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Papa’s Redemption: Strummin’ Through the Dark
The Nebraska night was a bleeding scar, the plains reeking of frost and despair, the stars above sharp as broken glass. Papa, a weathered drifter with a face like cracked leather and eyes like smoldering embers, sat on a rusted pickup’s tailgate, his busted six-string guitar slung across his back, its strings twanging like a crow choking on sorrow.
He wasn’t a preacher—his voice was a gravelly rasp, forged in bar fights and lonely roads—but tonight, he was Papa, 4 Da Boys, spinning a tale for his boys about the siren call of suicide, a whisper that promised escape but was silenced by the truth: we’re God’s property, and killing ourselves is a thief’s betrayal.
Papa’s mission was to pull a young man, Tommy, from that edge, showing him that life’s failures—grittier than any success—carve depth, love, and meaning, making suicide the coward’s dodge.
His guitar wailed, a jagged chord like a knife through despair, as he faced the dark to light a path for manhood. This was his saga, a raw dance through pain and purpose, laced with humor blacker than a grave’s shadow, guiding young men to embrace life’s next chapter with fierce affection.
The cornfields stretched endless, a sea of brittle stalks under a moon like a cracked skull. Tommy, a lanky 19-year-old with hollow eyes, sat on a stump, a .45 pistol in his lap, his life’s failures—lost job, broken family, shattered dreams—whispering escape. Papa had found him here, drawn by a barroom rumor, ready to talk him down with reminders of what the boy already knew but tried to deny – God and truth, his guitar a hymn to God’s claim on their souls.
Segment 1: The Siren’s Call
Papa strummed his guitar, its notes sour as regret, watching Tommy finger the pistol’s trigger. Suicide’s allure was a snake, coiling around the boy’s heart, promising peace from a world that chewed up his hopes—a dead-end job gone, a girlfriend who left, a father who called him weak.
“It’s callin’ you, ain’t it, son?” Papa rasped, his voice gentle but edged like a rusted blade. “That dark whisper sayin’ it’s easier to quit.”
Tommy nodded, eyes wet, the gun a cold lover.
Papa’s guitar twanged, a sarcastic chuckle like a coffin creaking open. “Woke fools’d say ‘follow your truth,’” he mocked, “but that’s a lie straight outta hell.”
Papa knelt, his tone softening. “You’re God’s, Tommy. Your life ain’t yours to steal.” The Creator was a chain, binding us all to purpose, making suicide a sin against divine ownership. “Failures ain’t the end, boy,” Papa said, strumming a low chord. “They’re the forge for your soul.”
Segment 2: The Weight of Failure
Tommy’s voice cracked, spilling his pain—fired from the feed store, mocked by friends, alone since his mom died. “I’m nothing,” he whispered, the pistol gleaming under the moon. Papa’s guitar snapped a string, a bitter laugh like a bone breaking.
“Nothing? That’s the devil talkin’,” he growled, his tone harsh now, a father’s tough love. “Failures ain’t trash—they’re scars, proof you fought.” Papa’s own failures flashed—divorce, sons he barely knew, morose nights drowning in whiskey and self-pity—each a wound that deepened his love for life, for God’s world. “God don’t make junk, boy,” Papa said, his voice gentling. “Every fall teaches you to stand—teaches you to love the air in your lungs, the folks in your heart.” Suicide is the coward’s dodge, running from the adventure of pain. Papa strummed, a chord like a prayer, mocking the idea of giving up. “You think quittin’ builds character? Nah, son—it’s livin’ through the mess that does.”
Segment 3: God’s Claim, Life’s Adventure
Papa stood, his shadow long, the guitar’s notes rising like a storm. “You’re God’s, Tommy,” he said, voice firm as iron. “Takin’ your life’s like burnin’ His house down.” The Creator’s claim was absolute—every breath a gift, every struggle a chapter in His story. Suicide isn’t freedom; it‘s spitting in God’s face, shirking the next adventure. Papa’s humor was black as coal.
“Think the Almighty’s gonna high-five you for bailin’?” he snorted, strumming a chord like a guillotine’s snap. “He’s got plans, boy—your pain’s just the prologue.”Tommy’s grip on the gun faltered, his eyes searching Papa’s.
“What plans?” he whispered.
Papa grinned, fierce and warm. “Whatever’s next—losin’, fightin’, lovin’ again. Every scar makes you real, makes you see the beauty in your mom’s memory, your buddy’s laugh.” Failure isn’t defeat; it’s the raw material of manhood, crafting appreciation for life’s grit and grace.
Segment 4: The Coward’s Way Out
The wind howled, carrying the stench of despair, but Papa’s voice cut through, harsh now, a drill sergeant’s bark. “Suicide’s the coward’s way, Tommy,” he snapped, his guitar wailing like a banshee’s cry. “You think pullin’ that trigger’s brave? It’s runnin’—leavin’ your kin, God, to clean up your mess.” Papa’s own dark nights flashed—times he’d eyed a rope, a bottle, but God’s claim held him fast, each failure a stone in his foundation. “Every time you fall, you learn to love deeper—the sunrise, a cold beer, a kid’s smile,” he said, softening. “That’s worth more than any success.”
Tommy dropped the gun, tears falling. Papa’s guitar strummed, a gentle chord now, like a father’s hand on a son’s shoulder. “The woke’d say ‘end your pain,’” he mocked, “but they’re sellin’ you a grave. God says fight on—your next chapter’s waitin’.” The boy’s sobs were a start, a spark of courage to face the adventure ahead.
Segment 5: Embracing the Next Chapter
Dawn crept over the plains, painting the cornfields gold, a promise of God’s grace. Papa helped Tommy stand, the pistol left in the dirt, his guitar’s final chord a raw hymn to resilience. Failures weren’t chains—they were wings, lifting men to see life’s worth, to cherish loved ones, to find joy in the struggle. “Suicide’s for cowards, boys,” Papa said, his voice warm with affection. “You’re God’s, and He’s writin’ your story—every scar’s a page, makin’ you stronger, makin’ you love harder.”
He spoke to his sons, voice a growl of dust and devotion. “This is Papa, 4 Da Boys. The dark’ll call, but you actually don’t even belong to YOU -- you’re God’s property—don’t steal what’s His. Failures build you, make you see the beauty in your fight, your kin, your world. Keep your hearts tough, your faith fierce. Strum your next adventure, boys—live it, don’t quit it.”
Music by Melancholicbird on Tunetank