aplus
01-19-2005, 03:55 PM
Here is another one of mine. This will be appearing in "See the Sun" magazine in March. You can check out
http://www.geocities.com/seethesun2012/
For details on it. Even though it is already getting published, I would love you all to crit, because I can still revise it some before I put it in my book of short stories (whenever I get off my ass and finish it). Holla back, and by the way, this is purely fictional...1
Whiskey Mourning
Birch trees were shagged with ice, while power lines stayed frozen in their cross-town reach. It was February, that fast-paced month filled with romantic intentions and subzero temperatures. With so much uncertainty crammed into twenty eight days, nobody could have ever predicted that my grandfather’s funeral would need to be penciled into our family’s itinerary.
I imagine it snowed that day, considering that the folks who visited after the memorial service tracked frigid moisture onto the carpet. This was the brownstone my grandfather had purchased during the late Sixties. He had purposely moved the family to this affluent section of town, his personal contribution to desegregation. This was my father’s father and he believed in hard work, honesty, and other tenets that American society has forgotten. My father recited fables about him that morning, dramatic stories that sounded like a crossbreeding of biblical parables and reality television. He claimed that Grandpa served as a repository for all the information that most people simply forgot. I smiled at this tidbit; I could now pinpoint the source of my uncanny trivia talents.
I remember my father and uncle and I lurked within the kitchen after the funeral, chugging bitter whiskey like it was Kool-Aid. My uncle contributed to our intoxicated nostalgia, reciting memories of our departed loved one between deep coughs. His hacking was plagued with phlegm and cancer. My uncle’s charred voice swallowed a stream menthol tears as he broke down. Although nearly fifty, he was reduced to childhood sobs when confronted with the notion of life without paternal guidance. I glanced at the healed scars of self-doubt on the insides of his wrists, ugly souvenirs of a troubled adolescence. My glazed eyes focused on my uncle’s sagging brown face, his chin slumped beneath the weight of past lies. I tipped back another shot and sucked air through my teeth as a chaser, allowing the high-octane whiskey to burn my throat as it trickled downward.
It was my turn to talk, so I spoke about when Grandpa had encountered my future ex-wife for the first time. We had been courting for just a few weeks, but she desperately wanted to meet my kinfolk. After some convincing nagging, I took her to our family reunion. Relatives were immediately steeped in controversy. A person didn’t need a hearing aid to decipher the boisterous whispering; aunts and cousins announced that I must have had some nerve bringing a Barbie-doll white woman to such a function. Sensing tension, my grandfather took one look at her, with her chopstick blond hair and wide-set blue eyes, and gave her a passionate hug as if she was a long lost daughter. “Welcome to our family,” he proclaimed. People piped down, all side gossiping ceased, and she was accepted from that point until the start of our divorce hearings. Grandpa always had a way of diffusing the tension in the most explosive of situations.
My father, uncle, and I marinated our stomachs with whiskey while mourning, ignoring the fact that it was technically still morning. Any more booze would have been venom in our bloodstream. I told a corny joke about it being noon somewhere with a slurred delivery that only other drunkards would find humorous. We all laughed in unison.
The snowfall and our drinking eventually leveled off. Soon everyone else offered their sympathy and left us alone in our grief. We stared at the moist footprints that littered the floor. The silence inside the house was slightly disquieting. But we internalized the subtle sounds that did exist: the boards that creaked without provocation, the steady ticking of clocks, and the constant drone of an outdated refrigerator. These noises were present all along, but we had chose to ignore them, like they were an elderly chain smoking relative who recited the same stories until he passed away. Listening to our quiet remorse, we now yearned for those tales, unsure of whether we missed their content or concept.
