth, it was coated in a layer of black mold.

                e you with us?” said the man with the microphone.
               

                Louisiana picked himself up, blood trickling down and off of his nose, he stood in a firm stance; he was completely naked.
               

“What? Where am I, what’s going on?” said Louisiana.

                Soaking in his surroundings, he saw that he was on a elevated platform in the center of what looked like an old mine shaft. The lights in the surrounding area were very dim bulbs that were flicking in and out. A tall slender man adorned an outfit of thick plastic, it was paired with what looked like a gas mask with two ventilators taped to the side.

               

 idk what to do tbh