4.01.2010

fiction une

I have never been one to write fiction....fiction is fake...its all lies. Well, not really. I guess I just always thought the truth was more interesting to write. 


I recently started a short term fiction writing class. This is one of the pieces I wrote that received great feedback from the class. 


Let me know what you think....


We liked our coffee strong. Hers with a splash of creamer but just enough to transform the dark silk into a light mocha. However on the weekends she added a knife full of home harvested honey. Mine, just black. No matter the day. Always black.

We always sat face to face looking up from our laptops only long enough to periodically wink at each other. She browsed the web while I researched. She caught up with friends on Facebook while I read the latest on healthcare reform.

It was cold that morning. Snowing actually. The first snow of the season. I could hear the snow plows in the background. They certainly wouldn't make it down this way for a day or so. Just as long as the power and cable were on, we'd be fine.

The knock at the door startled us as no one ventured down this far. Only us locals took the journey. The knock was sharp. Intense. I'd been glancing outside periodically that morning and I hadn't seen anyone come up the drive. We both looked up at the third knock. The usual suspects would have come in after the first.

Without words she decided that I should be the one to fetch the door. Begrudgingly I slowly unfolded myself from the breakfast nook and lumbered towards the front of the house. My knees crackling with each step. They had never been the same since the accident.

As I grabbed for the door handle another knock raddled the stained glass. She hollered from the kitchen. Her words inaudible. Ya, ya. I thought to myself knowing what she said without hearing her words.

I turned the knob and made a mental note that I needed to replace the threshold on the back door. The damn draft was getting worse.

I tilted my head up just slightly. Only enough to see the shoes. Right off, I knew something was amiss.

I was 21 when I left home. My mother had raised my older brother and I after that guy left us two days after my fifth birthday. She was never the same. The shame kept her in the house 23 hours a day. She would venture outside, no matter the weather, everyday at 3am. We joked that she was like the US postal service. Neither wind, rain or snow would keep her. It wasn't funny. It was sad. Really sad. If we'd had more family, I am sure someone would have committed her, but no other family existed. Just my brother and I. What did we know? My brother, only three years my senior was just entering the girl obsession stage. To him, my mother was a burden, already. For me, I did my best to make sure that she stayed clean, fed and smiled. Getting my mother to smile was a daily chore. Just like cooking, cleaning, folding laundry. It was just part of my day. We all existed in that house, full of memories until the day my brother turned 16 and he got his license. We never saw him again.

The smell of strong coffee in the background brought me back to present day. Standing on our front stoop he looked old. Really old. It might have been the overcoat and cap, but the years had not treated him well. The creases in his forehead and corners of his eyes were deep. His eyes seemed grayer than I remember and his teeth matched the snowy background. 


"Hi." He tentatively uttered.

4 comments:

Joann Mannix said...

Extraordinary.

You might not like fiction, but you do it sublimely. Kudos. Keep up the good work.

Lisa said...

I want to be able to turn the page and read the rest......I love it!

Andrea Christine Lagourgue said...

I have noticed that fiction tends to write itself....who knows what the next page would bring. Thank you for reading!

Hilary said...

More...more...I need a good book right now.:) You are a natural. Keep pursuing your passion. You have a gift!