Phoenix

Just a random story I started. There's some trains-of-thoughts here and there. Please review and comment...I like constructive criticism! It's not really an adventure story (see genre) but, well...

The air was cool and crisp when I stepped outside. I zipped up my windbreaker so high the pull tickled against my chin. The streets of Antigonish, Nova Scotia were practically deserted that Saturday morning- and that was just the way I liked it.

            The few coins I had jingled in my pockets. My mother had sent me off for our weekly Sunday errands. The storefronts on Main Street would just be opening up now. After filling my canvas bag with the necessary ingredients I would head back up to our blue-shuttered house and start on breakfast.

            My breath made a perfect cloud in the chilly air. It was nearing the end of April but ocean winds from the water still wafted up to the little town of Antigonish. The Atlantic was still much too cold to swim in, though brave scuba divers did attempt to. When the summer months came my school-friends and I would slip into our bathing suits and jump in.

            My first stop was the bakery. My mother was close friends with the owner, Amelia; at the end of each visit she would slip a scone or two into my bag. Amelia was small and plump, with rosy cheeks and kind brown eyes the color of chocolate. She looked tired that morning, but most storeowners did- Friday nights in Antigonish were a swashbuckling time, with pubs and parlors open late.

            Amelia smiled at me when I opened the bakery door. “Hello, Phoenix,” she said, pushing a stray strand of hair behind her ear and pulling me into a hug. “The usual, I presume?”

            I nodded. “Yes. A loaf of brown, sliced thick, please.”

            Amelia disappeared behind the counter and returned with the bread. She slipped a raspberry-chocolate scone into the bag and pushed it across the counter. “That’s three dollars, Phoenix. Do you have the money here or shall I put it on your tab?”

            I dug the coins out of my pocket and passed them to Amelia. She smiled and waved as I hurried out the door, shielding my face from the cold.

            The next stop was the grocer. Vincent was a butch man, with broad shoulders and thick eyebrows set straight above his steel-grey eyes. I paid for the milk, eggs, and yogurt quickly, avoiding his glare. Something about the man had always made me nervous.

            And then I headed back home. It had been an uneventful trip, nothing exciting except for Amelia’s scone. I nibbled on it as I made my way up the steep hill to our house. I loved where we lived- the tall Victorian home, painted white with bright blue shutters and a tire swing hanging from the oak tree in the front yard.

            I let myself in the side door. Mother was sitting at the kitchen table, her hands a crafty blur as she painted her latest sculpture. My mother is an artist. She sells her work- paintings and clay, pastels and portraits- in her own town gallery. I am proud of her, even if the profession doesn’t bring in too much money. I am proud of the artwork that lines the hallways and bedrooms.

            “Hello, Phoenix,” said Mother. She set aside her paintbrush and stood up. My mother is the person who I inherited my looks from. I have short auburn hair and blue eyes the color of the Nova Scotia waters, just like she does. We are both slender and average-height. Our personalities are as fiery as our red hair.

I unloaded my bag and started on breakfast. We have an old-fashioned kerosene stove that only works when it feels like. Today, it felt like working. I breathed a sigh of relief and cracked three eggs over the griddle.

            “How was Amelia?” asked Mother, picking up her paintbrush once more. Splatters of paint covered the coffee table- or “the working table”, as Mother liked to call it. She had her own workshop downstairs but hardly ever used it, saying that she liked to do her art in a more “abstract” workspace.

            I shrugged as I flipped over one of the fried eggs. “She was well,” I said.

            “And Vincent? Was he as gruff as usual?”

            “Yes,” I replied.                               

            “That man truly is a shame,” said Mother. I could sense a lecture coming on, a random spurt of old-fashioned knowledge that she told me while half-absorbed in her work. “This town is a pretty forgiving area, you know that? We take in the young, the old, the rich, the poor. But Vincent…that man just doesn’t accept us.” She stood up and brandished her canvas, which was now complete. “What do you think?”

            I scooped the eggs onto two plates and looked at her work. It was a rough, abstract drawing of the Nova Scotia seas during a thunderstorm. Looking at it made me feel like I was looking out a window; a window with a view right over the Atlantic itself.

            “A masterpiece,” I proclaimed. And then we sat down, mother and son, to eat our breakfast.

***

I had a father once.

            His name was William James King. By looking through various battered leather scrapbooks, I can assume that he was once a handsome man. It was clear to see why my mother had fallen for him- jet black hair, trusting brown eyes, tall and wiry. I didn’t inherit any of those features and, to be honest, I’m glad.

            I tried asking Mother about him once. She laughed ruefully and avoided my eyes. “In life, Phoenix,” she said slowly. “People…they have regrets. And marrying your father…that was one of them.”

            Mother said they met in the twelfth grade. “He was always so mysterious,” she told me. “I was intrigued by him- by his looks and his attitude and that secret way he had of talking. We were going to the same university…him for medical science, me for art. We became friends in first year and then, that summer, we started dating.”

            Sometimes I lay in bed at night, staring up at the ceiling, and imagined what it would have been like. My mother might have been smaller, with wisps of auburn hair that fell onto her pale winter face. Dad would have been tall and muscular and sure of himself. He’d invite her to dance and they’d glide onto the floor, and Dad would have quick feet and Mother would get impressed…

            “I was twenty-six years old when I had you,” Mother had told me. “Just graduated from university. I was going to move to New York City. I had big dreams....I’d be a world-famous artist whose work was sold around the entire world. Your father and I, we had planned it all out. You would go to the best private school there was. We would leave Nova Scotia in a heartbeat and live the big life.”

            “And then he left. One day we were happy, the next he was gone. Your father had been getting angry in the weeks prior to that- he would leave in the middle of the night, sometimes, and not return until morning. I didn’t know what was happening. I was being the best wife I could- expecting a child and all- but…but…”

            It was because of this that I hated my father. Whenever I even thought of his name, my entire body was filled with a deep hatred. The nerve of him to leave an expecting mother to fend for himself…

            My mother meant the world to me. She was a kind woman- always putting other people before herself, always looking for the best in someone instead of the worse. Mother named me Phoenix out of impulse- when I was just a newborn baby in the hospital room, she saw my little ginger head and said strongly, “His name is Phoenix.”

            But that was my history; that was my past. My mother and I had settled down since then. We had found a simple little house in a simple little town called Antigonish, Nova Scotia, and we were happy there together. Mother worked on her paintings and had a small gallery on Main Street that she was proud of. I tried my very best to help out around the house, doing laundry and making dinner. And we got along.

            But the most important thing was that we loved each other.

Author's Note

Just so you know, the *** symbolize chapters. I couldn't figure out how to do it :p I'm technologically challenged. I hope you enjoy!

Reviews

[Bailey C. Writing]

I love the name Amelia :3 And Pheonix is an awesome story character/guilty pleasure name. I like Vincent too :3....
Baby names aside *cough* xD
This was pretty good, do you know where you're going with it? I just like the way you write as a whole, a nice writing style. And I don't know if you've ever been to Nova Scotia o.O But you make it sound beautiful, with the ocean and all, and I wanna go now lol. Good job Blake :)

[madmocha]

Interesting story. :) At first I was thinking; 'travelog?'. But the story kept me going, simple as it is; it's fresh and has an emotional appeal. Is this at all personal, or just something that came to you? You made the characters compelling; someone you could actually feel something for.
Good job.