Life in progress

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Shattered Hopes – writing assignment

Leila awoke to the sun streaming through her bedroom window five minutes before her alarm was due to go off.  She stretched, catlike and smiled to herself. Awareness dawned as clear as day.

Tonight’s the night.

She rolled over and gazed at the pillow beside her, fluffed up, soft, inviting. She pictured in her mind what he would look like laying there in the soft sunlight, a mere twenty-four hours from now. In her mind’s eye she saw him open his eyes and smile at her adoringly, as happy to be there as she was to have him. She breathed in, imagining his musky natural scent, heady as a glass of fine Italian wine, and what it would be like to cuddle up in his arms, to feel the comforting warmth of his embrace.

Jeff.

She whispered his name out loud and the feel of it on her lips caused her mouth to water. Her hand slid down her body to the sensitive spot between her thighs. She turned to look at the clock. Two minutes left. She didn’t have time. Instead she propped her head up with her hands and looked around the room, making plans. Candles. She would need lots of them. And incense perhaps. Or not. She could see herself at work today, unable to concentrate even more than usual just knowing…

Tonight’s the night.

Jeff.

Her radio came on giving her a start but then she laughed out loud when she recognized the song: “Anticipation”, by Carly Simon.

She leaped out of bed and into the shower. Thoughts of what kind of music to play for the evening entertainment distracted her from the task of shaving, her causing her to nick herself. She swore under her breath and let the water run over the cut, hoping that she wouldn’t have a scab to mar her perfect date, with Jeff… It was going to be a tough day.

Showered and dressed for work, Leila flicked on the light as she floated into the kitchen, singing the song that was now stuck in her head. Through the large picture window she could see clouds gathering.

‘Never mind,’ she thought to herself. She grabbed her favourite yellow mug with a large animated sun hand-painted on its side and filled it with hot coffee. Still mulling over music she turned on the radio. Maybe not date material, but the DJ was certainly in tune with Leila this morning. She danced around the kitchen singing “I’m walkin’ on sunshine, wooah,” until she heard the front door slam closed. Her roommate, Amanda was home. Coffee in hand, Leila shimmied out of the kitchen to greet her best friend. She came to a dead stop when she saw the look on Amanda’s face.

“What’s wrong?” Leila asked. “Did something happen at the stagette last night?”

“Jeff’s not coming tonight,” Amanda said, worriedly. “He has to work.”

“What are you….” Leila looked down at the piece of paper in Amanda’s hand. It was a glossy photograph of a man, nude but for a g-string, a collar and a pair of pink shirt cuffs, his hands at the back of his head and a face that looked exactly like… Jeff.

Leila let out a tiny shriek of disbelief as her cup hit the floor and shattered into a thousand pieces.


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Nine Grasping Brother

Cold and white, flurries muffle the air like clouds of frigid dust. Hurry on, persistent child. Wind stings, raw, bitter, like father’s loving caress. Abstain, willful young man.

Brother throws his keys on the table just inside the door and shakes the snow from the shoulders of his jacket as he takes it off. He goes to the kitchen to find boy sitting at the table, drawing a picture by the dim afternoon light.

“How’s mom?” asks boy.

“It was a miscarriage,” answers brother.

Boy looks up at brother and narrows his eyes.

“You wouldn’t know, you weren’t there!” brother disclaims.

Boy goes back to his drawing.

“What are you making?” brother asks.

“Nothing,” boy answers.

Brother peers over boy’s shoulder to behold a well detailed account of the previous night. Father stands over shattered mother, his mouth agape, his fist raised. Brother cowers, twitching in the corner, his knees to his chin. Below the drawing boy has written, ‘Father’s Love‘.

Brother, snatching away the drawing, shreds it with his teeth before eating it.


To go to the beginning of this series click here

To Ten click here

Disclaimer: This story (and series) is semi-fictional, and is in no way connected to persons alive nor dead. Apart from certain facts, it is a product of the author’s imagination.


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Eight Yielding Mother

Sun gleams golden through autumn’s glorious passing. Morning coffee steams promises of wakefulness. Wake up, thirsty mother. Love’s remembrance lays fast. Wake up, confounded woman.

Mother settles at the kitchen table and welcomes the joyful twitter of birds through the open window. She breathes the cool fresh air and raises her feet, crossing her ankles on the chair opposite. With a sigh she rests her right hand on her belly, her left lifts her cup to her lips. Sweet nectar of the Gods, mother loves her coffee.

Boy thunders down the stairs in his school uniform and stops dead, seeing mother’s pose. Brother, following, almost runs into him.

“Will he kill this one too?” boy asks mother.

