Creative fun in
the palm of your hand.
Printed from https://www.Writing.Com/view/2140195
Printer Friendly Page Tell A Friend
No ratings.
Rated: E · Fiction · Comedy · #2140195
Teenage Wasteland
Now had finally arrived.
Pretending that "carpe diem" was just a new fish store downtown was over. One end of a thick rope secured to me the other end looped around a wall sconce then tied to the hallway railing, I held my baited breath and scaled in to my son's bedroom.
My six foot, seventeen year old master of his universe, who already had his personal rheostat turned to shun, was receiving instruction from the home planet. He stood before the plasma screen, his jeans barely holding on to his carapace, adding new meaning to low hanging fruit of the loom.
Thank Odin he was enthralled in violent rapture, playing one handed Halo Vs Tour Of duty XXVI, while his other hand was methodically clawing at a Jenga sized pile of PB&J's and a trough of fluorescent orange mac and cheese.
The bedroom had a primordial feel, dangerous protozoa, pizza boxes had become an evolutionary adjusted platform for happy meal raptors whose twinkly glass eyes were now studying me for any sign of weakness.
Was I just that leery parent with that ever hopeful imagination that their child had taken an anticipated creative bent, creating installation art of a NYC garbage strike to symbolize something, anything?

This debris field a sign that the adolescent frontal lobe of silly putty was going to finally harden? Could I be hopeful that the path less traveled by meandering through berms of clothing piled on the floor in various states of rigor would lead him to greatness?
Oh the humanity, my proudest moment gone when I realized that the model built of the double helix by my near perfect child was really an old orange peel sitting on his desk.

So it was to be the path of least resistance he was to follow after all, a gin and tang (think yin and yang) existence dodging empty water bottles strewn about his room like unexploded ordnance, a hyphenated perimeter around this bedroom diorama.

As the sunlight seeped through the broken window shades and marched across the room, I saw the word Krilloth in awesome green painted on the wall, my tweaking eyebrow forcing me to speak.

Video villain, rock fugue band, or goth outed super hero? My question answered with a grunt, morphing into mumblese,"Daaaaad Krilloth Rocks."
Silly me "rocks" was half hidden under the wall strata of a faded and torn Power Rangers poster.

© Copyright 2017 rstilskinz (rstilskinz at Writing.Com). All rights reserved.
Writing.Com, its affiliates and syndicates have been granted non-exclusive rights to display this work.
Log in to Leave Feedback
Not a Member?
Signup right now, for free!
All accounts include:
*Bullet* FREE Email @Writing.Com!
*Bullet* FREE Portfolio Services!
Printed from https://www.Writing.Com/view/2140195