First Available Cousin

It had still been dark when we were called.  It wasn't a pajama run; I was dressed, but still slept a few miles in the car.  There were no cousins for me to play with this time.  We lived closest, most available for urgency, first on the scene.

I couldn't wait on the big porch, too much winter for that now.  I missed the wooden swing, missed the creaking and mesmerizing motion of the thing.  Last summer we rode, four cousins abreast in that swing for hours of false alarm.  My oldest cousin told of broken swing chains and loose eye bolts that, in some parallel child universe sent chubby pink tots, not unlike myself, sailing in full pendulant moment, sailing loose in the air before finding the steel spikes of the wrought iron fence well below porch level.  A lucky one missed the fence to be crucified in the mock orange bush.  She was saved, as the tale went, by an uncle by marriage, and only had her eyes gouged out by thorns for her trouble.  We cousins loved that swing, relished the idea of it and I longed for the day I could be the oldest cousin and tell the tale, with improvements.

Now, it was winter and I waited in stale stifle too near the gas logs in the parlor.  When there was a full complement of cousins the parlor was off limits, too many fragile memories to be exposed to rough usage of youth. One was an acceptable number though.  I sat on my hands avoiding the sensuous feel of Dresden figurines and the other flotsam of irreplaceable family history.    

There was, almost lost in the repeating pattern of pink roses, a painting, a woodcut really.  Japanese, I suppose today, assuming the future role of older cousin.  Blue ink and black, with a touch of red in the eye of a rampant, distant sea risen dragon, an icon of the storm in the foreground.  The real hero of the drawing was the wave about to crash down on a frail boat.  There could be no possible reprieve from that wave.  It was a wave of inevitability.  I watched the wave until I could hear a phantom wind, smell spectral salt and rotting squid.  I watched the wave until...

" Your Grandmother has passed on."  The words woke me.

"Do you understand what I mean? Do you understand death? Your Grandmother is dead."  

Of course I understood death.  That's why we were here, wasn't it?

Author's Note

Your reading and your comments are appreciated.

Reviews

[W.k.kortas]

There are any number of wonderful visual touches here--the Dresden figurines, the noting of a painting being "a woodcut really". The juxtaposition of pajama-clad youth and the death of a granpdarent, not to mention the rather odd but inventive notion of hierarchy/succession for cousins. This is all put together with great skill, and it's not the kind of thing that happens by accident; this is top-shelf craftmanship.

[Delmar Cooper]

kortas, thank you for your comments. I like the notion of craftsmanship - flattering and appealing to ambition. You do me too much honor.

[knapp darko]

I enjoyed this story, I like how you explained things and painted visual pictures for the reader to imagine. I think this story could even be fleshed out more. good story

[Nusquam Esse]

Very interesting balance between developing a character and painting a vivid scene of memories... extending to the objects themselves. I absolutely adore your final lines, that really brought this together into a masterstroke finish. I love how detached it all feels, and the blunt statement of the obvious. Considering my love for a strong final line, this one leaves a good taste on the tongue so to speak. My only complaint here would be a lack of variation in punctuation, I think you overuse commas... several of them should probably be semicolons or hyphens. I doubt you need an explanation of how these work, considering your own skill, so pointing it out should suffice. Sorry, been a bit busy with work so I have not had much time to spend on here.

[Delmar Cooper]

Thanks for reading and your gracious comments. I'll review the punctuation. My spinchter knots up every time I see a semicolon and Word translates dashes to quotation marks, but other than than Mrs. Lincoln I'm glad you liked the play.

[Nusquam Esse]

Ah, well, the secret is to keep it as -- rather than allowing it to be a full hyphen. Sorta irritating to have to edit them that way... I am sure my punctuation is hardly spot on, since most of my choices revolve around the feeling of the pause I want to give than any legitimate writing convention. Good to see you are doing well, and have not passed up your snarky sense of humour.

[h d e rushin]

sadly Delmar (and you know my story) I read prose only to see what i'm doing wrong by it.
Perhaps in that highly absorbent way, or ardent desire, to get it right. You always
get it right. Each time. Each story......I hate you.

But only because, as the years pile up, one never forgets how to be jealous. You're a wonderful
writer.

Every time.....
Love always......dana

[Delmar Cooper]

I sometimes smile at the little Siskel and Ebert thumbs displayed at the bottom of a reviewer's comment. Of course the review is constructive, even a vitriolic skin rending review says something, if not something about the piece then sometning about the reviewer. You review gets a thumbs up not because you found that nasty comma splice or reminded me if it beginneth in present tense it should endeth in present, but because a warm hand on a shoulder is a great comfort. One thought about jealousy: If I could write a short story the way you can write a poem -Oh my! Anthology without end, Amen. I would be the bane of every high school sophomore.

[Rudi J.P. Lejaeghere]

I've got a lot of cousins, but never have been so close. The image of the wooden swing is very good. I can picture me the porch in the evening with a lot of cousins, swinging and drinking a beer out of the bottle. Very nice. Liked it. :)
Rudi

[Delmar Cooper]

Thanks for reading and sharing your thoughts. Even little stories need to be told, I think.

[Lyn Anderson]

I like the way this flows and reads -- a little colloquial, quaint -- I would love to hear you read it.

[Delmar Cooper]

Do you ever check out books on tape from the library? Here's a hint, never check out those read by the author. Find one read by an actor. Writers only "think" they can read.

[Lyn Anderson]

Sometimes that is true, sometimes not.

[Delmar Cooper]

It was true for Isaac Asimov. What an accent!

[Lyn Anderson]

I would read for you but I don't know what the accent is -- I am relatively good at some, but not subtle ones.

[Emily B]

oh, wow! kortas invited me and he never disappoints. Looking forward to reading more of you, definitely!

[Delmar Cooper]

Thanks for reading and your kind comments.

[AdamGunther]

Really, really enjoy this piece Delmar. I love the setup originally, as someone who is close with his cousins as well you painted an excellent image and then the last 2 sentences are eerie but in a good way.

[Delmar Cooper]

Thank you for reading and commenting. I was a bloodthirsty child and therefore assume all children are. Witness the success of the Grimm brothers.

[Ken Simm.]

Brought to this by WK, (thankyou) and have been imediately struck by the same concept of craftmanship that he noted. It takes such to put what is essential a private world into the conciousness of all serious readers. The process of procssing memories into art is very apparent here.

[Delmar Cooper]

I am obliged to you for your kind comment, and to kortas for mentioning this piece. I did not spend time at the keyboard on this, but I fermented it in the churn above my collar bones for a good while. It seems to me the simpler things are the difficult things. Anyone can make a wedding cake; breakfast is a different matter. I have read and commented on a poem of yours that caught my eye. Gothic Romance.

[Ken Simm.]

You are more than welcome. I will return soon.