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wordwhackerWell, I'm late, but late is better than never, eh? This post is actually for last week. I told myself that if I didn't have a piece of writing to post by the end of tonight, I'd have to post some of my own poetry. Now that's motivation for you.
This is a really short piece, written in 15 minutes for![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
daily15. It's only been marginally edited, and it's really more of a speculative/character piece than a story. It also doesn't really have a resolution, but I'm not sure where I'm going with it, so maybe it never will.
Anyway, as always, all comments are welcome.
Shadow of a Man (Vignette, 350 words)
We always knew him as "father". He wasn't daddy, or papa - especially not if we were trying to weasel our way into or out of something.
"I wouldn't bother," he'd say, not looking up from his newspaper. "And don't go asking your mother, either. She heard me."
It was a lost cause. The clink of dishes in the kitchen would remind us that she was, indeed, within hearing distance. No amount of begging, pleading and promising would win them over. They were a team. Together they wielded the gavel of justice that kept us in line for all those years.
The funeral was today, at half past one. Mama was there to greet us, her face just the same bright smile she'd always worn. Her eyes weren't smiling, but the laugh lines still creased her skin, reminding us. We hardly spoke to her. We just smiled back.
I had been away for so long that the pain he must have felt for these last years seemed like a lie. I had been waiting for it to be made real. Somehow I had expected to see it in him, on his face, in his posture as he lay stretched out. But all I saw there was a gaunt old man, his face creased with lines, maybe laugh lines shared with mama, maybe just the crease of a furrowed brow. I saw no pain, no suffering.
My father is gone. I could say I never really knew him, but the truth is that I don't understand what there really was to know. I miss him, though we didn't speak much. His presence, his form looming comfortably above me even though I'd grown past his height so many years before. I knew him in a way that goes deeper than knowledge. He was my flesh, my blood, my goal, my shadow. I grieve for him in ways that surprise me; when I find his posture in my reflection, or his nose in my son's face.
This is a really short piece, written in 15 minutes for
daily15. It's only been marginally edited, and it's really more of a speculative/character piece than a story. It also doesn't really have a resolution, but I'm not sure where I'm going with it, so maybe it never will.Anyway, as always, all comments are welcome.
Shadow of a Man (Vignette, 350 words)
We always knew him as "father". He wasn't daddy, or papa - especially not if we were trying to weasel our way into or out of something.
"I wouldn't bother," he'd say, not looking up from his newspaper. "And don't go asking your mother, either. She heard me."
It was a lost cause. The clink of dishes in the kitchen would remind us that she was, indeed, within hearing distance. No amount of begging, pleading and promising would win them over. They were a team. Together they wielded the gavel of justice that kept us in line for all those years.
The funeral was today, at half past one. Mama was there to greet us, her face just the same bright smile she'd always worn. Her eyes weren't smiling, but the laugh lines still creased her skin, reminding us. We hardly spoke to her. We just smiled back.
I had been away for so long that the pain he must have felt for these last years seemed like a lie. I had been waiting for it to be made real. Somehow I had expected to see it in him, on his face, in his posture as he lay stretched out. But all I saw there was a gaunt old man, his face creased with lines, maybe laugh lines shared with mama, maybe just the crease of a furrowed brow. I saw no pain, no suffering.
My father is gone. I could say I never really knew him, but the truth is that I don't understand what there really was to know. I miss him, though we didn't speak much. His presence, his form looming comfortably above me even though I'd grown past his height so many years before. I knew him in a way that goes deeper than knowledge. He was my flesh, my blood, my goal, my shadow. I grieve for him in ways that surprise me; when I find his posture in my reflection, or his nose in my son's face.
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Date: 2005-07-10 11:18 am (UTC)Thanks for the tips re: the whole proper nouns thing. I think I'd totally forgotten about that grammar rule.
I don't know if I'll ever revisit this, but you never know - it might be good fodder for something else, so it's nice to get some comments on it just the same. That, and the whole learning process, y'know, yadda yadda. But anyway, thanks. ;-)