The Boombox

The drip from the pump and the beep from the machinery were joined by various sounds echoing up and down the white hallways. Such a jungle of exotic birds singing erratically might be a wonderful symphony to experience if it were not contained within the concrete barriers of the San Juarez Regional Hospital. The monotonous texture of generic white paint would never satisfy a pair of eyes, nor the reflective linoleum floor reminiscent of an elementary school cafeteria. Light seeped through wide-open wooden blinds, but the view of a new construction project obstructed any final attempts to observe the beauty of the sun. Fortunately, a nearby vase held a glimpse of the natural world, and through this bundle of tulips one might cry at the recognition of their fragile life.

Antonio was dying.

He had suffered a seizure thirteen hours ago, and another prior. These circumstances are not what one would ever wish to think about, but it was all Antonio could do, and the realization that life neared its end was no secret. The cancer grew with no sign of retreat, forcing him to use his precious hours left on this world to remember. Remember what? There was much to remember, but it was all to regret. The image of Antonio’s son flooded his mind, interjecting memories of his own childhood.

It was not a wonderful one by any means; the thought of his father whipping him with a rough leather belt instantly awakened an inner trauma that had gone untouched for forty-one years. What an abusive father that man was, as all of Antonio’s memories in that old Mexican town were clouded by an intense hatred for him. Regardless, studying was a priority if it meant freedom from such recurring horror could ever be a possibility. Antonio took school very seriously, but it would be a lie to say he did not indulge in shenanigans with friends. Oh! How he missed José, Rodolfo, and Alejandro, for they spent all their time together in high school, especially during the explosion of the boombox in those times.

The boombox.

Everyone had one. It started when the wealthy seniors purchased several to brandish them on campus, bringing spontaneous occasions of dance and mild partying after school among countless students. The boombox enamored Antonio, with its revolutionary technology to play music wherever he stood, with its thunderous volume to express any emotion, with its magnetic ability to attract an animated crowd, with its—

With its multi-thousand-peso price tag. He began working at the age of fourteen to purchase one; a family that eats only two meals of beans and tortillas per day would never afford such fine craftsmanship otherwise. Of course, Antonio took extra caution in transferring produce at the local corner store, as the chupacabra that fathered him would collect any sum he earned for another round of tequila at the Vaqueros’. Given his usual absence from their home, Antonio figured an extension of his shift would be harmless. With a year of labor and a loan from Rodolfo, the day to purchase a Sanyo M9935K, the critically-acclaimed boombox of the year, grew near.

One summer night, the hour nearly struck midnight as Antonio collected his overtime pay and rode home on his rusty bicycle. Eager to count his earnings, he rushed towards his room and threw the wooden drawer open, failing to recall his father’s morning remark about the bar closing early for renovations. The drunken man punched the bedroom door open and approached his son, standing before a container overflowing with cash. He burst with muddled words of rage, questioning Antonio’s late arrival and the source of the wealth before them. Believing a falsehood to be unwise, he told his father the truth about obtaining a job at the corner store, but fabricated a lie about doing it to aid their family’s financial struggle. Hah! He learned that night to never slander an alcoholic man’s ability to provide. Needless to say, Antonio’s father took the money and set it aside for tomorrow’s late-night shots, too weary to engage further punishment.

Childhood passed by swiftly after that moment; the only goal he ever had was crushed before his eyes, and there was no use in starting once more. He focused on school, if one could even call it focus, as any motivation once present was wavered by an overbearing sense of desolation that continued until his graduation ceremony. Despite the intense aversion, Antonio wished his father could see him all grown up in a dark suit, in squeaky clean dress shoes, in slick combed hair. But he never came. Good! He would have no regrets on the ride to America.

“Todos tienen barras de oro en sus casas from how rich they are!”

