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    poetry


    dots Submission Name: Smalldots
    --------------------------------------------------------





    Author: saartha
    ASL Info:    27/F/US
    Elite Ratio:    4.07 - 230/383/127
    Words: 811
    Class/Type: Prose/Misc
    Total Views: 1047
    Average Vote:    No vote yet.
    Bytes: 4481



    Description:
       


    Make the font bigger!! Double Spacing Back to recent posts.

    dotsSmalldots
    -------------------------------------------


    My father was there, and then he wasn't.



    I still dream about it, sometimes, when the nights grow warm in the late spring. My mother's hand is white, clenched hard around my own. She went later, in a different way. Not better, but different. Who knows, maybe she thought it was worse.

    I don't remember his face. I was too small. I remember his legs, the texture of his pants, the crook of his neck when he would lift me in his arms. He was a quiet man, and strong. It's hard to speak of the time before. When you tell a true story well, you become your old self for awhile. Bad enough to be that person once. I prefer happier stories, most days. Stories where vanished things may yet be found, and mud is made only by rain.

    But it's not the truth. He would have raised me into an honest woman. That's what my mother said, once, deep in drink. She rarely spoke of him. She felt the same way about stories; too much pain, don't look back. But also, that things change with the telling. Anything she said would make her loss small, as if to say, 'here is the sum of all I have lost. Look at it, and know it as I did.' To say what he was would erase everything else—everything not said, or forgotten. As though he were able to be reformed so simply. Something would always be left out.

    Describing something diminishes it, she said. But I have so little of him, he can hardly be lessened.

    So: he was quiet. He was strong. He was there, and then he wasn't.



    There are a few paths my dreams take, in the late spring. Scene one: grazing cows under a clear sky. Cattle dogs, barking deep as thunder, red flowers in their wake. Mud and smoke. My mother, with the moist eyes of a calf, gripping my hand, running.

    Scene Two-A: I look back at my father, holding out my other hand. He looks away, indifferent. He turns down a different path and disappears.

    Scene Two-B: I don't look back. The cows press all around us, jostling, coming between us. I close my eyes. In the darkness I feel him; and then I feel the space where he was.

    Scene Two-C: I look back at my father, and the dogs bellow. He clutches a red flower to his chest, grinning horribly. He vanishes.



    Mother taught me to read and write, despite the new laws. She raided an old schoolhouse and found a handful of unburned books. When she got sick a few years after, I was able to take an under-the-table job at a ranch, helping keep the accounts. The sight of the farmhands driving the cattle to the fields, the smell of the slaughterhouse—it was all nauseating, but the money was better than anything else I could find. It kept us fed, more or less.

    Two-B was my favorite. When I hid away in the fields, sucking down a stolen raw egg or two, I would fantasize about it. If he was only lost, he could come back. Maybe he was off in the mountains, with the rebellion. Maybe they weren't all killed after all. I would travel to find him when I got bigger, or he would come find us, lift me up again, take us to the mountain to live on fish and wild berries. Mother would get well again.

    Maybe it's true—who knows? We hear stories even now about men hiding away, fighting a battle long-since over. He could have been one of them. Trapped, thinking of me as I thought of him. It made the work a little easier to bear.

    After a few months, Mother asked me to stay home for a day. Pain kept her in bed. For hours, I held her thin hand, watching. She didn't vanish, but she was gone.

    At the ranch the next day, I tore down a chunk of the rotten fencing on the far end of the fields. But the cows never found it. Or if they did, they never tried to leave.

    Me too, I guess. I stopped thinking about the mountains.



    There's one more dream. I look back and everything stands still. My father faces me, waiting. I want to say, please, take my hand, don't go. I need you. Give me something to diminish. Be big so that I can make you small. I love you, I love you. Say something. They're coming, hurry. I hate you for leaving. Don't vanish. I love you.

    But we are both quiet, staring with big moist eyes, dogs and flowers all around.




    Submitted on 2014-11-17 00:11:13     Terms of Service / Copyright Rules
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    ||| Comments |||
      "Give me something to diminish.
    Be big so that I can make you small.
    I love you, I love you."

    These are words of Infinity. I shall write them on the inside of my eyelids so that I may never escape them.

    | Posted on 2014-12-01 00:00:00 | by AsiaticFox | [ Reply to This ]
      I really liked your voice in this. The character seemed well-formed and the voice was steady throughout. I also liked how you built the world very economically. Longer pieces on here don't often get commented on, but I hope I'm not the only feedback you get because I think it's worth working on. The structure of this piece as well, I found very well laid-out, I don't think I would change anything about that.

    Some critique: the two paragraphs starting with "I don't remember," I love the description of what the character remembers - but then I get a little lost as far as who's referencing what. "Bad enough to be that person once" - at first I thought you were talking about the father, speaking of his past, since you said he was quiet. After the second read-through, I'm not actually sure who you're talking about, but I think it's the main character.

    Don't be afraid to be clear about what you're saying. I get the gist of the next paragraph, that the telling of something somehow diminishes it, removes it from the context that it was felt in.

    With that in mind, the following seems to say the opposite, that someone could somehow know the full experience:

    "Anything she said would make her loss small, as if to say, 'here is the sum of all I have lost. Look at it, and know it as I did.' "

    Anyway, I get what you mean, but I get tripped up on the individual sentences. I love how this comes full circle at the end, how the lack of telling means it stays big and true, but how it also makes it something impossible deal with, and this:

    "At the ranch the next day, I tore down a chunk of the rotten fencing on the far end of the fields. But the cows never found it. Or if they did, they never tried to leave.

    Me too, I guess. I stopped thinking about the mountains."

    is spectacular, just on-the-nose perfect. And the ending, for some reason I thought of neutral milk hotel's "Two-Headed Boy Pt II," which is not a bad point of reference.

    Anyway, feel free to take my comments or leave them. Thanks for sharing.
    | Posted on 2014-11-17 00:00:00 | by lukewarm | [ Reply to This ]


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