ISSUE Magazine

Idle hands are the devil’s playground by Haziq Hamid

12, Lakeside Ave,
419 W Burlwood Ln,
Lemoore, CA.
21 August 2009

Dear Mum,

I am well.

The ivy and moss covered walls are a silent reminder that I am far away from home. My life what was once full of freedom has been filled with routines. Gone are the days when I would wake up for school at seven in the morning and sluggishly drag my feet on the parquet flooring of my bedroom to sit myself down on my own porcelain throne.

These days, I never know what it’s like to awake after the break of dawn. The first time I saw the sun ascend slowly from the horizon, it was truly amazing. The parish priests make the newcomers sit on a hill just outside our monastery to witness it. “An act of god most magical, yet easily the one most neglected,” they said.

After, I would traipse barefoot past the ivy-tangled columns elevating the stone walls of this parish to the communal washroom; a large basin filled to the brim with freezing cold water. We each bring a pail and bathe ourselves in it. Day after day our bodies are washed over by the frigid waters chilled by the night’s breeze and morning dew. It took awhile getting used to, but a cold shower is what’s necessary for me.

St. Michael’s parish is a warm and hospitable place for those that accept it but harsh and unforgiving to those that rebel. But eventually, like wild mares in a pen, you’re broken in, taught humility and meekness. The centuries-old walls your prison and the bitter priests your wardens.

I must make do in whatever way I can. It becomes a natural routine as the days go by. I am still a mare, unbroken and unwavering when assaulted by the daily routines they force upon me. To my duties as incense bearer, I swing the thurible with a frown on my face and a heavy metal song in my heart, a rebellious act from the hymns the priests teach us in Catholic class.

But I must make do in whatever way I can.

Your loving son,

Tom.

_________________________________________________________________

15, Lakeside Ave,
419 W Burlwood Ln,
Lemoore, CA.
22 August 2009

Dear Sebastian,

How are you, you fucker?

God, it’s so boring here. I don’t know why my mum sent me. It’s not like I was doing anything wrong. Sure I was polishing the pewter a few times – okay, a lot of times – but that was no reason to get all worked up about it.

I got tired after the twelfth time that day and kinda passed out. It wasn’t my fault I wasn’t using a tissue. My spunk needs no tissues! It’s a free spirited extension of myself and shall stay that way.

Well, needless to say, after mum came home and saw me asleep with cum all over the floor, she flipped. Said this was the devil’s hobby and that every time I squeeze one out, a kitten dies. Tough luck believing that. But I do love kittens…

Anyway, things are mellow here. I’ve been trying to kick back the habit. Not for the kittens but because it’s starting to hurt. I mean, just last week on Wednesday morning I had this insane urge to slap the monkey. Well, that morning I was thurible bearer, those things that you put incense in and walk down the aisles swinging it side to side? Yea, so I got this major urge to grab my junk and start squeezing one out. I did what any red-blooded guy with needs would do during a situation such as this: I lifted my altar robes and stuffed the steaming pewter up my legs. The heat and the smell of incense made me forget about it entirely (plus I burned a few pubes). But wasn’t it a surprise for Father Harpell when he found me squatting behind the pews with my robes smoking from the inside. I was given disciplinary action for that. A few hours of cleaning the toilets, is all. Nothing I couldn’t do.

Then another time when I was cleaning the stables, the urge snuck up on me again. I didn’t know what to do, so I positioned myself right behind this one great chestnut stallion. I heated up the branding iron the priests used to brand cattle and just prodded the horse with it. You ever seen those shows where the guy gets kicked with the back legs of a horse and he goes flying through a stable? It’s no exaggeration I’ll tell you that. Worst pain I’ve ever felt. I was in the infirmary for two weeks. Good thing about it is it regulated my bowel movement.

Well, that’s all for now. Will update you soon.

Cheers.

Tom.

_________________________________________________________________

12, Lakeside Ave,
419 W Burlwood Ln,
Lemoore, CA.
29 September 2009

Dear Mum,

The walls, once thought to be my prison have become the chambers where I eat, sleep and perform the facile chores requested by the good parish priests. The cold, musty walls have been kind to me and the cold waters of the communal baths energize me. Forgive me, mum, for it has been awhile since my last letter. My daily routines have become more demanding as the priests feel I am ready for more challenging tasks such as harvesting the honey from the bee farm.

The walls I thought to be cold, reverberate with the bellows of centuries of memories from the past altar boys before me. Once I opened my eyes to the majesty of life in this monastery, so too have I opened my heart.

