Here's a introduction/snippet of a short story I started a while back. I gave it a once over and rewrote a few things and I'm interested in getting some feed back. If you like it, I'll add more. But for now, here's (something close to) the first five pages.
Daryl was on his third whiskey when Casey walked in. He looked up wearily from the table, pulling himself from some darker thoughts to acknowledge his son. Daryl held a half full glass of whiskey in his liver spotted left hand. The glass had a spindly crack running down it's side, and was razor sharp where that crack became a chip on the rim. It was Daryl’s favorite. He thought it mirrored his tormented life. He may be battered but he wasn’t entirely broken, cracked yet mostly whole.
Casey tipped his hat back far on his head, feeling the dust and the grit on it's brim as he pushed his way into the crowded saloon. There was his father, holding onto his weathered whiskey glass. Casey would like to believe it represents strength in the old man, but in his heart he knew otherwise. Daryl clung to that old glass and his nightly drinks as if his life depended on it. Damaged goods, that’s what the piece of shit cracked glass said flatly. Just an old drunk, broken by the years. Damaged goods.
“I thought Bank said he was going to toss that stupid glass.” Casey said pointing. “Didn’t Jim cut his fucking lip open on it just last week?”
Daryl just nodded and Casey sat, sighing. There was almost no point, Casey thought. Damn old man doesn’t want to hear it.
And it was true, Bankey had almost smashed the glass himself after Jim Stokes had stumbled out of the saloon screaming, whiskey searing his bloody slit upper lip. It had been knocked off the bar in some fight or another and Bankey had forgotten to get rid of it. Daryl took a liking to it that day as Jimmy Stoked shrieked and stubled out of the saloon. He shot Bankey a look from his seat at the bar, grunted and extended his hand towards the glass that lay on it's side, blood still on the rim. Reluctantly Bankey handed it over.
So for the last week or so it had been Daryl's, who would roll it back and forth between his palms after he'd finished every drink. Sipping the last of the whiskey, he'd start to roll it back and forth between his large calloused hands, slowly for a minute or two. It was almost as if he were trying to mend the cracked glass, or maybe just wishing the whiskey hadn't run dry. It was a wish that Bankey fulfilled all too frequently. Once Ol' Daryl started rolling that glass it was time for a refill. Maybe that's why he did it, just to let Bankey know he'd run out.
Bankey’s father had willed him the bar when he died. The will was short and consisted of a note that read;
-Don’t piss off the regulars, or ya won’t have none. Bar’s all we got son, don’t fuck it up
Carl
Bankey had taken that advice to heart. Keep the regulars happy, keep um drunk. His own personal motto. It had served him just fine since he got the bar from his dad five years back. So Bankey let Daryl keep the cracked glass. Made the man happy, and in return Daryl drank like it was his day job.
Tonight is gonna be rough, thought Casey. Bastard is already three sheets to the wind, and it’s not even dinner. What the hell are you doing to yourself, don’t you have enough on your plate without climbing into the bottom of every bottle you find? How long has it been since you been a father, or a respectable man with a job to do? A man with a place in the world he needed to be in the morning? How long since you’ve had a reason to come home sober, instead of a sniveling mess?
It seemed like Bankey and Daryl’s drinking buddy George had been carrying him home every night for a month now. But Bankey had his hands full tonight with a bustling saloon and George was no where to be seen. Enough was enough, a line had to be drawn and Casey had come here to draw it. He had hoped to speak with his father before he’d had much to drink. From the glassy look in his fathers eyes, it seemed Casey had already missed that particular window of opportunity.
“Guess I'm too late” Said Casey, thinking aloud.
“What was that?” Daryl said looking up from his drink.
“Nothing dad, just talking to myself. How long have you been here?”
Daryl grunted again. He could feel his body buzzing, thrumming along to his heartbeat. He was riding a good buzz at this point. It was almost enough to block out some of the pain and regret he'd been feeling. Almost. Though it was never enough, So Daryl drank until he was standing up falling down drunk, and even then he couldn’t block out the noises in his head. The crackle of fire, the screaming...flames seemed to crawl into the corner of his vision as the light hit the amber whiskey. He downed the last of the glass and looked at Casey, bleary eyed and red in the face.
As Casey took a moment to steel himself before speaking, he was caught off guard by a flashback to his childhood. He saw himself suddenly much younger, six or seven at the oldest, standing in the shallow end of lake Jakob. Stripped down to just his skivvies. His friends were splashing around a little further out in the water, calling to him. It was March and the water was still a bitter harsh cold. Casey with his thin wiry frame was already trembling. He tried moving his toes in the mud but felt nothing. They had already gone numb. He felt betrayed by his body, couldn’t stop his arms and legs from shaking, his teeth from chattering. He must have stood that way for five minutes or so before he could stand the cat calls of his friends no longer. Cupping his nuts in his hands he ran the rest of the way out into the water. Screaming at the top of his lungs as he went, every hair standing on end.
The hair on his arms rose now, and he shivered as he began.
“You have to stop this dad, you have to come home.”
Daryl sat motionless, taking in his son through bloodshot eyes.
“You can’t keep coming into the bar and drinking yourself into oblivion.” He continued before adding “I wont let you.”
“The hell you wont. It’s my life and I’ll be damned if you’re going to tell me how to live it.” Daryl leaned to his left and spat.
Bankey looked up disapprovingly from behind the bar where we had been polishing glasses, but went back to it without saying a word.
So there you have it! Something small to try. An appetizer to nibble on. If you're still hungry and like what you've read than I'll continue to tack onto this little tale. It has some direction, but I'm not sure how long I will run with it.
It's now or never Faithful Few. Time to speak up and tell me what you think. Honesty is the best policy, if you don't like it then I would love to know why. I might not take every suggestion, but I'll likely take some, and I'd certainly appreciate it if you'd write them.