When Rudolfo shared details of his family’s visit to the United States back in elementary school, Antonio promised himself he would get there and make a fortune. He knew his joke about everyone having bars of gold in their house was a stark exaggeration, but what sort of impoverished child would not be made exuberant by this information? Infatuation with wealth gauged his life; imagine a refrigerator packed full with hearty food and a rack of shiny boomboxes! After the unfortunate turnout at the ceremony, he arranged his immigration over summer, and by November of that year he was in the land of the free. California was a magnificent sight, and the locals swore it became increasingly beautiful the higher up one goes! Antonio quickly found a job with a Handy! hardware store, pleased to discover other Mexican employees. Then he met a lovely girl with a delightful smile who enjoyed literature, unbeknown to him that it would be the woman he marries in future years. Any further recollection of these years was grueling, for all he could muster was painful images of dates with his then-girlfriend and wife, and the birth of his son. Yes, his son. Tears formed around Antonio’s bed-ridden eyes.

The truth was that Antonio had not been a good man in the slightest, and he knew this was true. After the birth of Dylan, he found himself at the bar across the street from the hardware store almost every night. Old feelings from the failures in his childhood had revived, and the only prescription that could cure his despair was a bottle of whiskey. In the mornings he would tell Dylan of his adventures in Mexico and his diligence to obtain the Sanyo, but in the evenings he laid in their living room’s leather recliner with alcohol in hand, a chupacabra waiting for its prey. His mind had fallen numb to any invading emotions, so numb that he did not notice the moments where he slapped his wife and cursed his son. The blurry memories of his brain were flooded by screaming, crying, and frightful fury for almost a decade, until they reached images of law papers and boxed furniture. The night Antonio discovered their disappearance, he chugged three bottles of whiskey and scrambled his way outside, planning to walk until he fainted. Pedestrians avoided the fetid man as he struggled forward in a zombie-like manner for hours, until he noticed an item with revolutionary technology to play music wherever he stood.

The Sanyo M9935K sat on the display shelf of Jeremy’s Antiques with a shiny chrome reflection of the moonlight above. He had forgotten all about that boombox; the fad had passed years ago and the emotional attachment once found in his fourteen-year-old self was gone. However, something resurrected within Antonio that night, something he had not experienced since those arduous nights at the corner store in Mexico. Three years without a lick of alcohol and a new career at Southern Sample Logistics brought back the young Antonio, but attempts to rejoin his settled family were futile. They accepted his financial support and even learned to smile with him once more, but their cold emotions remained, and Dylan’s hatred continued to stir.

Then he was diagnosed.

The drip from the pump and the beep from the machinery resumed their abstract performance, stimulating Antonio’s remembrance. He had laid in thought for so long that the sun had made its journey around Earth once more, marking another day of survival. The apathetic nurses strolled in and executed their routine tests, fully aware of their impotence. They left as swift as they came, but the youngest one peaked their head around the corner and notified Antonio that visitors came. Huh. He had not received any visitors since his admittance, and he knew very few people. There were only two individuals it could be…

Dylan and his mother walked through the door, with nervous body language and anxiety-ridden facial expressions. Antonio expressed his joyous surprise and comforted the apologetic mother, while Dylan stood behind shyly with tears drifting down his cheeks.

“I have a gift for you, Dad.”

The Sanyo M9935K gleamed in his hands, but it was not long before he placed it down and dashed to hug his father. Dylan forgave him. Antonio had longed for that forgiveness since the day he observed the boombox in the glass, and it was all he needed to leave the hospital’s concert in peace. The only goal in his life had finally been fulfilled.

Dear Me

There are days where I run on autopilot, where I am acting out motions but not retaining the fact that I am the one doing those actions. Most notable is when I wake up in the afternoon after being in class all day. I’ll check how I’ve already done the assignment I didn’t do in the night or rationalized the thought of how I could do it later. I’m not sick, I don’t get sick. I just wish I knew how to articulate my words to other people, I guess, I’ll just have to try.

Dear me(?),

I know you’re aware of me; however, I do not know you. I see what you see, but I cannot retain the images of what I am seeing. I can’t help but wander around in my head while you take the notes, nod, and never speak up. There is a disconnect between us. I am not a morning person, but some days I’ll find myself up way before the time I should be up, especially after days where I stayed up until 3 in the morning. I cannot hear what you hear; it comes in one ear coherent and leaves a muted mess. I don’t understand how to motivate myself. I cannot find the need to do something that has no benefit. I have 5 missing math assignments that you should do by the way. Thank you, me.

