polaroids.

technically not the poem Devons asked for, but when the words speak, you listen. or else.

   Since the day his mother died, he walked around with a Polaroid in his head. The image was of a single scarlet cherry-pie cherry, staining the linen tablecloth his mother had always put out "for best". To him those two words meant "don't touch a thing, don't-you-know-how-hard-i-work-to-keep-us-from-looking-like-we-are-a-pack-of-savages". His mother always talked in these long sort of sentencewords when he was meant to be "learning what is good for him". She also seemed to speak with many quotation marks around things she felt it was important to listen to. Benjamin had never much cared to listen to the content between the verbal quotation marks, because he knew it would be repeated over and over again. He was positive that eventually one of the repetitions would coincide with a time he actually needed to know whatever it was she was teaching.

   Another image he kept in his head was of his father's fingernails, bitten to the quick. That he had captured the day his father came home from the hospital to tell Benjamin his mother had "passed on". Dad never bit his nails, and as a matter of fact, he'd just lectured him the other day on how unsanitary a habit it was to have. To see the thin crust of blood along the side of his father's left thumbnail was terribly shocking. It held Benjamin transfixed for so long, he almost didn't hear what was being said.

   He wasn't quite sure, at first, exactly what sort of thing or activity his mother had passed on. Surely it couldn't have been such a great thing if she'd turned it down... He figured it out three days later, when they buried a big wooden box he was meant to cry over, that what his dad really meant was DEAD. Why is it grownups never just said what they meant, instead of couching it in terms it took Benjamin days to muddle out? He swore to himself by her graveside that he would never confuse his kid with all the doublespeak obstacle courses of words his parents used to hide the important stuff.

   The image of the cherry actually was taken after the fingernails, but Benjamin always put it first. It seemed far more final than any words they could come up with to describe DEAD, to see the pure white expanse marred by something his mother could never wash out again.

   The third image was one that came long after the first two. Two years after, in fact.

   Benjamin was eight now, and, he felt, well on his way to adulthood. It would only be a matter of time before he was the one wearing the suit to work, to be taken off after two scotches (poured by his own loyal son) had been solemnly drunk. He practiced it sometimes, when Mrs Rosarita was busy vacuuming the upstairs rooms. Of course, Benjamin used iced tea, the scotch having a horrible taste he figured only grownups could ever like. Perhaps when you got older, all your tastebuds fell out, like the teeth he'd so carefully placed under his pillow. Though maybe after your tastebuds fell out, they didn't grow back. Next time Dad falls asleep in his chair, Benjamin had thought, I'll try to see if his tongue looks any different.

   The third Polaroid came from the day he discovered why his mother was DEAD. The snapshot was of a single word from the top of a newspaper clipping, once hidden amongst the bills on his father's desk. Benjamin had been practicing his grownupness in his father's office and had just added the two clinking icecubes to his glass of iced tea, when he saw a corner of a picture of a face. That face looked suspiciously like the smiling Mom face he slept next to every night. When he pulled it out from underneath the pile, he saw it was indeed his mother. The words over her face read "Loving Wife and Mother, 32, Commits Suicide". Suicide. Such a strange word. He hastily shoved the paper under all the rest and gulped back his iced tea. The vacuum had stopped, and he knew he had to beat feet before Mrs. Rosarita tried spying on him. He'd just managed to slip out of the study and into his room before she went looking for him. When she found him, he was innocently leafing through his dictionary to the "S" section. Appeased, she galumphed off, and he could continue his research in peace. Somehow, he just knew from the way the article has been hidden that suicide was yet another thing he was "better off not knowing".

   The tip of Benjamin's tongue slipped out as he dragged his fingers down the page of the dictionary to land on the secret word. His brain imploded into a million sludgy layers of grey and black when he read the words "the act of killing oneself". He knew what killing meant. And he knew what DEAD meant. 

