Primal - By D.A. Serra Page 0,1

the blade closed into Ben’s fist. Wilkins levels his weapon at Leon’s head.

Ben scolds, “Leon, this is a place of worship.”

Flooded with adrenaline, Wilkins rests his weapon on Leon’s temple and adds, “And I hope you’ve been praying.”

Ben turns his eyes calmly to Wilkins, “Not in God’s house.”

A tremulous silence, they all wait for Wilkins’ decision: life or death. He has the choice. He could pull the trigger and no one would care. One less animal to feed and cage. Society might shake its head, but it would be grateful to be rid of him. At this moment, with the muzzle of the gun at Leon’s temple, and with everyone waiting, the choice is his. He could take this life. He wants to take this worthless life. The muscles in his face give a little. His blood calms. Two other guards sense it and step forward grabbing Leon. They slam him to the cement floor breaking his jaw and his nose. They pull his arms behind his back and cuff him. Other guards have taken charge of the rioting rabble and order is harshly restored. Ben opens his hand. Wilkins carefully pulls the embedded knife from Ben’s palm.

“I’ll take you to the infirmary,” Wilkins says.

Ben nods, turns to leave with him, but then stops and asks the chaplain, “Father, are you all right?”

The shaken chaplain nods. He drops to his knees and says a prayer for Ben’s soul. Wilkins leads Ben out of the chapel and down the hall toward the infirmary.

Wilkins is amazed at Ben’s ability to withstand the pain and asks, “How did you do that?”

“God did that - saved us both - you and me. But evidently he has turned his attention to other things because it hurts like a motherfucker now.” These two men almost smile at each other. How strange, Wilkins thinks, to see the budding of humanity in a man with this kind of history. What was it that turned Ben Burne?

* * *

Chapter Two

Harbor Hills Elementary School blends in with the serene suburban neighborhood: sweet two-story homes of white, yellow, and blue, stand in neat lines on both sides of the street. The roads have been recently paved so the asphalt is coal black and makes the green of the grass yards and the colorful fall flowerbeds bitingly vibrant. The streetlamps have an old-fashioned oblong glass that suggests folks have been raising their families here for a long time. The damp earthy smell of fallen leaves hangs in the air along with the dying honeysuckle. In this traditional Midwestern town with its huge oak and sugar maple trees life feels settled and yielding, as if it knows where it is going; the path is trodden and soft on the feet.

Inside Alison Kraft’s classroom with its dangling solar system made out of Styrofoam balls, and its encouraging aphorisms pasted to the walls, the majority of the third graders are listening to her. She considers the majority a victory. This generation is accustomed to sensory deluge; they splash through the rising tech tide with instincts the generation before them just don’t have. Her generation debated the efficacy of multitasking; these kids never do one thing at a time. They carry the world electronically in the palm of their hands: they text, and shop, and do homework, watch movies, and download music all at the same time. She feels successful if half of the class pays attention to her at one time since she is limited by not being a multimedia purveyor. Alison is a popular teacher. And when this year’s crop of scruffy boys and American Doll girls look at her, she sees their potential. These are the faces of tomorrow and she is aware of that truth every day she teaches them. She knows that one of them will do something special. There is no way to know which one, so she committed years ago to teach each child as though they were the one. Her students sense her belief in them, and they love her for it. She has “cheery eyes” they say. Their parents like her because she’s tender, and even with all the inherent lunacy of grammar school, impatience is not in her nature.

Alison and Hank moved here to Hank’s home after college. They married here and he started a business with his high school buddies. Alison likes this little midland town in Minnesota, but she does wander the streets sometimes wishing the donut shop were a pâtisserie, and that the