Externally they cannot write, but internally there are only the things tethering me to where I am now.

Dear you.

Mother won’t be happy. She already isn’t happy with other children who don’t do their homework. She cannot help, however, she doesn’t have the patience for it. She’ll ask you to drop out of the classes meant for smart kids. Stop being lazy.

I know I am being lazy. “What’s stopping you from doing better?” Must we always blame our lack of success on something? It’s easier to do things for other people anyways. I’ll be a proficient worker after high school.

Dear me,

I like our mother. Her food tastes good. It’s nice. I feel bad when I don’t do what I’m supposed to, but how much longer can I rely on other people to keep me going. Do well so you don’t bother others. It’s difficult and selfish in a way.

Some days I am tested in the form of something that is supposed to be hilarious and kind. Children are always meant to be little angels, but never has that been true. Babies cry and throw tantrums, toddlers are needy and sticky, kids are rough and never know when to stop, teens are disgusting, and adults who never learned to grow up make kids who grow up taking care of their parents. Growing up fast and getting out of here was always the plan. That’s the plan I would like to do, but however small, work is an inconvenience when it requires me to do it for myself. I am envious of those who are fortunate enough to work regardless of how taxing the work might be.

Dear you.

We are almost done. We will get better.

Dear me,

I hope so.

I haven’t gotten out of this hole yet. I still wake up haunted by responsibility. Why did I ever want to grow up? That’s the question. What happened to all the appeal of growing up? I wish I had the want of a child, needy and selfish but determined to cry until I get what I want.

Amongst the Grief

An overwhelming crowd of people is in the center of the village. Most of the crowd consists of women, but both men and children also accompany them. Waiting in an empty mist, the folks’ emotionless expressions give a dull atmosphere. They have the look as if they stumbled out of their tombs, yet given their lifeless demeanor, they had looked dead to begin with. The women look as if they have been beaten senseless by a crazed bull, and the men and children are no different.

They shake their hands to let their concerns loose, but it is mostly done to keep them from falling off of their arms. The weather is cold, and the slightest amount of warmth they could have was frantically moving their bodies, hoping that their movement would make them feel anything. The men and children seem to have born the cold more than their other company. The men shiver through their bones, but they don't move a muscle. The children, being young and careless, move every inch of their legs and arms. They are as cold as the men and women, but at least they aren’t as bothered by it.

The village goes by the name of Clade. Once regarded as one of the most influential of villages simply because of its many successful war triumphs. When it had a stable reputation, Clade was known to be a strong civilization that relied on heavy military strategies. Many of its inhabitants fought along with King Zemrick, the ruler of the entire land of Aamar. Sorcerers, crafters, knights, and overall villagers of Clade have always had the upper hand when it comes to fighting off their many enemies. It was an absolute honor to fight alongside the king, which was why Clade was so universal among other villages.

Besides it’s historic values, Clade was also a beautiful society to behold. The breathtaking environment stuck with any traveler throughout their visit, having such landscapes such as the awe-inspiring fields. Being inhabited by sorcerers, many of the homes were made out of such mystical wood and steel that it would have made a deprived ruler jealous. The overall feeling of acceptance in Clade would have lifted any spirit.

The villagers were once very welcoming towards travelers, offering them their sacred goods and equipment to help them through their journey. Magic books, iron, potions, swords, and much more were expected to be given. Generosity was very essential when it came to a villager in Clade, for it would have gained much more of an honor to them. They had once wanted everyone to be aware of their many successes.

Unfortunately, their expectations got the best of them. The War, which had started just a year ago, had an effective impact not only on them but their entire kingdom as well. Many of the young men of Clade were chosen among generals to serve in Glasdown, an enormous field of lavenders that The War exists in. After the men’s departure, the village had not been the same. Their once strong fields of crops were dying one by one, and famine soon spread. Everyone, including their livestock, had lost their spirit to regain their conflict, and because of their immense lack of motivation, it was only the beginning of the malaise.

