The Writer

its a short story about a writer and what he has gone through living in the shadow of his mother " the successful writer" and what it has done to his mind. This is just the first part of chapter 1

THE WRITER

 

He rubs his forehead for the seventh time in the past minute. A gesticulation that he  inherited from his mother during times of elevated stress. He still remembers that vivid memory and it hunts his days and petrifies his nights to the point that a full nights rest has become just a dream, rather more a daymare he cannot go to sleep from to get away.

He sits back in his chair that belonged to her for so many years. The old chair; it has that tatty out look to it. The cloth smells like a cigarette butt can when introduce to sitting water, Nonetheless he sits and begins to drift into this world of memoirs so live in color that Jacob in spite of all the years past,is still able to sense her aroma.

 

There he was in the office where she did her work and her best work indeed, this office became her coffin and the nails were her masterpieces that sent her to the god of her choosing, “if she even believed in a god,” he thinks out loud 

“Lost she would be, right in front of me” he thinks in a laud voice as she kicked him as one would kick a bothersome dog licking at your feet. “I was right under her desk and she would not even acknowledge me for months at a time. I was a motherless hobo with a place to stay and some food to stop the hunger pains. She was an empty shell that kept warm while I was in school. How could she write those things and not be able to speak a single word to her own children”

 

He reaches into his pockets and pulls out the same poison sticks that killed her along a worn out zippo lighter, with one strike to the lighter so he begins. Lost in the same chair where she lost him, he attempts to look at the world that she saw for such an elongated time. The windows of the room were gray and thick with smog from the countless cigarettes that destroyed her lungs. The old burgundy carpet that rested beneath his feet was filled with more than just circumstantial evidence of her disconnection with the world.

 

He recalls the days when veiling under her desk was the safest place for him to be, when this world begun to draw closer down on his petite shoulders, the quadrangular emptiness of the desk was his fallout shelter and the forehead stroke was a small window that let the light of peace seep through.

A man that has been tortured by the overshadowing presence of his mother for the better part of his adult life. Hence his childhood torturing she achieved with a faded and worn out men's  leather belt that once belonged to the male that simply donated his seeds into Mary  (but that’s a different story)

 

The shadow of Mary was not what perturbed him; it was the permanent solar eclipse of her writings that darkened his very own existence in the eyes of the writing community.

An art form that much like a delicate rose needs its own light to flourish, except now he’s art it’s just a withered weed in the grazing land of American literature and that hurts him just as much if not much more than the thrashings from the old notorious leather belt.

Reviews

[Coyote Poetry]

A powerful and worthwhile read.
"The shadow of Mary was not what perturbed him; it was the permanent solar eclipse of her writings that darkened his very own existence in the eyes of the writing community."
The above lines made me think. Writing consist of many things. Need people who love the words and people who cherish the books written. Thank you for sharing the excellent story.
Coyote

[Mind Giant]

Coyote, thank you for your time. It's is very true what you say. Without those that you said. Nothing we write matters. It's been a while hope all is well with you man.

[Coyote Poetry]

Was my pleasure and you are welcome.