Over the course of the next couple days I will be sharing the first short story I ever wrote. It will be a five part series, hope you enjoy reading it:
The boy sat at the counter, munching away at the last of the flavored chips. His eyes
wondered from the chips over to the plastic bag. The boy licked his fingers, wiped them on his shorts and excitedly reached in.
“Get your greasy, sausage fingers off my pictures.”
Instinctively the boy drew back his hand. Caught. Nothing to do but keep his eyes low to the ground and move quickly. The father stared at his son, following him to the sink with furrowed brows. How many times had he lectured the boy? After some contemplation, he let out a heavy sigh. Frustrated but tired he decided this was a fight for another day. Instead, the father scooped up the plastic bag and escaped to the sunroom where half opened blinds softly filtered in the light. This was his welcoming oasis hidden in the back of the house.
The father undid his tie, opened a beer, in three gulps drained it, and slowly made his way to the cushions. His body sank comfortably in as he closed his eyes and allowed his mind to rest. Years of hard work and decades of labor were showing on his graying temples. The days drained him, more so than they use to, and he was bothered, bothered by the constraints of his body and the tax of time. The things he could do were becoming limited; he hated having to admit this, unsettled by the persistent tick of Father Time.
Restless, he opened his eyes. The sturdy oak beam that supported the ceiling came into focus. It was a fine piece of wood, mixed with dark and light hues of brown, a beautiful accent to the large room. But even now his back ached at the sight of it, he could still feel its weight and remember the struggle of installing such a dense monstrosity. His eyes left the beam and continued to survey the area, resting for a moment on the billiard table. It was situated in the center of the room and looked like a table found in an old west saloon. The wood that supported the tabletop was rustic and thickly grained, as if taken straight from the forest, cut to size, and sanded lightly over for display. Soft leather pocket bags hung from the side of the velvet green surface, which had a desirable yellowing at certain spots, achieved only from years of play. It was the type of table one felt honored to play on, and from which a win could be deemed glorious. It was during parties, when rowdy games were had with plenty of space for hecklers to gather around that the old man was certain his labors had paid off. The room was his design, his sweat and brute force, and not only his but his families. A whole summer dedicated to its construction, an addition to the house that would provide a place for his growing family to gather and entertain. At the time of its construction the kids were young; he still commanded their lives and was actively molding them to be respectable adults. But now all he had left was the boy. The stupid boy with his greasy fingers.
A Warrior Princess