The Uncivilized Memoir: A Short Story
The Uncivilized Memoir
You told me, “Life is made up of two things. The smartest morons and the dumbest oxymorons.”
Rewind. When he was nineteen years old he had worked in a Transylvanian Bauxite mine. Sixteen months later he was choked with lung disease, yet God had answered his prayers. He was rosy-cheeked and right as rain just in time for the year when war came.
He had spent his life with his head in the clouds and heart in the air fleet, yet he was a charmingly down-to-earth person with a cruel sort of kindness to his dimpled gunpowder grin.
You see, he was a wise fool, a little-big-dreams kind of guy. His existence was a soothing arsenal. He had pockets piled with pounds of suspicion and F-bombs that fizzled like pop rocks, grenades
You told me, “Life is made up of two things. The smartest morons and the dumbest oxymorons.”
Rewind. When he was nineteen years old he had worked in a Transylvanian Bauxite mine. Sixteen months later he was choked with lung disease, yet God had answered his prayers. He was rosy-cheeked and right as rain just in time for the year when war came.
He had spent his life with his head in the clouds and heart in the air fleet, yet he was a charmingly down-to-earth person with a cruel sort of kindness to his dimpled gunpowder grin.
You see, he was a wise fool, a little-big-dreams kind of guy. His existence was a soothing arsenal. He had pockets piled with pounds of suspicion and F-bombs that fizzled like pop rocks, grenades