the moment i realized my family meant nothing to me, my dad hurled his bladed words into my fragile memory. he called me a cynical little bitch for one reason or another while my sister gazed with terrified eyes. there was no protecting her or me.
we were the victims of failed word choice.
i can't remember was never an excuse. but sometimes it's true. i just can't invent the past, or reasons why my father, carrying then 44 years, would ever degrade himself by insulting his oldest.
my dad may have the iq of a card-carrying MENSA member, but most of the time his mentality mimics a teenage boy who just wants to get his way. i can see him sitting across from me in a classroom. he's the one who divides his periods through shut eyes - who never really tries but determines through power he'll be the one ruling the world in ten years. dark moose hair sprayed across his temple, numbering the breaths he takes...
an accomplishment, i think.
if he could give me one piece of advice, he should say,
"i hope you never aspire to be me."
then,
i could safely craft my future without fear of failure.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
3 comments:
"we were the victims of failed word choice"
great line.
i think if you looked over and picked apart your words and made sure your word choice was what you meant it to be, this would be a stronger piece.
I definitely think that the adjective "bladed" needs to be changed. It totally reminds me of the cliche "words cut into my heart or something like that.
look at the verb you have in front of it. "hurled". maybe something to go along with that? the verb kind of made me think of a cannonball. I dont know if that'll help any, but you know.
as for your comment on my piece. I typed it up exactly how it was in my notebook as a freewrite. I didnt have time to look it over. The end might has seemed vague because I didn't truly develop my "embodiment" of my grandfather. It has to do with a time in my life that I had consumed some alcohol, therefore relating myself to him.
I loves your writing dearie.
This was very moving. I don't really talk to my dad that much, and if I argue with someone or bug them, that someone is my mom. Thankfully she doesn't swear at me when I forget to put dinner in the oven. My dad was offended when my mom got mad at him and called him a jerk, so I highly doubt he'll ever call me a witch with a b.
Post a Comment