A bit from a story I’m still working on. Funny thing is, I finished another story with the same character and it got an Honourable Mention in the Writers of the Future Contest last year, but for some reason this story is just not cooperating. It won’t tell me how to get to the ending, just yet.
Guess I’ll just have to trunk it until it does…
The day I turn ten, my mother walk into the corrosive sea on the western edge of Diego colony. She used to cut sheself during her depressions, so she wasn’t no stranger to pain. She didn’t even whimper when the hissing lilac waves attack her legs and red stains start to drift ’round her in threads.
I don’t know if I scream or say anything. I remember her sinking into the waves, graceful, graceful, and I remember running toward her. I was lucky–I trip and kilkitay on my face. I fling out my right arm, trying to save myself, just as a wave come toward me. My hand started burning, as if a thousand flames was under it, and I could still see the lilac coming toward my face, hissing all the way.
That was a bad day. The worst day. I could deal with anything because of that day.
I keep telling myself that as I walk down to the pier, sand sucking and trapping my shoes all the way. I have to prepare myself before I get to the crowd on the beach or crapaud smoke my pipe.
I have to forget the waves biting the shore in front me.
I almost reach them when they turn as one to look at me. Resentment and anger shifting and molding so many faces. It fascinating how them faces is every shade between white and brown. You don’t notice them things when you pass people on main street, but here, together, I can’t see nothing else.
I blink and shake off the distraction. The metal in me like patterns. Is just the wired side of me, fixating, as usual.
The crowd split as someone push they way toward me. Manno. He bare arms shiny with sweat in the midday sunlight. He nutmeg brown face twisted with grief and rage. Big man, Manno, but usually no trouble. Today, with his son John John in a coma back at Diego’s only Clinic, he definitely my biggest problem.
Before the crowd shift and fall back in behind Manno, I see Boyie standing next to the pier. He scared, poor thing. Beyond him, at the end of the metal platform, he tiny ferry rising and falling on the lilac waves.
“Now you reach?” Manno’s voice almost cracks. “Now?”
“Is Market Day.” I reminded him. “I come when I hear.”
“Well, we don’t need you.” Esther, Manno’s wife, push through behind him and grab he arm. She small and bald with big grey eyes in she cappuccino face. Today, the look she give me make them less beautiful.
“Esther,” I nod my head at her. “I very sorry for what happen, but don’t forget who you talking to.”
“You threatening us?” Esther’s eyes narrow. “Who food you does eat every day?”
“So you exempt? You could do what you like because you run the hydroponics lab?” I shake my head. “Esther, I not Tantie for some–I Tantie for all.”
“You protect him long enough,” Manno says through tight lips. “No more. Not after John John.”
A murmur of agreement goes through the crowd. I ignore it. People will talk theyself into anything if you let them. My job is not to let them.
Wondering if to even bother to finish it. Perhaps I should just move on to other stories instead of wasting my time?
Stay thirsty, my friends!
2 thoughts on “Tantie, Papa And The Mango Tree On Diego Colony”
I would never tell a writer to keep on working on something they don’t feel like working on, something that isn’t working for them. But as a reader, I’m intrigued by this. The voice is an unusual one to me, and I want to know more about a narrator in a position to threaten a community of people, to know more about the situation and the dynamic among these people. Just my two cents.
Thanks. That’s really helpful, actually. It’s less about not feeling to work on it than not seeing a way clear to the end. In any case, I have two novels to finish, so I’ll probably just continue the time-out. I have a good bit more written, but didn’t want to make a long post.