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Statement Without Words.

bernard

League Member
Joined
Apr 10, 2004
Messages
29
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Age
38
Website
fwowrestling.com
His hands were scarred, yet surprisingly soft. In his grip was a pen, instead of his usual saw or handgun. In his lap sat a small composition notebook, ready to be filled with Cleaver O'Connor's personal "Log of Life." The years had passed by like an incoming wave, and he hoped that by recording his own history, he might preserve his life's treasures before the tide of his memory swept back to sea.

The camera zoomed out and caught Cleaver in wide-frame, sitting on the extreme end of a park bench in central park. His clothing was alot like his demeanor: relaxed and carefree. He wore tattered, faded blue jeans and a rich navy "NYPD" shirt, a memory of his time served on the force. It was a beautiful, sunny Saturday afternoon; his blonde locks submitted to the slight breezes' hypnotic spell and gently swayed as the wind swirled around his head.

Taking into account all that had happened in his first 28 years of life, O'Connor was at a loss for where to start. Should he start with the religious riots and Scotland and the tragic death of his older sister Ellen? How about his job as a carpenter? As a model? As a police officer? As a recently-hired CSWA wrestler? He had many questions, but he was still unsure of how to answer them.

With frustration, he plopped the notebook down beside him. He leaned over slightly and buried his beleaguered face in his outstretched hands, then rubbed his fingers through his tangled mop of hair. 28 years had passed without notice, and he resolved to pay close attention to the next 28. He couldn't imagine life at age 56, but he could vividly picture where this new chapter began.

CSWA.

A match versus Kalas was waiting for him at On Time, but he would continue to remain relaxed. He made a vow to himself to take the CSWA ladder rung by rung, being both observant yet firm. He saw the peak of CSWA to be a staircase, not an elevator. By taking his experience in slowly, he could focus on where he once was, where he is, and where he is going without ever missing (or forgetting) a beat.

The O'Connor's were winners, and there wasn't a doubt in his mind that he would succeed with hard work and determination.

It was then he noticed a woman on the other end of the bench inching slowly towards him. On the steel park bench, she was the south end and he was the north. Her attraction to Cleaver was magnetic, and she tried to get closer without bringing attention to herself. O'Connor smiled as he went back to pondering his On Time strategy, but this attractive woman was persistant. Eventually, she was so close to him that the only thing that separated the two was his composition notebook. She blushed slightly out embarrassment, but Cleaver didn't mind. He lifted the composition notebook and began to jot something down, trying to keep what he was writing out of the view of her prying eyes. Satisfied of what he had scribbled, he held his pen in his mouth as he tore out the paper and handed it to the woman.

My name's Cleaver. What's yours?
(555)725-1986
Give me a call.


He threw his notebook and pen into his gym bag, then stood up and slung the bag on one of his beefy shoulders. He took to the paved sidewalk and paced off. The woman he left behind progressively slumped on the bench, an ear-to-ear smile on her lips. She practically turned into a puddle as she continued to rapidly melt. She was only beginning to know what O'Connor understood all along.

Often times, the best statements are made without words, but instead with something much more powerful. If there's any shred of truth to this statement...

'Kalas should have his work cut out for him at On Time.' Cleaver murmured assuredly as he boarded a cross-town bus.
 

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