The three of us lingered behind for a few hours, bickering over dirty dishes and cleanup duties. Once the chores were completed, we were not ready to leave. We were crippled with too many facts and not enough faith. Scared of my impending sobriety, I reclaimed the bottle of aged liquor that we had failed to finish earlier. Bristling with nervous energy, we remained inside the cramped, fluorescent lit room. We each poured a glassful of fire, and then sat around playing a spirited game of crazy eights until both whiskey and sorrow disappeared.
http://www.geocities.com/seethesun2012/
For details on it. Even though it is already getting published, I would love you all to crit, because I can still revise it some before I put it in my book of short stories (whenever I get off my ass and finish it). Holla back, and by the way, this is purely fictional...1
Whiskey Mourning
Birch trees were shagged with ice, while power lines stayed frozen in their cross-town reach. It was February, that fast-paced month filled with romantic intentions and subzero temperatures. With so much uncertainty crammed into twenty eight days, nobody could have ever predicted that my grandfather’s funeral would need to be penciled into our family’s itinerary.
I imagine it snowed that day, considering that the folks who visited after the memorial service tracked frigid moisture onto the carpet. This was the brownstone my grandfather had purchased during the late Sixties. He had purposely moved the family to this affluent section of town, his personal contribution to desegregation. This was my father’s father and he believed in hard work, honesty, and other tenets that American society has forgotten. My father recited fables about him that morning, dramatic stories that sounded like a crossbreeding of biblical parables and reality television. He claimed that Grandpa served as a repository for all the information that most people simply forgot. I smiled at this tidbit; I could now pinpoint the source of my uncanny trivia talents.
I remember my father and uncle and I lurked within the kitchen after the funeral, chugging bitter whiskey like it was Kool-Aid. My uncle contributed to our intoxicated nostalgia, reciting memories of our departed loved one between deep coughs. His hacking was plagued with phlegm and cancer. My uncle’s charred voice swallowed a stream menthol tears as he broke down. Although nearly fifty, he was reduced to childhood sobs when confronted with the notion of life without paternal guidance. I glanced at the healed scars of self-doubt on the insides of his wrists, ugly souvenirs of a troubled adolescence. My glazed eyes focused on my uncle’s sagging brown face, his chin slumped beneath the weight of past lies. I tipped back another shot and sucked air through my teeth as a chaser, allowing the high-octane whiskey to burn my throat as it trickled downward.
It was my turn to talk, so I spoke about when Grandpa had encountered my future ex-wife for the first time. We had been courting for just a few weeks, but she desperately wanted to meet my kinfolk. After some convincing nagging, I took her to our family reunion. Relatives were immediately steeped in controversy. A person didn’t need a hearing aid to decipher the boisterous whispering; aunts and cousins announced that I must have had some nerve bringing a Barbie-doll white woman to such a function. Sensing tension, my grandfather took one look at her, with her chopstick blond hair and wide-set blue eyes, and gave her a passionate hug as if she was a long lost daughter. “Welcome to our family,” he proclaimed. People piped down, all side gossiping ceased, and she was accepted from that point until the start of our divorce hearings. Grandpa always had a way of diffusing the tension in the most explosive of situations.
My father, uncle, and I marinated our stomachs with whiskey while mourning, ignoring the fact that it was technically still morning. Any more booze would have been venom in our bloodstream. I told a corny joke about it being noon somewhere with a slurred delivery that only other drunkards would find humorous. We all laughed in unison.
The snowfall and our drinking eventually leveled off. Soon everyone else offered their sympathy and left us alone in our grief. We stared at the moist footprints that littered the floor. The silence inside the house was slightly disquieting. But we internalized the subtle sounds that did exist: the boards that creaked without provocation, the steady ticking of clocks, and the constant drone of an outdated refrigerator. These noises were present all along, but we had chose to ignore them, like they were an elderly chain smoking relative who recited the same stories until he passed away. Listening to our quiet remorse, we now yearned for those tales, unsure of whether we missed their content or concept.
The three of us lingered behind for a few hours, bickering over dirty dishes and cleanup duties. Once the chores were completed, we were not ready to leave. We were crippled with too many facts and not enough faith. Scared of my impending sobriety, I reclaimed the bottle of aged liquor that we had failed to finish earlier. Bristling with nervous energy, we remained inside the cramped, fluorescent lit room. We each poured a glassful of fire, and then sat around playing a spirited game of crazy eights until both whiskey and sorrow disappeared.