Quicklinks:
|
Great Writing - Home > Short S. > 'Thursday Dinner at Grandfather Jack's', Part Two
| READING ROOM | ||||
|---|---|---|---|---|
|
| COMMUNITY | |||
|---|---|---|---|
|
| ABOUT GREAT WRITING | ||
|---|---|---|
|
| WORK AWAITING REVIEW |
|---|
|
| GW IS... |
|---|
|
Great Writing creative writing community is designed to prompt ideas
and provide inspiration and motivation within aspiring and amateur
authors. Whatever your topic; from love poetry to Doctor Who or Harry
Potter fan fiction, Great Writing's online writing group is where you
can make new friends and improve your creative writing. |
| WHO'S ONLINE |
|---|
| We have 1030 guests online and 8 members online |
Shorts
| print friendly version | |
| 'Thursday Dinner at Grandfather Jack's', Part Two | |
| By nj_hodges | ||||||
| 03 August 2006 | ||||||
|
(For synopsis see part one, alternatively visit http://njh2005onwards.blogspot.com) The base of my ball-sack tingles as I step over the threshold and glimpse the door to the space under old Jack’s stairs. It’s the kind of sexual excitement I suppose most normal guys get, as a girl works her hand up your leg for the first time. But I’m different. I’m different because no attractive girl will ever do that to me, and different because I no longer would want one to. I’m different because of the space, no, my space, under my Grandfather’s stairs. While we wait for dinner – I assume it’s not quite ready yet, though it’s entirely possible that Grandfather is burning it on purpose – we sit in the living room. This is unusual. I’ve never been in this room before. Its a long rectangular space, high celings, with slanting varnshed shelves nailed erratically to all four walls, towering to the top. The shelves are bracketed, holding hundreds of books, the kind of archive a hallucinating librarian freshly escaped from rehab might construct. Many of the lower shelves, all three small antique tables and much of the floor space is filled with entire battalions of half painted toy soldiers, half built toy war machines and mostly finished bottles of whiskey and brandy. Myself and Mum are on edge, Dolores is picking dirt from under her fingernails, and Jack sits smiling wildly at us all. He perches on the sole brown moth eaten armchair opposite us, beaming. The three of us are squeezed onto an equally delapidated two man sofa. Mum’s scanning the eclectic variety of toys and hobbies when her eyes widen and her pupils contract, afraid. She’s spotted a heap of broken glass, at least a dozen bottles worth, swept tidily into the corner of the room. Evidence of violence, that’s what she’s thinking. Trying not to look afraid, steadying herself, she gently raps on the ice, wearily attempting to break it. ‘So, tell me Horace…h-have you done anything in the last week?’ Poor Mum. As excited as I get about our trips to Grandfather Jack’s, as important and character defining as these weekly visits are to me, I always feel for her. She loved Dad so much. I know a lot about their past together. It was the one thing she talked about, after he died. Their past… the extraordinary amount of time they spent together…their errie connection that seemed to repeatively defy logic and mathematics. She’s only here because she loved him so much, because of the promise he made her make before he slipped away to look after the old man, his eyes fighting to stay open, ruined body twitching, his forehead slick and shiny with Mum’s tears. Grandfather Jack swivels his head towards Mum, his eyes narrowing to slits, and responds decisively. ‘Do not ask such patently ludicrous questions, Jessica.’ He blasts air from his nostrils. ‘I could hardly have spent the entire seven days previous to this conversation doing absolutely nothing, could I? Ha!’ Mum looks lost for a response. She has no time to open her mouth before he leans towards her, perched on the edge of his comfy moth filled chair now, smiling. He purrs in a low, conspiratorial voice, ‘”There’s daggers in Men’s smiles”, you know.’ And he winks. Mum simply looks bewildered. I’m better at my Grandfather’s games than her though. I recognise the quote from MacBeth. ‘Have you been reading Shakespeare, this week, Grandpa?’ I ask tentatively. He erupts immediately. Leaping from his seat he screams, ‘The child interupted! The child! Not before! Never in my day! Blowargggh!!’ he bellows, running from the room. I stay calm. Mum sinks into her chair and hugs her knees, shaking her head and muttering to herself. Her hands are trembling. Dolores looks shocked, a little frightened, but her mobile soon beeps and distracts her from the real world again. Neither my sister or Mum plead with me not to interupt. It’s not one of Grandfather Jack’s rules. Consistency and rules are his enemy. Jack, he likes to play games.
Only registered users can rate and write comments. Powered by AkoComment 2.0! |
||||||
 Previous item
|
Next item
|
|---|