Many of the women were so desperate to feed their children that they resorted to prostitution to pay for a loaf of bread. Or at the very least, a slice of one. That caused another problem since their expansive hustling spread all over Clade. Many of the women had become increasingly sick, mainly because the partners they slept with were from the slums of Dran, a village that was plagued with all sorts of diseases. The sickness soon spread throughout Clade, causing an epidemic over their homes. Ever since then, the women were ridiculed by their husbands.

Men were not safe from the guilt, though, as they too had done terrible things to keep their families together. Without telling anyone, they would gather what little they had and sell to nearby inhabitants. Most of what they sold was so valuable to them that they couldn’t afford to tell their wives what they had done. There was one individual, whose family was too poor for even a fraction of bread, that he sold his lover’s garnet ring without her consent. Another man had sold his two horses, three chickens, and an entire oven just to get mushrooms for stew. There was even one man who was so desperate for money that he sold his own children to a butcher. What he got from it was nothing more than a rotten egg.

Today, the village has lost what made its identity so sacred and what made it worth living in. Because of the villagers’ lack of wealth, their homes are nothing but huge stones and sticks to live on. The once blooming fields are now dead without any ounce of life. There is hardly a field since the majority are dedicated to tombstones of deceased loved ones who couldn’t bear the suffering anymore. Everything about what made the village worth remembering is now as lifeless as its graveyard.

Still shivering from the cold, the villagers sit and wait for the presence of The Counter to come. The Counter has the simplest yet most grieving job that anyone has to take. The purpose of it is to simply count the wounded and dead that had fought during the battles. It was a priority for men who were too cowardly to fight in The War, so the next best thing to do with them was to hold a pencil, carry paper, and mark how many men they saw beneath their feet. Alive or not, they were still tasked to mark what they saw with their eyes: dead, but also wasted space.

At last, one Counter stands among the villagers high on a small wooden box. It doesn’t give him much height, but at least it gets the attention of the crowd. The Counter looks young. His face still has small freckles around his red cheeks, despite his age, and his captivating gem eyes makes every villager pay attention to what he has to say. Though captivating, the young man looks as if he has experienced every hardship and despair of The War.

His voice is harshly swollen, causing him to talk in a crispy voice. It is quite unusual coming from such a young man, but his job has to be done. Clearing his crooked throat, he shouts at the top of his lungs: “One hundred and fifty-nine men wounded, two thousand and eight dead!”

The villagers all gasp at once. They can’t believe it, and how could they? How could so many of the men have perished so fast? The last battle they heard from was no more than three weeks ago, so how could this be? Scrambling all at once, the villagers stumble onto each other. It was the equivalent of knocking over a cup of wine on the floor, and watching ants soaked in the taste of it.

“Aight, all of you, settle down!” One of the villagers yells. ”Settle down, I said! We haven’t heard all the bloody news yet!”

This particular villager is vastly different from anyone else. His presence, although somewhat intimidating, blends in with the overall ambience. His scar, though, that particular identifier just above his forehead, gained him the name Boan. Boan, in the villagers’ language, means “uncivilized.” He isn’t very well-known for having a stable mind. He acts out from time to time, yelling and rambling on about certain topics no villager would ever take seriously. For that alone, Boan is an outcast in the village. He is only allowed to attend important events that gathered the mass majority of villagers. His home is just above the hill of the graveyard. A dense, dusty shed is all he has, yet compared to the other villagers’ houses, it is at the least tolerable.

The Counter hesitantly reaches into his pocket and pulls out a small-looking scroll. When he expands it, the scroll rolls down until it is beneath his feet. Every villager holds their breath. They know the context of the scroll, and knowing that it is much more expansive than usual makes their insides hurl. The Counter, still sounding unnatural, lets out a long sigh as he reads the scroll in his hands. “Marcus Garnies…”

Twas but a name that makes an elder woman jump like a weasel. Her old, feeble hands are madly shaking. “Me son!” She cried with grief. “That’s me beautiful son! Do tell me he’s alive and well!”