So cheers for now. I hope to hear from you Faithful Few
-Chase
Casey tipped his hat back far on his head, feeling the dust and the grit on it's brim as he pushed his way into the crowded saloon. There was his father, holding onto his weathered whiskey glass. Casey would like to believe it represents strength in the old man, but in his heart he knew otherwise. Daryl clung to that old glass and his nightly drinks as if his life depended on it. Damaged goods, that’s what the piece of shit cracked glass said flatly. Just an old drunk, broken by the years. Damaged goods.
“I thought Bank said he was going to toss that stupid glass.” Casey said pointing. “Didn’t Jim cut his fucking lip open on it just last week?”
Daryl just nodded and Casey sat, sighing. There was almost no point, Casey thought. Damn old man doesn’t want to hear it.
And it was true, Bankey had almost smashed the glass himself after Jim Stokes had stumbled out of the saloon screaming, whiskey searing his bloody slit upper lip. It had been knocked off the bar in some fight or another and Bankey had forgotten to get rid of it. Daryl took a liking to it that day as Jimmy Stoked shrieked and stubled out of the saloon. He shot Bankey a look from his seat at the bar, grunted and extended his hand towards the glass that lay on it's side, blood still on the rim. Reluctantly Bankey handed it over.
So for the last week or so it had been Daryl's, who would roll it back and forth between his palms after he'd finished every drink. Sipping the last of the whiskey, he'd start to roll it back and forth between his large calloused hands, slowly for a minute or two. It was almost as if he were trying to mend the cracked glass, or maybe just wishing the whiskey hadn't run dry. It was a wish that Bankey fulfilled all too frequently. Once Ol' Daryl started rolling that glass it was time for a refill. Maybe that's why he did it, just to let Bankey know he'd run out.
Bankey’s father had willed him the bar when he died. The will was short and consisted of a note that read;
-Don’t piss off the regulars, or ya won’t have none. Bar’s all we got son, don’t fuck it up
Carl
Bankey had taken that advice to heart. Keep the regulars happy, keep um drunk. His own personal motto. It had served him just fine since he got the bar from his dad five years back. So Bankey let Daryl keep the cracked glass. Made the man happy, and in return Daryl drank like it was his day job.
Tonight is gonna be rough, thought Casey. Bastard is already three sheets to the wind, and it’s not even dinner. What the hell are you doing to yourself, don’t you have enough on your plate without climbing into the bottom of every bottle you find? How long has it been since you been a father, or a respectable man with a job to do? A man with a place in the world he needed to be in the morning? How long since you’ve had a reason to come home sober, instead of a sniveling mess?
It seemed like Bankey and Daryl’s drinking buddy George had been carrying him home every night for a month now. But Bankey had his hands full tonight with a bustling saloon and George was no where to be seen. Enough was enough, a line had to be drawn and Casey had come here to draw it. He had hoped to speak with his father before he’d had much to drink. From the glassy look in his fathers eyes, it seemed Casey had already missed that particular window of opportunity.
“Guess I'm too late” Said Casey, thinking aloud.
“What was that?” Daryl said looking up from his drink.
“Nothing dad, just talking to myself. How long have you been here?”
Daryl grunted again. He could feel his body buzzing, thrumming along to his heartbeat. He was riding a good buzz at this point. It was almost enough to block out some of the pain and regret he'd been feeling. Almost. Though it was never enough, So Daryl drank until he was standing up falling down drunk, and even then he couldn’t block out the noises in his head. The crackle of fire, the screaming...flames seemed to crawl into the corner of his vision as the light hit the amber whiskey. He downed the last of the glass and looked at Casey, bleary eyed and red in the face.
As Casey took a moment to steel himself before speaking, he was caught off guard by a flashback to his childhood. He saw himself suddenly much younger, six or seven at the oldest, standing in the shallow end of lake Jakob. Stripped down to just his skivvies. His friends were splashing around a little further out in the water, calling to him. It was March and the water was still a bitter harsh cold. Casey with his thin wiry frame was already trembling. He tried moving his toes in the mud but felt nothing. They had already gone numb. He felt betrayed by his body, couldn’t stop his arms and legs from shaking, his teeth from chattering. He must have stood that way for five minutes or so before he could stand the cat calls of his friends no longer. Cupping his nuts in his hands he ran the rest of the way out into the water. Screaming at the top of his lungs as he went, every hair standing on end.
The hair on his arms rose now, and he shivered as he began.
“You have to stop this dad, you have to come home.”
Daryl sat motionless, taking in his son through bloodshot eyes.
“You can’t keep coming into the bar and drinking yourself into oblivion.” He continued before adding “I wont let you.”
“The hell you wont. It’s my life and I’ll be damned if you’re going to tell me how to live it.” Daryl leaned to his left and spat.
Bankey looked up disapprovingly from behind the bar where we had been polishing glasses, but went back to it without saying a word.
So there you have it! Something small to try. An appetizer to nibble on. If you're still hungry and like what you've read than I'll continue to tack onto this little tale. It has some direction, but I'm not sure how long I will run with it.
It's now or never Faithful Few. Time to speak up and tell me what you think. Honesty is the best policy, if you don't like it then I would love to know why. I might not take every suggestion, but I'll likely take some, and I'd certainly appreciate it if you'd write them.
So cheers for now. I hope to hear from you Faithful Few
-Chase
I already gave you my thoughts on this a while ago, but I still like it! You do some good characterization, and I'm curious to see where you take it. It's gritty and illustrative. I like how you dip into Daryl and the bartender's histories without breaking the rhythm of Casey's narrative.
ReplyDeleteGood to see you are writing again!