My hands which were once smooth, have now turned coarse, as day-in, day-out I am subjected to grueling yet equally rewarding tasks set upon me by the goodly priests.

Prior to this, even boiling water seemed like a difficult task on an open stove, yet I am now capable of cooking a feast fit for 30 people made all the more difficult by the apparent absence of technology. The priests, not wishing to result to the lifestyles of monks, yet admiring their perseverance of living life through basic necessities have limited the amount of technology brought in to the parish.

They favor wood fire stoves and horse-drawn plows. However, the innovation of plumbing is not lost on them and our toilets do have workable plumbing.

All in all, I am slowly getting accustomed to my life here and the simple ways of living. I have no idea for how long I am to stay, but my heart grows lighter as each day passes.

Your loving son,

Tom.

 _________________________________________________________________

15, Lakeside Ave,
419 W Burlwood Ln,
Lemoore, CA.
30 August 2009

Dear Sebastian,

Get me the fuck out of here. Fuck-fuckety-fuckin’ hell. I’m dying here, man.

No porn, no movies, nowhere to fap. It’s like being in a really bad episode of “I Love Lucy” where Lucy’s not in it and it’s just Ricky Ricardo and 20 other boys.

The duties have gotten interesting though. I was given two new tasks to do. One was harvesting honey from the bee farm and the other was plowing the vegetable garden.

Safe to say, I felt the urge to masturbate during both. I felt this really strong urge to squeeze one out when Father O’Hara was showing me the queen bee. The sight of her being swarmed by all the worker bees writhing and moving all over her just got me so turned on. I know, I know, weird and creepy right? But you’d be turned on too if you were stuck here trying to stop yourself from grabbing your junk and milking it.

I couldn’t take it, man. The first time I was harvesting the honey alone, I didn’t know what to do. So I kinda just pulled up my robes and straddled the hive. Ever had hot water poured all over your junk? It felt like that but worse. I was in the infirmary for a week though, so not bad.

Then I was tasked with plowing the fields. It’s a really large vegetable garden where the parish grows carrots and cabbages and pumpkins to sell at the market. That day was plowing season and they had me pull the horse. Can you believe that? A bloody horse and plow. I had this insane urge to masturbate then but I didn’t need to subject myself to any bodily harm seeing as the horse I was going to pull was the same horse that kicked me in the nuts. The bastard then, remembering me, chased me through the entire field. Flipping bastard. By the time it stopped, I was too damn tired to do anything.

I’ve gotta get outta here man. Talk to my mum, plead, beg. I don’t care. You’ve gotta do something. I’ve been sending my mum all these letters written all proper-like making her think that I’ve changed and I love it here but all she ever sends me back are things like, “Oh sweety, you’re having a wonderful time there. Since you’re having fun, why don’t you stay awhile longer.” Can you believe that? You’d think that she’d have enough sense to get me out of here knowing that I’m better.

Well, gotta go. Promise me you’ll do something about it.

Cheers.

Tom.

_________________________________________________________________

12, Lakeside Ave,
419 W Burlwood Ln,
Lemoore, CA.
10 October 2009

Dear Mum,

It pains me to know that you placed me in this here for my own good. However, what you believe is “good” for me, might not be the best. You placed me in here thinking that this parish would change me despite my constant pleas and defiance. I am writing to you to assure you that it has.

It has changed me into the bitter shell of a person I am now. Needless to say, your actions, albeit out of love, have made me think of you less as my doting mother and more of the prison warden that places the inmate involved in a riot in isolation, regardless if it was his fault or another’s.

You’ve damned me.

You’ve condemned a natural phase in a boy’s life into an act of abhorrence, and I, an abomination. A byproduct of sin similar to the congealing mess you found me in. For once in my life I was happy.

My sin was pleasure and it hurt no one. But in some inconsequential, miniscule and bantam way, it managed to hurt you. For that I apologize. But what I will not apologize for is my distorted character.

So keep me here for all I care, because your home is no home of mine.

Tom.

_________________________________________________________________

15, Lakeside Ave,
419 W Burlwood Ln,
Lemoore, CA.
13 October 2009

Dear Sebastian,

I’m coming home.

Cheers.

Tom.

Reporter by day, shisha connoisseur by night, Haziq takes life one lemon at a time in the hopes that someday he can open up a lemonade stand and sell them back to life at a profit.

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This entry was written by viewsinbetween and published on 10/11/2012 at 13:04. It’s filed under Fiction, Haziq Hamid, ISSUE6 and tagged , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink. Follow any comments here with the RSS feed for this post.

2 thoughts on “Idle hands are the devil’s playground by Haziq Hamid

  1. delightful, darling!

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