The Counter squints his eyes. He then nervously swallows and states: “Wounded and is being taken care of in a nearby village.”

“Oh, good Lord!” The elder woman falls down to the floor. Her eyes fill with tears of glee.

“Bless ye, Lord, bless ye!” She calls out. “Me son’s still holdin’ his breath through this madness!

“It won’t be for too long.” Boan speaks with distaste. “It be a matter of time, old wretch. This war will put us all to death, and if we are lucky, we might turn out as slaves to our enemies.”

“Damn you, man!” Yells a young villager clenching his hands in the air. “You have nothing but a black heart! I’ve seen what our men have gone through and what they're capable of! You have not seen the treachery they have faced as one, nor the impact! You just hush your mouth until we are done here!”

Surprised, yet humble, Boan does not respond. Young men such as him have no place to speak such blasphemy, but there was no use brawling with a tiger cub, as it leads to nowhere.

Again, The Counter holds his breath and continued with the scroll. “Havord McStinn…”

Gasp! “Havord!” Yelps a villager who is half-dressed. “Lord, please help him.”

The Counter continues: “Wounded severely. Entire left arm amputated. Is being taken care of in a nearby village.”

“Holy hell…” The villager’s head is spinning. The poor man can’t grasp the news properly.

“Me son’s… arm cut off. Oh hell, how could this’ve happened?”

His wife, who is also partly clothed, stands by his side and kisses him on the cheek. “It’s alright, love.” She softly optimizes. “We still have a son to give a damn.”

He wipes his tears off his face and breathed out slowly: “You’re right, dear. We will prosper from this…”

The Counter carries on with the scroll.

Hours later, most of the villagers are exhausted not only for the time they have been standing but because of the immense statements they have heard about their departed kin. Most of them wail over their no-longer loved ones, while others are so anxious they believe they are walking on thin ice. Of course, there are a few villagers who are ecstatic about their share of the news, but they keep their joy to themselves.

Through it all, Boan has still the same unenthusiastic expression as when he had arrived. “Another day,” he softly speaks to himself, “another bloody waste of time.”

As he heads for his shed, he gets out a necklace that was hidden beneath his shirt. In it lay a picture of himself next to a young boy that looks about the age of seven. “The hell are ya, Axel? Surely ya have to be alive by now.”

Axel is very special to Boan. Just like his adopted father, he too was left out in the wilderness. He was fortunate enough to have Boan walking aimlessly there, for if he weren’t, he would’ve been eaten alive. Since then, Axel had always treated Boan with the utmost respect, even if the other villagers seem to disagree with his gratitude. He had looked up to Boan not only as a father figure but as a personal companion. They would often go hunting in the middle of the night, catching deer, elk, wolves, and even bears. Their bond was one-of-a-kind, nothing that the village could see with its eyes.

Bad tidings soon came, though, as Axel was sent to fight in The War. Devastated about his departure, Boan gave Axel a necklace similar to his own. As Axel clutched it in his hands, Boan had the face of an old hound. He had not prepared for this day to come, and he had lost his courageous spine. Sucking it up, Boan laid his hand on Axel’s shoulder gently, and his last words to him were: “You’re going to stay alive, son. Do not ever forget that.”

Alas, Boan has been patiently waiting to hear about his boy. It’s been too long, and Boan’s bad temperament increased, as salt in an open wound.

“...Axel!” The Counter exclaims.

Boan turns around rapidly and runs towards The Counter. His legs are very weak from standing, but it does not matter to him. “Yes, yes, what about him??” He cried madly. “What about my boy Axel?? He’s alive, ain’t he?! He’s alive!!”

The Counter looks heartbroken. He knows what Boan does not know. He blankly stares at him, amending the dull tone of the villagers.

“Well c’mon, man! Spit it out! Where is he?!”

Nerve-wracked, The Counter glances at the scroll…“I’m terrible sorry, sir.”

