MPC 90B: Those Who Cannot Do, Teach.
Sept 17, 2021 20:26:04 GMT
Post by supesman on Sept 17, 2021 20:26:04 GMT
The screeching of cruel tires on an icy road, a young boy's noble intention to shove one of his classmates out of the way, a skidding of brakes that did no good and a final crash of steel on flesh and bone as the fishtailing vehicle mashed into it's unfortunate mark. Bull screams, blood, but the only thing young Zack Zell could think to himself was, resounding between his ears like a gunshot at three inches...
"I can't...I can't feel my legs..." And just like that, with a realization and the shattering of vertebrae, and entire life turns on a dime. No more were the martial disciplines of he four color comic book heroes and heroines in cards for the young American boy. But those stories still captured everything about his imagination. Beyond the fighting, the punching, the great feats of strength and acrobatic prowess, their ideals and nobility still rang true to him. He still wanted to study the way those stories were told, he still travelled halfway around the world to get his education as a teacher and a storyteller, and one night he was still left with an egg, and the quivering, fearful young insect inside. His Marigold, who saw her wheelchair bound father as still the greatest, strongest, bravest man in the whole wide world.
"Dad...dad?" The Stingmon said from behind him, reaching her clawed hands out to grab the handles of his wheelchair, rocking it slightly to move him away from staring at the page he was looking down on. His office was a bit warm, sunbeams shining in from outside, catching particulates of dust in their sway. he set down his pen, a panel half finished, the heroic protagonist of his latest issue half drawn in a pose striking at a horrid villain.
"Hmm? Yes darling?" He said, looking over his shoulder to her. She had grown up into such a strong willed, bull headed woman. Maybe the only woman in the whole world who could turn his mind away from a bad idea once he was set on it. She was his treasure, the treasure who had opened up a literally entirely new world for him and he had taken advantage of it.
"One of the printers wants to talk to you downstairs, something about a coloring error." She said, rolling him to the door and pushing it open with one hand, filling his quiet and sedate writing room with the sound of laughter and conversation. His shelter had become home to dozens over the years, within the next few months they might cross their three hundredth resident who they were able to help put back on their feet and send out into the world a kinder, stronger, more confident digimon.
"Sweetpea don't lean back in your chair or you'll end up on your head..." He said, tapping one of the digimon helpers and extended family members he had been granted over the years. "If you're looking for something to do I'm sure Daffodil would love an extra hand or two with the dishes." He said, the staff member nodding and standing up, heavy steps carrying her into the back room of the kitchen were the sounds of clicking plates and flowing water resounded.
This was the difference he was making in the lives of others, this was the way he was making the world a better place. Perhaps it wasn't as flashy or romantic as the ideas he would have entertained before his accident but he was still uplifting those around him, using his stature and the power of his well known voice to push others through their tough times. He thought of them all as his children, his siblings, his friends. And it filled his heart with warmth to know that they would never have to suffer in a cruel world all alone ever again, he wouldn't allow it.
Was it mundane? Of course it was mundane, well, as mundane as a life of constant weird digital monsters moving in and out of the door at all times of the night could be. But the routine kept him humble and also gave him everything he needed. He had never wanted to be a hero so that he could stand as the king of the hill, he the greatest there ever was to be. He wanted to be the hero so that he could make sure that as many of the young and weak and helpless in the world had the best chance to thrive that he could offer them. And he was offering them plenty.
Marigold finally wheeled him to the table where his two printing assistants sat. One human, one digimon, both of them looking like perfectly uptight young men in tightly wound suits so hard pressed up against them that if they moved to quickly it looked like they'd both explode.
"Now boys...the way I'm envisioning this scene, and why the specific colors and hues are so important is..." He said, using a trust old pen to being pointing out and gesturing how the scene was playing out in his mind that needed to come out right. He wove dreams, as ludicrous and pretentious as that sounded the heroes he created allowed people of both worlds to see themselves and see a better world beyond the suffering, scarcity and fear that were all too omnipresent in the lives of millions, if not billions across both globes.
