literature

a little less

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Literature Text

I spend three days after my birthday rooted to the bluff overlooking the harbor.  On the fourth day, when I am busy picking out shapes in the clouds, the ship arrives and I don’t even notice ‘till it’s right there, docking.  I’m on my feet and leaping through the tall grass in moments; I have no shadow in the blue-gray November morning.  The sky is the color of my father’s eyes, and the color of the sea.

There’s a crowd--I should’ve been early enough to avoid them--but I’m small and I push through easily enough.

“Nick!” I shout to a crew member I recognize.  

“Hey, Drake, buddy!”

“How’s it?” I ask, scanning the ship, which is by now crawling with the crew.

“Excellent, mate!  Now we’re in port there’ll be beer, good food… women--”

“Nicholas!  You louse, shut yer mouth,” hollers another sailor I know, John.  He pushes over to us and tussles my hair.  “How are ya, lad?”

“Good, where’s my father?”  In the corner of my eye I can see my mother’s face; upturned, pale--all of the crew have dispersed, and we are both looking at the now empty ship.  

“Well, erm, lad…”  John reaches out to put a hand on my shoulder, but I am already backing away.

“No… no, you don’t mean…?”

He sighs and nods.

I turn and run, shoving through the crowd, not caring when I bump into an old woman, bare feet slapping on the cobblestone, ignoring the discomfort of irregular stones, then feet thumping on packed dirt, then skimming the grass between me and the house.   

I land on my bed, crushing my face against the pillows.  I’m not even crying, just shaking uncontrollably, trying to draw breaths in between shudders; all I know was none of this was supposed to happen.

“Drake.”  My mother is back.

I sit up and look at her.  There is a redness around her eyes, something I have gotten used to; her black hair hangs limp, with no shine, and her fingers, clutching a corner of her skirt, tremble.  Her hands are always white.  

“Could you go get some more firewood, please.”

“Yes mother.”

As I walk through the house, I pass the empty crib my father built before he went to sea.  As I walk through the backyard towards the wood pile, I pass a small gravestone.
Written for *simplyprose July prompts. All of them. The list is here.

I'm proud of this, I guess mainly from the fact that I worked in four prompts. I'm going to enable the critique feature though, in case anyone wants to pick apart the plot :bucktooth:.

isn't my preview image pretty? it's the first one I've done in ages. Here's the stock link: Ship Sailing Stock.
© 2009 - 2024 mackwrites
Comments14
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simplyprose's avatar
:star::star::star::star::star-half: Overall
:star::star::star::star::star-empty: Vision
:star::star::star::star::star-empty: Originality
:star::star::star::star::star: Technique
:star::star::star::star::star: Impact

Ah--well presented; there's a good mix of dancing around the subject and dealing with reality, which is exactly what would be expected of the character, even though it's a little unclear how old he is--12, 13 perhaps? I really enjoyed the way the beginning set up the scene; especially the line "I have no shadow..." as well as the various uses of colors throughout this piece.

The ending is completely depressing, way to trample that vague happy mood at the beginning! It was well done; the build up is smooth, going from excitement to sadness and then even more sadness, so it's not more overwhelming than it should be.

I'm not completely convinced you need the very last line, although the parallel construction there is nice; calling the crib 'empty' summarized the situation, at least for me.

Well done! (I hope you've got a continuation in your head where things improve a little for these guys...<img src="e.deviantart.net/emoticons/s/s…" width="15" height="15" alt=":)" title=":) (Smile)" />)