Mother stares at boy, wordlessly, the day shines blindingly in her eyes. She hardly comprehends the first swing that sends boy crashing to her feet.

“You can’t say that!” brother yells, falling atop boy.

Mother, unable to conceive of how she can dissolve the dispute while preserving her unborn child, sips her coffee, noting that the birds have abandoned their song.


To go to the beginning of this series click here

To Nine click here

Disclaimer: This story (and series) is semi-fictional, and is in no way connected to persons alive nor dead. Apart from certain facts, it is a product of the author’s imagination.


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Seven Still Boy

Darkness drapes heavy across the shoulders, comforting, calming. Listen, quiet boy. Father’s love clinks, pours wetly, gulps, and sighs rancid. Listen fast, poor boy.

Boy creeps down the stairs, avoiding the creaks and groans he knows so well. He takes cover in the dark corner between the stairs and the kitchen door. At first all he hears is the tick of the clock that guards the hours of father’s rigid schedule.

“You’re wrong,” confesses father. “Your mother is a saint.”

“Why then?” asks brother.

Boy hears liquid sloshing into one glass, then another. The shadows on the floor shift and the tumblers collude sickeningly.

“Because,” answers father. “She is better than me. And that good-for-nothing little dick you call a brother is better than you.”

Boy hears a chair propelled back across the linoleum and a monstrous shadow stands, larger than life.

“Don’t you ever tell her I said that!” father roars.

The meeker shadow crashes to the floor and boy cringes, afraid. Slowly it picks itself up, sits, and slurps from its glass.

Boy scrunches back further into the corner and closes his eyes when father’s shadow starts to the door. Boy hears father’s fly unzip as he steals up to the room he shares with mother.

After many breaths boy quietly returns in the dark to the asylum of his bed.


To go to the beginning of this series click here

To Eight click here

Disclaimer: This story (and series) is semi-fictional, and is in no way connected to persons alive nor dead. Apart from certain facts, it is a product of the author’s imagination.


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Six Charming Brother

Time is of the essence now; the minutes tick by like days. Look back young boy. Father’s dear love ties clots in the throat, mother puddles to the floor. Look back young man!

Two weeks have passed since the last incident and brother bounds down the stairs to the kitchen. Mother kneels on the spotless floor pouring food into the new cat bowl, the animal hums at her side. She lovingly strokes the glossy black creature.

“Your brother comes home today,” mother says without looking up.

“I know. And father?”

“Not until tomorrow.”

Brother places his hands on his hips.

“Can we pick him up from the train station?” brother demands.

Mother looks up sharply, narrowing her eyes.

“Who will look after your brother?” mother accuses.

“He will come along,” brother smiles and swipes at his lips with the back of his hand.

“We’ll see,” says mother, turning her attention back to the cat.

Brother stares for a moment longer, at mother, at the cat. He races back to the privacy of his room.


To go to the beginning of this series click here

To Seven click here

Disclaimer: This story (and series) is semi-fictional, and is in no way connected to persons alive nor dead. Apart from certain facts, it is a product of the author’s imagination.


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Five Denying Mother

A single shard of crystal twinkles red, a bloody star in the sunlight. Strip your eyes from this pretty corner. Home wraps its arms around like a cool gray blanket. You are the fulcrum.

Perspiration drips from mother’s brow and lands on her skirted knee as she scoops up the last of the broken glass from the kitchen floor. She wipes her forehead with the back of her wrist and turns to the small shadow in the doorway. Mother gazes up at her eldest child. Brother’s stance, in nothing but cotton boxers, belies his vulnerability. Mother thinks that at thirteen he is trivial for his age.

“Where is he?” asks her son.

“He went back to work,” answers mother.

“And…”

“Hospital,” mother yields.

As mother stands she picks up the cat’s food bowl. She makes a mental note to go to the pet store. With a heavy thunk! the bowl impacts the inside of the black plastic trash bin, the lid closes, the sun gleams from its surface.

Brother shields his eyes and runs to get dressed.


To go to the beginning of this series click here

To Six click here

Disclaimer: This story (and series) is semi-fictional, and is in no way connected to persons alive nor dead. Apart from certain facts, it is a product of the author’s imagination.


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Four Dauntless Boy

Eyes sealed shut. Panic seizes, throat closes; gasp! Hush, little boy, don’t cry. Strange hand offers a warm squeeze of reassurance that you still are. Frantically scratch apart the crusted eyelashes. MOTHER!

Hush little boy…

The room is white, clean, sterile but for one miniscule element. Daylight streams through the window illuminating a thousand tiny dust particles that float carelessly, irreverent of the void where mother should be. In her stead is a doctor, occupying the spot on the shiny gray stone floor where the sun would otherwise lazily lay down her rays. Nothing in the scene reflects the unease that builds in boy’s chest.