No, not everyone could redirect the flow of mighty rivers or life mountaintops with their bare hands, but that was only the broadest text of the stories. To stand up for what you know to be right even if the world stands against you, to be kind, to let anger fall away before it can poison you the same as it's poisoned others. That was what was taken away by most of his readers and it was what allowed him to feel like, despite the tragedy of his early life...
He could still be the hero in his own story.
"I can't...I can't feel my legs..." And just like that, with a realization and the shattering of vertebrae, and entire life turns on a dime. No more were the martial disciplines of he four color comic book heroes and heroines in cards for the young American boy. But those stories still captured everything about his imagination. Beyond the fighting, the punching, the great feats of strength and acrobatic prowess, their ideals and nobility still rang true to him. He still wanted to study the way those stories were told, he still travelled halfway around the world to get his education as a teacher and a storyteller, and one night he was still left with an egg, and the quivering, fearful young insect inside. His Marigold, who saw her wheelchair bound father as still the greatest, strongest, bravest man in the whole wide world.
"Dad...dad?" The Stingmon said from behind him, reaching her clawed hands out to grab the handles of his wheelchair, rocking it slightly to move him away from staring at the page he was looking down on. His office was a bit warm, sunbeams shining in from outside, catching particulates of dust in their sway. he set down his pen, a panel half finished, the heroic protagonist of his latest issue half drawn in a pose striking at a horrid villain.
"Hmm? Yes darling?" He said, looking over his shoulder to her. She had grown up into such a strong willed, bull headed woman. Maybe the only woman in the whole world who could turn his mind away from a bad idea once he was set on it. She was his treasure, the treasure who had opened up a literally entirely new world for him and he had taken advantage of it.
"One of the printers wants to talk to you downstairs, something about a coloring error." She said, rolling him to the door and pushing it open with one hand, filling his quiet and sedate writing room with the sound of laughter and conversation. His shelter had become home to dozens over the years, within the next few months they might cross their three hundredth resident who they were able to help put back on their feet and send out into the world a kinder, stronger, more confident digimon.
"Sweetpea don't lean back in your chair or you'll end up on your head..." He said, tapping one of the digimon helpers and extended family members he had been granted over the years. "If you're looking for something to do I'm sure Daffodil would love an extra hand or two with the dishes." He said, the staff member nodding and standing up, heavy steps carrying her into the back room of the kitchen were the sounds of clicking plates and flowing water resounded.
This was the difference he was making in the lives of others, this was the way he was making the world a better place. Perhaps it wasn't as flashy or romantic as the ideas he would have entertained before his accident but he was still uplifting those around him, using his stature and the power of his well known voice to push others through their tough times. He thought of them all as his children, his siblings, his friends. And it filled his heart with warmth to know that they would never have to suffer in a cruel world all alone ever again, he wouldn't allow it.
Was it mundane? Of course it was mundane, well, as mundane as a life of constant weird digital monsters moving in and out of the door at all times of the night could be. But the routine kept him humble and also gave him everything he needed. He had never wanted to be a hero so that he could stand as the king of the hill, he the greatest there ever was to be. He wanted to be the hero so that he could make sure that as many of the young and weak and helpless in the world had the best chance to thrive that he could offer them. And he was offering them plenty.
Marigold finally wheeled him to the table where his two printing assistants sat. One human, one digimon, both of them looking like perfectly uptight young men in tightly wound suits so hard pressed up against them that if they moved to quickly it looked like they'd both explode.
"Now boys...the way I'm envisioning this scene, and why the specific colors and hues are so important is..." He said, using a trust old pen to being pointing out and gesturing how the scene was playing out in his mind that needed to come out right. He wove dreams, as ludicrous and pretentious as that sounded the heroes he created allowed people of both worlds to see themselves and see a better world beyond the suffering, scarcity and fear that were all too omnipresent in the lives of millions, if not billions across both globes.
No, not everyone could redirect the flow of mighty rivers or life mountaintops with their bare hands, but that was only the broadest text of the stories. To stand up for what you know to be right even if the world stands against you, to be kind, to let anger fall away before it can poison you the same as it's poisoned others. That was what was taken away by most of his readers and it was what allowed him to feel like, despite the tragedy of his early life...
He could still be the hero in his own story.