This is exactly what I submitted to the CBC short story contest in 2018. I didn’t place, not even an honourable mention. While it was only 5 years ago, I have grown as a writer. In fact, my intuition says this is probably a horrible short story. I haven’t re-read it, because part of my promise to you, my loyal subscriber, was to share untouched stories. I know I’ll want to revise this story if I look at it with my more refined critical eyes. That being said, if you want to offer critiques or suggestion, I am open to that. Don’t hold back. I know this is shit.
Broken Home
Once again, the road in front of our house is packed with looky-lous. I can count the vehicles from the living room window. They have a clear view today, since our field is harvested and lying fallow for the year. The dust from the road hovers as the cars move slowly past our property; the fall rains have not yet come to dissolve the dust and pack down the gravel on our rural road. This morning, there are 6 cars, 3 mini vans, and 2 news trucks. My brain stutters for a second while I wonder why they are out there today, before I remember that today is the anniversary. There must have been a news item that retold the story of how, five years ago today, the comfortable home I grew up in was forever changed when my father snapped, grabbing a ladder and a chain saw from the storage shed that sits about 200 yards away from the house.
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For the last two years, I suspected there was something wrong with my parent’s marriage, but it wasn’t until I heard my mother’s voice coming from the television that I realized things were about to be forever altered.
I was tucked away, reading, in my bedroom closet, leaning against the wall of stuffies I’d been collecting since I was 7. As a 14-year-old, I still wasn’t ready to let them go, and I found safety nestled among the polyester, and probably highly flammable, furry creatures. In my closet, I could imagine I wasn't surrounded by generic, discount store, plus size for girls clothing. I could lose myself in a fantasy world where people weren't horrible, animals were my best friends and parents were ideal role models.
My mother’s voice, filtered by the speakers on the TV, travelled down the hall of our bungalow. What I heard was a short clip, one sound bite that would cause my father to finally take action, driven not by rage, but by necessity.
"We had mediocre sex three times I would hardly classify that as an affair. I'm sorry I hurt you. There. I said it. Asshole."
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