Thank you for reading and commenting. It is autobiographical, which in ways can make it technically difficult. I know the whole story, so I write it and let others point out holes my mind may be glossing over.
Short Story / I Knew
When I was six I knew. Hell, I probably knew long before that. I knew what it meant when my father came home smelling sour and funny. Those nights were becoming more and more common. Those nights my mother looked angry and tired. I knew the bottles on the bar in the dining room. What it meant when they were left open, their sour and bitter smells wafting. I knew what it meant when my father sat slumped in a chair in the corner of the living room, amber liquid-filled glass in his hand, ice cubes melting slowly. Suit jacket thrown over the arm of the sofa, tie loosened, legs stretched out long before him, expensive loafers gleaming in the lamplight.
I knew what it meant when dinner was silent and slow. My mother irritated and distant, my father slowly emptying another drink. I cut my brother’s steak for him, trying to ignore the angry words that punctuated the silence of the dining room. Slowly I drew a smiley face in ketchup on my brother’s plate for him to dip his potatoes in. I pushed my chair closer to his, and whispered funny things about peas and carrots, pushing them around on his plate with a french fry as angry words flew past us like daggers.
I knew what it meant as the night got darker and the smell of whiskey thickened in the living room. My mother slammed pots and pans cleaning the kitchen after dinner. His tie was off, and his face looked angry. He was slumped again in the chair in the corner, a fresh glass sweating on the gleaming wooden table. We sat and drew or played quietly. I tried to go to my room, but was called back time and again for “family time”. I made funny faces at my brother, and we lay stretched out on the floor next to each other giggling, silenced only by irritated bleary-eyed glaring. We lay silently, my brother with his stuffed monkey, me with my book. My mother stormed through, lifting his glass, wiping the table, sliding a coaster in place and slamming the glass back down.
The night got later and I waited and hoped for bedtime. The sharp comments and angry looks were coming fast and furious between them. The sour smelling drinks were disappearing faster, and his face was becoming red. I colored and drew and read and tried to think of anything but the angry words bouncing off the walls. My brother curled against me in his fuzzy-footed pajamas, pushing a crayon over a big sheet of paper, eyes sleepy.
He stood suddenly, scooping my brother up in his arms, tossing him high and, thankfully, catching him in unsteady arms. My wide, green, child’s eyes followed him as he arced through the air, screaming and laughing, yet almost crying. Mercifully…bedtime. Herded upstairs to my canopy bed. I stared across at my brother as he snuggled in on the lower bunk of the big wooden bunk beds he would later grow in to, and out of. I nodded slowly and tried to smile through the goodnights and clumsy smeared goodnight kiss on the forehead, hating the strong smell of the booze. The smeared kiss smoothed by my mother’s weary hand. Door closed slowly.
I stared across at my brother, snuggling his stuffed monkey, cheek pressed to his pillow. Singing softly songs of Star Wars monkeys, the battle of peas and carrots and bananas in space, punctuated by a chorus of shouting drifting up from downstairs. Waiting for him to sleep, hoping he would dream of silly songs and ketchup smileys and funny french fry games.
I knew when I was six, as I stared up at my canopy, the soft sounds of my brother’s sleep drowned out by argument in crescendo rising, that dinnertime should be nicer, evening family time should be warmer, and bedtime should be quieter. I knew when I was six the signals of the smells, sights and sounds of my father’s drinking. And I knew each night that the following night would be the same. But every night I drifted off hoping. Hoping with a little girl’s heart that tomorrow would be different.
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notmrright reviewed Version 1 -
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alaricmc reviewed Version 1 -
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This is professional and clean. In fact, I only have one structural point, which is that very odd “the battle of peas and carrots and bananas in space” inclusion – I had to read that part three times, and it’s still so tall and confusingly shaped that it casts a shadow over the rest of the sentence. I really would remove it.
The atmosphere you create is suffocatingly real. Maybe one too many references to angry words, but overall a bleak house rivetingly imagined. If I had to make two suggestions for improvement they would be (a) to smooth out the time references at the beginning, because there is an unnecessary transition between how this girl perceived “all days” (“those nights” and how she remembers the one night in question and (b) to create a scene towards the end – an actual event within the day, involving dialogue, to distinguish this day and provide the reader with a narrative arc.
Good, strong work.
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January 08, 2007
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This is heart-wrenching and evocative of my own childhood in some parts. Because of this I feel I can empathise with the main character. I’ve written some pieces which relate to this type of domestic scene – although, alas, not many, because I find them depressing and don’t wish to relive those times.
It’s a good cathartic exercise to write of those times, but life has moved on, I’ve dealt with those times – and as the protagonist in this story does – I found hope.
I hope for you that this story isn’t autobiographical in any way!
Taking a look at your goals for this I am wondering where this kind of story could be published? The writing is good but I’m not sure there’s a market for it? I’m no expert, though, so I could be wrong.
Overall, this is a hugely evocative, sad, desperate and haunting tale. I hope it has a happy ending…
Billinnlr reviewed Version 1 -
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I can strongly identify with this story. The only things I can see that I would add would be a little more drama in certain passages. For instance, when the father tossed the brother into the air, a pause here with more descriptive language, painting a picture for us of a child caught between terror and joy, of the sister fearing for her brothers safety and yet at the same time wishing for her fathers attention. I think that could have helped, but who am I to be critical. I liked the story and I would certainly be interested in reading more.
tarlia reviewed Version 1 -
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This is a very nice piece capturing family life with an alcoholic father and how despite that, they are trying to hold it together. I feel sad for the young narrator in the story. Hope is all she has at that age.
Just an observation: the beginning of your story suggests that she is reflecting from some point in the future. To me, it also suggests that something else happened when she and the brother grew older but none of this is addressed in the story.
KK reviewed Version 1 -
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I really like this. Good description and great creation of tension. You’ve managed to keep the voice of the six year very well. Although I was wondering why you suddenly started calling the alcohol booze and whisky. Would the six year old really call them that after having it as a nameless drink?
So now the dreaded question, is it done? Or is there more to come? It feels like there should be more, I hope there is. Anyway, good luck and keep writing!
Robster reviewed Version 1 -
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I liked your writing it was kind of sad but it was funny and happy at the same time which made it not so sad and I liked the part where you were describing your parents words bouncing on the walls and you trying to ignore it and trying to make your brother happy it was good good job!
maken reviewed Version 1 -
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I like the realism of this piece, it isn’t a Disney movie, yet the little girl is not depressed and she doesn’t lose hope about the future. There are some words that are repeated. I would suggest either repeating them more for effect, or changing them.
Ex: In p.1 and 4 both you say sour drinks and in 6 and 2 both you say punctuated. punctuated sounds fine in p.2, but if you want to keep with the theme of daggers, you could use punctured. It gives it a more gruesome ring if that is what you are looking for. In a piece that is this short, I would like to see some words that are vapid like angry swapped for something spicier like enraged, irate, burning, etc.
This story is well written, and I can see more potential in it. Keep it up.
uncle_gibb reviewed Version 1 -
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catluckey reviewed Version 1 -
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