A longish short-story. I have other things I should be doing now, but found I had to finish reading. Very good.
Ah, the matches of old. We called them kitchen matches, the strike anywhere kind. I don't know if you can even buy them anymore. Safety matches are pitiful in comparison. When I was somewhere around Tommy's age I used a short piece of quarter inch copper tubing (for a barrel), shaved the heads off six or eight kitchen matches and cut a half inch piece from a quarter inch bolt (bullet). Tamped the powder and bullet into the barrel, put it on a concrete block and aimed it at a galvanized bucket three feet away. I held the barrel down with another concrete block. Not a candle, I used a propane torch. The bullet flew forward, putting a hole through both sides of the bucket. The barrel split and flew backwards. That's the last time I ever tried that. Looking back at some of the things I've done, it's a wonder I still have all my body parts.
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The best I can come up with is:
The Lord is a jealous and avenging God; the Lord takes vengeance and is filled with wrath. The Lord takes vengeance on his foes and maintains his wrath against his enemies.
Am I close?
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A few questions, comments and observations:
"You what? You hate Religion?" Aunt Hilda was incredulous.
"Yes. No, I mean--I don't hate religion. I hate the subject--ouch!"
Aunt Hilda was pulling him by the ear.
"Come here, you little scoundrel, you!"
She led him flailing and lashing--like an evil spirit burning in the Lake of Fire--to the form of the Redeemer, and made him kneel down.
(Scoundrel, by definition is correct, but by use, especially with little - little scoundrel - and children, usually is not connected to the wrath Hilda has. - "Johnny, you took a cookie out of the cookie jar, didn't you." Johnny sadly looks at his feet. "Yes, mom." "Well, come here you little scoundrel, you." - Followed by a hug. The exclamation point helps, but I don't think it is strong enough. - Tommy never knew his father. I would be tempted to have Hilda say: "Come here you little bastard!")
Then he threw away the match sticks in the trash can outside (opening and shutting the door like a mouse), went back to the kitchen, scrubbed the mortar and pestle, and returned them and the cutter to their proper places. Within a few minutes he was asleep. (opening and shutting the door like a mouse (?) I know he did it quietly and "quiet as a mouse" is a bit overdone, but picturing a mouse opening and closing a door, well...)
Every five days or so, the boy bought a few boxes of long matches. He varied the vendors as much as possible; sometimes he bought the boxes from a shop in a neighboring town. By mid-May, he had three stashes of match powder; a big one and two smaller ones. Tommy planned a trial detonation--two of them, actually--to test the effect of packing on the strength of the explosion. To this end, he bought a couple of M&M tubes, some cotton and a few sparklers. Shops were already stocking up on fireworks for the Fourth of July, with sparklers arriving in great quantities. They made excellent fuses. (Only a question. Under the conditions Tommy lives, where does he get the money to buy matches, sparklers and M&Ms? Assuming he gets a small allowance, why doesn't Hilda keep track of where his money goes?)
He had stripped matches and made them into powder for the last three months of his life--and it was all for nothing. Never mind the lost hours of sleep, never mind the--
Hold it, kiddo. You've still got one more to go. (in italics - Appears to be Tommy's thoughts and not intrusion by the author. In his frame of mind, I just wonder that he would think this thought.)
Yeah, but what good would it do?
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Nothing more than my opinions, please make of them what you will.
Wally
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