Spill
The glass fell and amber liquid splashed. The man growled but it didn't make much difference; the track for his tongue was laid a thousand whiskies ago. He only has to flinch from a bad day, bad bet, bad job... and he's onto her. Sweet release. He can feel his pains pour out.
Fuckin' bitch.
I don't love you.
Never did, but least when you was young, you was pretty.
Now look. Your belly's hanging, whole of you's hanging.
You're shit.
She just sighs; heard it a million times. The tears that pricked her ugly eyes would never have flowed, had it not been for her father's pen.
On her bedside table. Inches from her shit head.
She can still see her father's face, aghast.
A tiny girl, blood spilling from one knee.
Baby, baby, kisses and fear, she'd nearly had to console him. But not quite. His hold had calmed them both.
His lips on her knee.
Her face to his chest.
His cheek on her scalp.
And his words.
He built her as a playwright crafts a scene. For a lifetime he balanced the trickle of his love, his thoughts, his hope... his self... into her ears, until she became his story. He didn't spill a drop. She was his inkwell and his page.
And she shone, drawing readers to her until she was plucked from her shelf and placed on another man's pillow, to be his bedtime. A man who never understood the power in her father's pen. Who, for his want of words, could only call her fat, or fucking whore.
Her father's fears are gone. With his kisses. His chest. His cheek. As her father saw her beginning, so she saw his end. And it's just as well because if he were here, his eyes would be aghast.
She lifts his pen to her lips.
As if he can still pour into her. Write her story.
In tears; his inkwell and his page.
She holds his words in her thick head.
She reads.
And now she grips his pen, swiping the air as if to cross out all the words her father did not write. The room goes silent as she walks. Striking the fat from her face, crossing crap from her brain, cutting the ugly until she stands, unreadable upon the threshold.
Before the chapter ends, she'll press her father's pen upon the lintel and leave a perfect full stop.
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Author's Note
May we find the words to protect them.
~ accepted by the wonderful A-minor - here http://aminormagazine.wordpress.com/2010/08/02/spill/ on 2 August 2010 ~
Other stories by Martha Williams
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This is powerful, insinuating, and otherwise grand.
Wow. Deeply troubling in a good way.
Indeed, very powerful stuff.
Is "I never did, not even when you was pretty," intentional or did you mean to write, "were"
Strong writing, Martha. Great characterisation a mark of top literary fiction. Have faved
Thank you, everyone - you are very kind.
Matthew - it was not a typo, it was me trying to depict a man who is not good with words. I've made the image stronger by repeating it - better or worse, do you think? (I'm not altogether comfortable with accents - I don't like lots of apostrophes - perhaps this is a good area for me to work on in my stories here).
M.
Such a strong piece - The force of the language is so great in this work... from the opening on - "The glass fell and amber liquid splashed. The man growled but it didn't make much difference; the track for his tongue was laid a thousand whiskies ago." - and it doesn't let up.
Favorite passage - hard to pick one: "And now she grips his pen, swiping the air as if to cross out all the words her father did not write. The room goes silent as she walks. Striking the fat from her face, crossing crap from her brain, cutting the ugly until she stands, unreadable upon the threshold."
Wonderful work, Martha.
a perfect full stop.
this piece puts me in mind of mary karr's first memoir, liar's club, with its lamententations for the father, gone--the forceful language, as sam said, but the pervasive sense of loss most of all--
star
Everyone's comments above say it so well.
It's so strong and heartbreaking, and, in the end, "
And it's just as well because if he were here, his eyes would be aghast."
A theme - that a parent's love doesn't necessarily insure their child will have a good life with "love" - is done beautifully.
I have no intelligent words for this sad truth you've recorded, so forgive me if I sound dumb, but I think you should know. My heart stopped when I read this--everything is so strong. Did the words spill out of you? Because I read this like I was lapping up clean water. Thank you for making me have to remember to breathe.
Really well done, Martha. It feels like an internal dialogue, and the rhythm gives it a real sense of anger and bitterness, and loss.
awesome in its immediacty
Well I was away for nearly a week so all I can say here is WOW, and YES, they said it all. I love the way this flows, and flows, and flows... and then it stops. Power.
Powerful in its words and in the words unsaid. Poetic prose that you elegantly knew enough to put into this form because the topic could have been diluted in either poetry or strict 'story' form. Nice.
a gripping story. I liked that her father wasn't here to know that misery.
Thank you for this gripping read. I echo the comments above, esp. Sam's.
So much power here. And it gets right under my skin. I knew I was really in for it when I got to "she nearly had to console him."
very very edgy, really interesting story with that surreal quality that wavers between dream and reality
This is wonderful - I agree with everyone above - it is a powerful piece.
Bravo!
Oh this is strong! This is mighty! Kudos.
As Meg says, this is mighty. And mighty fine. The play between girl/woman as vessel and as something "spilled" is just amazing. Elemental ("whole of you's hanging") and ethereal (or surreal) at once: "unreadable on the threshold."
too funny - i couldn't help but laugh out loud, lyrical and full of whimsy and goddamn depressing at the same time. how do you do that?
Wow, Martha. This story just blew me away. Fave!
Oh, thank you so much for the lovely comments -- you are kind!