   Benjamin lay back on his bed, fingers laced behind his head. He closed his eyes and reviewed the three Polaroids he carried within him over and over, then pondered if he could handle taking anymore. When his father came home, many hours later, it was still something he hadn't found an answer for. For the first time in his life, it was a question he hoped he'd never have to figure out. Some things, he realised, are just too big to know.

Reviews

[Rory CJ Frankson]

I liked this, although I got no real connection to the beginning chapter. I hope that as I read through. the connect, will become apparent.
There are some words obviously created from your own vocabulary, yet suit Benjamin's little guys world. As the framing did create an instant sort of followable picture for me. I would say that it seems to leed to an interesting sort of tale, though I'm still grinding through the opening in my mind, trying to establish its relativity. Well I'll turn the page, an find out.

I do find this place (WC) a bit of a giggle in terms of length, good golly Miss Molly... a page does not a chapter make. Ah an sigh, the attention span is relative I guess?

[Molafvt]

Wow.......! This is even better than the first and I am duly impressed with your skills.
This story is brilliant in it's approach and masterfully written. I think I like this one more than the last, only because it's a bit longer,(which gives me hope that I won't yet have to reduce my writing to one or two paragraphs.) The way you structured this blows my mind. You are a very smart and insightful person. I love the way your mind works. The ending was an epiphany for both Benjamin and for me. The first time I realized what Dead meant was when I was around four and my Grandmother died. They had an open coffin ceremony. I was standing next to my dad who picked me up, lowered me into the coffin and said,"give your grandma a kiss goodbye." I did, but she was ice cold. I didn't ask why.
Just loved the read. I have a lot of work to do before I'll ever hone my skills to this degree. Bravo!

[Devons]

I think there are a limited number of superlatives that can be used to compliment a piece of writing, and so they may often seem trite and insincere. However, I must employ the over-used phrase that I found this to be extremely poignant and tragic. It is tenderly represented and told with an impartial, matter-of-fact style which compounds the effect of the story. Having read the companion poem to this piece first, it was revealed to me the true meaning of what that poem was trying to convey. The concept of the child's salient memories being retained in the form of polaroids is very effective and brings home the dream-like, symbolic and ancient quality of the images we retain of the past. The story being related through the child's eyes also empowers the effect the details have on the reader. We can imagine it as adults through the innocent descriptions of a child, and therefore the disillusionment and harsh, potent reality of feelings that are properly understood is stamped upon the soul. A very touching, understanding, and intelligent work of prose which has a memorable quality, snapping a picture of one of life's events and encapsulating so much that is human in the process. Very good work indeed.

[Zeitgeist Manifesto]

This was unreal. It hurts to have the innocence of childhood taken away by horrid truths. We'd love to protect children, but sometimes we do much more harm thatn good. This was a story worthy of a short film.

[Crowley]

Unbelievable...This shorty encompasses so much with so little. Kids and elderly get talked to the same way...when we are little, parents talk to us loudly, lie often and treat us like general retards, its a wonder we ever develop any kind of positive self esteem. When we become elderly, or if are simply dying, people do the same thing, loud talking, slow talking and a plethora of lies. Pretty sad really. I know kinda on point, kinda off point but this was simply amazing work. If I was devons I would give you a million dollars. Sadly...he may torture you because it is not a poem. I have your back...let me know if we need to go and have a drinking contest with Devons in the UK...put him in his place. Watch if Devons, we are coming for you!

[Iota]

I think it is our tradition to lie and sugar coat things to our children. I remember when I first realized what death was. We sneaked into a neighbors van and hid in the back behind the seat. The man got in and drove off with us in the van. He happened to see us and he pulled over and kicked us out. That night my parents were talking about how he drove off an over path after suffering a heart attack and that he was DEAD. So I asked them about being Dead and they explained to me and that night I realized how close I came to being dead with him. It was a little unsettling I even pretended to be dead by trying to hold still, LOL. What an intense write you have here, very well done.