1) He said in the intro "where to go." That's practically asking for constructive criticism.
2) I'd be glad to :)
Partly so my good friend. You took it that way and that's a way to go. I'm open to criticism all the time, since I'm quite lonely as a writer in my sector of real life.
In that aspect, I have a hard time cranking out a real story due to my own personal problems and the lack of help without actual people in my life who are interested and are acute with this kind of stuff.
New version, a bit softer and a lot simpler
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The train glides into the station, a bird of prey ready to swallow the hapless creatures. Creatures of gray, drab, the rainbows of happiness diminished. I watch from my perch, a bench; waiting for my turn at redemption. Redemption for my wrongs that will never come to light again. I look inwards instead, those faces that have passed me by.
Fading memories, I smile to myself recounting them. Wars passed, the scars of them still lingering on and inside my body. Hollowed out furrows in the dry farms of my mind, waiting to be planted with next memories crop. I sit on the bench, its metal cool to the touch, the audible breeze of the AC whispering by.
The bench ties me to the mortal world, this world that has forgotten. I wait for the chance to seize these people from Death’s grasp and make them live for something. Something more than work, war, and the wrath of the world! But alas, they remain those drab people; and their children just beginning to become those burgeoning young gray people. Most are exactly how a lot of people were like in my day.
Happy about the world as it was. Curious how to change it for the better. Spry to the changing times. Resilient to the opposition. My generation fought for that so dearly, to be crushed by their own gains and anxiety. Would anyone say that I was sad, for all that I had seen and done? Would anyone care that I was one of that generation, willing to whittle my way to histories core?
But no, nobody does care any mind about me. The man with a black, stringy beard; purple skin and a cap almost torn to pieces. I cry a little inside this time, just go ahead I told myself, let those tears remind you of the hurt and the happiness you shared. I sing a bit to myself in my head, recounting those old songs from my time.
My mental train is stopped by a presence. A boy has just appeared on the bench with me, intently staring me down. That stare isn’t at all serious, more curious and foreboding than anything else. His eyes are brown. Brown like the coats that were popular amongst my old friends. Brown like the eyes of my loved and my passed loved ones.
Those eyes seem to melt people so easily, blue being the fierce color, brown being the heartwarming, and green being the intelligent kind. His eyes seemed to bore my own soul, and as they worked their way inside, he spoke. His voice was that gentle kind, yet seemingly a little deceiving.
“Mister,” he said in a heavy British accent, “what’re you doing here?”
I looked at him with a sort of dazed look, him returning the same. My answer remained at bay, I waited for his recognition. Next he spoke with a light Boston accent. I was surprised at his adept tongue.
“So, yah not a talka aren’t you? You have some guts to sit heya,” he launched, leaning in a bit comically toward me, “ the police got ya hobos on the run!”
I gazed at him a bit deeper, concentrating on him. I felt him shaking as I placed my gloved hand on him. He shook so violently to me, radiating an intensity unlike I’d seen in awhile. This time, he spoke normally; at least to me.
“You seem like a man that’s seen a lot. I assume thats true,” he sighed a bit and turned his gaze away, “My grandfather recently passed on. He used to say that his inspiration for his life in aviation was this one man.”
He looked down at the ground, wringing his hands. He paused for that long and I stared into the back of his head. I wanted him to answer that lingering question, who was that man? He sat there for a bit longer, his breath casting the occasional cloud in the frosty air. I begged him to go on, pleaded him even, just with my eyes. He never replied, rather just sat there for a while longer.
I understood how he felt, one of the shining achievers in his life now gone like that match blown away. He didn’t continue, and I watched him silently cry to himself. I remember how I used to do the exact same thing, more times than once. After sobs shone through his next words.
“The man,” he said, mopping up the choked tears, “he used to say, was a hard chip on the outside but a soft cotton candy loving hippie on the inside.” At the next few words, he choked down the rest of his painful meal, and continued with a little bit more confidence, “He would laugh as he recounted the jokes and the loveual innuendos that the guy used, a practical jokester one moment and a general the next. He wondered what had happened to him after The Reform.”
That was when I knew who he was talking about, and I said softly so that he could only hear. My voice surprised me as I formed the words, a raspy, soothing, baritone.
“You know kid,” I said, “ you may be closer to that man than you thought. Your grandfather seems to be the kind of man to know that. What was his favorite color?”
“Navy, or was it Army Olive? He always was interested in the military.”
“What’s your name sonny?”
“Jenxas Gynus the Second, after my father Geenus Gynus and after his father, my grandfather, InGenius Gynus.” he belted out like a great title.
“You may have found your grandfathers man. Or maybe just a person who’s seen a lot of what your grandfather has seen.”
“You really think?” he said, his voice responding to the amazement in his eyes, “he could be in that crowd or on that train, headed off to escape the public eye for another day?”
“Or he could be closer.”
“Like?” he asked, “Where could a guy hide other than the crowd and the...”
He stopped, looked at me, looked at my face, squinted a bit, then a flash of recognition hit him.
“What type of bumbling idiot am I? You’re the guy he was talking about!” he breathed heavy, an accented exhilaration, “A guy called Joxus, ‘the most magical,wonderful,crazy man in the world’!”
“If you say so,”I said pulling down my scarf, “I can be that man.”
He began to pelt me with questions, a majority about the war and before The Reform. He stopped to collect himself, as did I, ready for the next batch of questions. He looked at me with a little bit of confusion, probably beckoning for a little return. So I did, I opened my doors a little wider.
“Do you want to know a story from my eyes?” I asked softly. This was the time, I felt it.
“From the famous Joxus! Why not?” he exclaimed. He bounced a bit, excitedly. “I can stay,” he said, calming down a bit, “but I obviously won’t give you any heart attacks after your life story!”
So I launched into a story. I would write it down and name it later, for it was my memoriam to my life.
Joxus and Company
