It was a Saturday, I remember because Mum made blueberry pancakes for breakfast, humming softly as she did so. She asked me about school, friends, whether or not I had homework. I told her Billy got in trouble for farting loudly in class and we both laughed (quietly, because Dad went to bed late on Fridays). I did so love our Saturday mornings. Now, we have Sundays, but that’s besides the point.
What matters is that I was playing in the garden when Dad came to take me to Auntie Sarah’s. On the way, we stopped at the park. He sat me down on the old wooden bench beside the swings and said nothing for what felt like a very long time. We were the only people there. I buried my nose in my rain-jacket as the damp wind buffeted my small frame. The sky was a grey tarpaulin, badly affixed and sagging at the edges. I understood something bad was happening. Dad was shaking, sweating despite the cold and his clean-shaven face was marked red and turning yellow in places: around the bone of his right eye, his clenched jaw, his cheek. “I’m going away for a while, son.” His words barely made sense to me, so heavy and slurred was his speech. “But one day I’ll come back… and when I do, I’ll come here every Saturday morning and wait for you to come see me.” He sniffed, looked down at his hands. “And I’ll understand if you don’t.” Some time later, I realised he went to prison. Was it days later? Weeks? I don’t know. The timespan of childhood memories fluctuates every time I try grasping hold of them. It’s as if my immature brain wasn’t sure what was worth remembering and what wasn’t. It doesn’t remember, for example, the dead space in between me eating pancakes with Mum and Dad fetching me from the garden. I’m older now, an adult. I work at the local accountancy firm and I’m still friends with Billy, who runs the bakery. No girlfriend though; there’s only so much I’m willing to divulge. How do you tell someone that the frail old man who sits alone on the park bench is actually your dad? That one morning, after finding his hard-earned money spent on not one but two punnets of blueberries, he strangled your mother right there on the kitchen tiles. It wouldn’t be fair to unload this (my) darkness on another. That’s why I remain single and why I tell people that I visit my mum on Sundays, but omit that she now lives at the cemetery. Am I too frightened to confront him? Too angry? No. That’s not it. My father will die plagued by emotion, but not me. I will not become that man. And I don’t care that he waits on that decrepit bench every Saturday morning, flinching whenever he hears footsteps on the gravel path. It’ll never be me. I don’t go there on a Saturday. © Rachel Smith Published in Issue #29
Mary Anne McEnery
8/5/2022 04:59:19 pm
Thank you for trusting me to comment on your work, Sins of the Father.
Secret Attic
8/5/2022 04:59:33 pm
Pulled me in and kept me in until the end. Loved it. Super-duper!
Cindy Pereira
8/5/2022 04:59:49 pm
Beautiful piece of writing. I loved the story. I score this 5 points.
Sheena
8/5/2022 05:00:04 pm
The story moves so convincingly towards the final sentence that the ending works well. A moving and thoughtful piece of writing with a lot of emotion packed into a few words. 4 points
Jeff Jones
8/5/2022 05:00:19 pm
Powerful writing laced with tension and sadness. This story will stay with me for some time I think. Excellent. 5
Lou
8/5/2022 05:00:34 pm
This was the story that grabbed me most so I am scoring it 5. I thought it was beautifully controlled and structured, and fitted the word-count effectively. It had a poignant, believable plot, and it genuinely moved me. I felt the reference to 'my very small frame' wasn't quite what the narrator would actually say about himself so this took me out of the story momentarily, and I wasn't sure about the image of the sky as a 'tarpaulin' - it was in one way a brilliant, eye-catching comparison, but in another I couldn't quite visualise it, so I don't know what I think about its effectiveness! But this was my favourite story from this selection. Score: 5
Jillikins961
8/5/2022 05:00:55 pm
This took me a couple of reads to follow the narrative, but the story itself was a real success in meeting the brief. Of all the submissions, I feel it has the best and most complete use of the final sentence - an integral part of the story, not an unrelated adjunct. Well done.
Vivienne
8/5/2022 05:01:11 pm
Such a powerful and poignant story. It focussed on the minutiae, like the two punnets of blueberries, which is what it all came down to - the difference between having a mother and not having a mother. I could hear the child voice at the start, painting the happy picture, but fear ever present. I interpreted the end as he would see his father in later life, but always from a distance - he would never meet him. No option but a straight 5 - very moving.
RT Hardwick
8/5/2022 05:01:26 pm
A well-written, succinct, poignant tale, that admirably met the brief, something that many stories, including my own, had difficulty in achieving. 4 points. Comments are closed.
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