“What, what is it?”

“I -- I did not wish to bring such --”

“Just tell me, boy, tell me! Where is my lad?!”

Tears swell in The Counter’s eyes. Before he could start bawling, he brokenly lets out:

“The boy you wish to know about… Axel. He is… dead and buried at a nearby village… ”

The Counter then bursts out a waterfall of tears and lays flat on the ground, ashamed to have ever existed to be a part of the situation. Boan’s crooked eyes are as wide as an elder owl. Both of his knees can't stand for much longer and he falls to the ground. The poor outcast is in disbelief.

Denial wouldn’t be for too long, though, as Boan also wails on the ground. Holding his necklace, Boan has lost his hope. The villagers, looking at the depressing display, can not help but feel immensely sorry for the once-proclaimed waif. Each and every one of them lowers their heads to show condolences.

“He, he! Ha, ha, ha, he!”

Suddenly, each of the villagers raises their heads up. Even The Counter and Boan can’t help but notice the crippled laughter. “Ha, ha, ah! Oh Lord, help this feeble, old man!”

Boan is not amused in the slightest. In fact, he erupts from his wallowing and yells: “The hell’s so funny?! Which one of you sick bastards think this is anything short of amusing?!”

Passing through the crowd, the laughter appears to come from an elderly man wearing a wrinkled robe. He is not recognized by the villagers. Nobody has the slightest clue to who this individual is and how he stumbled into the village. Wiping a tear from his eye, he naturally says: “Why, by the look of things here, it seems you are all in a steep rut. Yes, that seems to be it. Helpless cattle in a rut.”

The old man points a finger at Boan. “Especially you, good sir. You seem the most hopeless one of them all! Letting your sorrow get the best of ya.” He then gets out a pipe and begins puffing clouds of smoke. “Yet, throughout all of your pitifulness, I have seen something that I haven’t when I stumble upon villages such as these.”

Boan is about ready to strangle the old cretin. After what he has known, he dares to show his arrogance? He makes his way to the old man, clutching his fists. “You damn old fool.” He aggressively mumbles. “The hell you think you are, coming unannounced, speaking such vulgar… the hell you think you are?!”

“Why, an optimist, good sir.”

Bewildered by his response, Boan frees his antagonizing hands and stares at him.

“And optimism is what I’ve seen in this village, believe it or not! All of you are gathered here occasionally to hear of your kin to gain a raise of hope, yet hope has been with you all along.”

“What you mean by that, old man?” A villager is curious enough to ask. In response, the old man pulls what looks to be a small seed out of his hand. He then lays the seed on the dirt, burying it.

“Might I ask for a bucket of water? Anyone?”

Silence spreads throughout the village, not even a breeze can match the villager’s lack of response. No one obliges the old man.

“Oh, come now! Surely at least one of you poor individuals carries a beverage.”

Suddenly, a small girl wearing an eye patch strolls towards the old man and gives him a small ounce of water in a cup.

“Here ya go, good sir.” She gently utteres. “Will this do?”

The old man smiles at the girl. “But, of course! Bless ye, young lass. For it is you that is willing to help an old goat such as me!”

The girl's face turns bright and cheery, gaining the attention of the villagers. For as long as they could remember, no one had ever smiled as gently as her.

The old man carefully waters the buried seed and then turns around at the villagers.

“In approximately six months,” the old man raises his voice, “this here seed will grow into a Hyperion, making your village easier to spot from afar! Now, I know this might be hard to believe, especially the circumstances you are all facing, but do not worry. I know exactly how to make it grow faster than ever!”

“And the hell might that be, ye old fool?” Boan says bitterly than ever. “How on this forsaken place will a tree that big ever grow?”

The old man serenely gazes at Boan, knowing that he has been through a lot. He places his hand on his shoulder in a comforting manner, looks at him in the eye, and says with the utmost glee… “Simply hope for the best to come, young man. For with it, your people’s aspirations will soon grow alongside the seed.”

With that said, the old man picks up his belongings, waves everyone farewell, and goes off to find more villagers to aid.