Monday, March 28, 2011

pay-what-you-can sale story: Dave

Hey Tanya,

I love the idea. And I hope you raise a lot of cash to go on a great adventure. I’ve got two stories for you for a print… first one is:
Had a baby 14 months ago today. Was hoping the economy wouldn’t hurt the shrink population in LA, but it apparently has. And what’dya know…there’s another Cuzin Dave jr in the oven that we didn’t plan for!
Ok, so that’s the ‘singing the blues, and I love photos’ story.
The other one is based on the photo I really like (Untitled 80415 (Auburn, Maine), the snowy, winter, Maine scene.  It’s a short story I wrote awhile ago that this photo reminded me of.  Hope all’s well in the north land.


          Eighteen years had pulled my shoulder blades back and made them wide. My chin had lost its roundness. My hands had grown longer and thick. My flesh now had memories all its own. Each finger would recall their first dangerous freeze from Winter years before. They would begin to puff themselves white when I had let them linger too long in the cold. “Here,” my mother would insist. “take Dad’s other good pair of gloves out with you… the wind is picking up.” And I would take them each time and walk outside into the gray light to meet him.
            My father turned his stare from straight ahead down to the frozen earth. His lips would crack with patience with me now. We walked together out through our front yard. It was silent and our feet echoed in thuds against the ground. He had the same face last year, carved with steady lines, angled and more sure of a kind of beauty than he was. I saw our breath rise up and signal to the deer to bound into the gray and evergreen forest wall. We carried axes…mauls made of steel, the heads of which were solid, heavy triangles. Mine seemed smaller and lighter this year.
            We walked with matching strides, our feet and pant-legs marching. We were quiet. The woodpile stopped us. It looked as if it had grown wider, tall and heavy. For a moment I felt very tired. The wool of my shirt began to itch with sweat around my neck. My arm felt suddenly long from carrying the maul. There were animals resting deep in this wood housing. They would awaken to our throws, to our violence.
            My father stood still and quiet. He looked from the wood—it lay there like fat carcasses we had slain—and then out into the field towards the house. Taking off his gloves, he rubbed his thick hands, all the scarring cuts that were never looked after. Mother would see the dried blood and the gape of a deep cut somewhere on him and curse his stubbornness. I looked at my own hands, long and beautiful, boyish, with boyish calluses that knew they were out of place. He took his eyes from his hands up to our rooftop circled with smoke. I saw his eyes begin to match the gray he saw. I watched him thinking he might drown from chopping wood.

-Cuz D.

No comments:

Post a Comment

Real Time Web Analytics