“The patient was admitted last night with lacerations to the face, neck…”

Boy assumes the doctor is talking about him as he and the young, worry-eyed but healthy nurse are the only ones in the room besides a group of students in white coats carrying clipboards and looking eagerly at the droning doctor in charge.

“…and a crushed collarbone…”

Boy doesn’t know what a collarbone is, but the area below his throat shrieks in his ears of white hot pain

“…surgically extracted fragments of bone…”

compared to all the other little pinches he feels when he moves.

The nurse helps him to sit and offers him a straw with water at the other end in a blue plastic cup.

“Where’s my mom?” boy whispers to the nurse.

She smiles sadly and pats boy’s arm and he’s not sure if she heard his question. Then everyone is gone.

Boy’s eyes begin to leak great tears that splash upon his blue gown, darkening it like so many bruises. He wipes violently at his silliness and stares at the motes of dust until they vanish, the sun obliterated by the menacing shadow of a cloud.


To go to the beginning of this series click here

To Five click here

Disclaimer: This story (and series) is semi-fictional, and is in no way connected to persons alive nor dead. Apart from certain facts, it is a product of the author’s imagination.


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Three Angry Brother

Fear: writhing serpentine ineffectiveness slithers from your pores. Go deep, angry child. Father’s affection stings like the buzzing of a hot summer hive. Mother is soft, weak, an open sore. Go deep, angry young man.

In the heat of the night brother arrives home. His fists ache, his legs, from miles in his shoes, tremble. Above the whine of cicadas brother hears a chunk! chunk! staccato as he reaches for the door. Apprehension tingles at the bridge of his nose.

“Ahhhh,” cries father.

Brother tiptoes around the house aware of each blade of grass he crushes underfoot.

“Ahhh, hu hu hu,” cries father.

Chunk! Chunk! Chunk! Relentless is the shovel as it lacerates the innocent ground. Brother hurries back to the door and steps inside. He senses the absence of life all around and the silence grips his throat.

The hairs rising from his scalp precede brother up the stairs to his room. He slips closed the lock. Under the covers he shivers to the faint chunk! chunk!, rhythm to father’s lament.


To go to the beginning of this series click here

To Four click here

Disclaimer: This story (and series) is semi-fictional, and is in no way connected to persons alive nor dead. Apart from certain facts, it is a product of the author’s imagination.


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Two Dear Mother

Bless the little ones for they cannot be helped. Seen through his eyes there is love; love is pain. Mother comforts the fragile. Frozen quick as zero’s sudden chill, life shatters, close your eyes. Hide from the pool’s crimson darkness. Bleed for them; in ways you always have.

Father sits at the kitchen table, rays of sun inspiring rainbows from the crystal of his tumbler. He contemplates the dark liquid inside: it clashes with the stench of bleach from mother’s cloth. The stinking cat is rubbing against his leg.

“Where is that little shit now?” asks father.

“He is at a friend’s house,” replies mother.

Mother doesn’t look at father. She keeps her right profile from his sight knowing the bruise will enrage him. Mother hopes boy has indeed gone to his friend’s house.

A door opens as though on cue.

“Lying to me again,” says father under his breath.

Father turns to boy.

“Why can’t you do as your mother expects of you?” father bellows.

Father scoops up the cat and throws it at boy, knocking boy off his feet.

To Three click here

Disclaimer: This story (and series) is semi-fictional, and is in no way connected to persons alive nor dead. Apart from certain facts, it is a product of the author’s imagination.


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One Poor boy

Father’s love glitters enticingly like shards of glass. Reach out, poor little boy. Father reeks of love, for mother, for baby, for the liquid that consumes. Big brother has flown, anger in his wake. Draw back, poor little boy.

He’s eight years old and he’s rushing home from school in his uniform, his lunch bag tucked tightly under his arm. Because he stoops when he walks, the first thing he sees of brother are his shoes. He tries to step around them but a solid forearm contacts at the level of his chest. He pushes against it but it doesn’t budge.

“He’s home,” brother says.

“Where’s mom?” asks boy.

“Home too.”

Boy, more determined than ever, attempts to get around brother. This time he is held back by a hand, painfully grasping his arm.

“You can’t,” says brother.

“No, you can’t,” boy says bravely, stupidly, because he knows what is coming.

In broad daylight, with cars passing on the quiet street on the way home from school, brother passes on father’s lesson to boy.

To Two, click here

 
Disclaimer: This story (and series) is semi-fictional, and is in no way connected to persons alive nor dead. Apart from certain facts, it is a product of the author’s imagination.