this began as something somewhat different. I wanted the young 'voice' for the story (therefore I can play with tense and odd wordage and such), but the plotting was to be different...way different (was a young girl, was an entire town, and was no 'whippings' at all). but this is what came out, so Ill toss it here. then Ill think about it and the 'correct' plot and rewrite it...Im kinda hopped-up about what I got in mind, actually.

plus, theres another story (The Old Man, which is a lame title and soon to be changed) about two paragraphs shy of final first draft...I might wanna work on that as soon as I post this. that one, the one with the bad title--imho--is way too long for what it is--I need to take a sharp knife to it and condense it like it's milk (damn, thats stupid...milk? condense w/knife? hahahaha--Im an idjit).

so before I simile myself further into a metaphoric corner, here's an untitled bit of fluff for yer reading displeasure:





Mommy is finally taking us away. Here’s why, ‘cause our house is haunted is why. I don’t think mommy’s lying, but also I don’t believe mommy, but I guess that don’t matter. What’s a thirteen-year-old boy got to say about stuff that’s important anyway.

If daddy was here, he’d be able to say something; mommy always listened to him. And when she didn’t listen, daddy would whip her until she did—like he used to whip me and Amy. After a whipping (or a punch in the stomach—“like Ali,” he’d say and I didn’t know what that meant), and plus a lot of times an overnight stay in the shed, mommy would be all nice and stuff and be agreeable to daddy.

I didn’t think he should hit Amy, though, because she was younger than me. I kind of figured she was too young to understand some things, and whippings hurt. To me, it seemed like she shouldn’t have got the belt. To me, it was like her being only seven, maybe daddy should have just smacked her face like he had done me when I was that age, and hold off on the whippings until she reached like maybe ten or something.

But anyway, we’re going to live with grandma. She has a house in Bellaire, which is just the next town up the Ohio River, and she has lots of room. I won’t have to sleep with Amy anymore. And I’ll be all happy ‘cause she gets up to pee a lot and that wakes me up. Then I’m sleepy at school the next day and sometimes get demerits. Before, when daddy was alive and I got a demerit, I’d get a horrible whipping, so I tried hard to be a good kid in school. But now, mommy doesn’t whip me; she doesn’t even care if I’m alive I sometimes think. ‘Specially since she started talking about that ghost at our house. She never said, but I think that she thinks it was daddy. And what’s funny, if she would ask me, I would tell her; daddy is still there.

He can’t touch me now, which means no whippings, but he still yells at me. Not all the time, either, just during “those nights.” I’m embarrassed about it, but also helpless to stop it: the sticky stuff in my underpants that comes when I’m sleeping. When I wake up with it in my pants, that’s when daddy starts yelling. He’ll yell about mommy most of the time, screaming in words I’ve never heard before. But even with the funny sounding words, I know what he’s saying.

Aint that funny?

I asked Amy if she has seen daddy since he left (mommy says he ‘passed,’ but that sounds like maybe he just farted so I say he’s left) and she says no.

But mommy has seen daddy. Like I said, she won’t say it was him, but how else can you explain those red welts on her face? She didn’t do it; she wouldn’t slap herself or punch herself. I know mommy and she couldn’t possibly hit herself hard enough to have broken her own front tooth this morning. She just says we’re leaving, and that’s that.

The car’s almost packed. Mommy made me mad, too, ’cause I can’t take a lot of my stuff—she just wants me to grab some clothes and stuff. I got to leave my Playstation and all my model cars, and that’s what is making me all mad and stuff. She says we ain’t coming back either. At first I started crying, but I stopped ‘cause I know when tears will work and when they wont. Besides, I’m a big boy now. I can ask my cousin to drive me here tomorrow and get my important stuff.

I think mommy’s almost ready to go. I hear her and Amy outside arguing; trying to shove bags of stuff into the trunk and backseat (You’re doing it wrong, dammit! Put that over there!”)—which means me and Amy has to share the front seat and that is so uncool. I hope none of my friends see me.

Daddy’s been gone for a week—he left (not “passed gas”) on a Sunday night and today is Sunday and we’re leaving and I don’t like it. I’ll miss daddy. And I don’t want grandma to see my wet underpants, either. I wonder if daddy’ll talk in those odd words to me at her house. I hope not, it’s kind of scary even though it is daddy.

Mommy looked bad when she was here in my bedroom a little bit ago yelling at me to pack. Her face is all swollen and that missing tooth is funny-looking. There’s black stuff around her eyes, like from when daddy used to hit her in the eye and it’d turn all crazy purple and stuff. Both eyes this time, daddy must have been really mad today.

“Get down here, Evan,” mommy just yelled, so that means I’m going now. Time to leave and I don’t want to. I wish daddy would stop her; I wish daddy would come right now and make her stop leaving. I don’t want to go to grandma’s.

And sheesh, I’ll have to go to a new school, too. I’ll have to go to Bellaire school and I don’t like those kids. They always come to town and tear-up stuff after football games.

“Daddy, please, make mommy stop!” and as soon as the words fly out of my mouth I feel that crazy wetness in my underwear.

Does that mean...?






[to be continued...possible, but not probable]