Tic.

You know as I move on with the progress of my blog, one thing I want to establish is my short story presence. The following is a snippet of an extended short story titled “Tic” that I think many people would enjoy reading, so I will post the first bit of the story and based on your response, I will either post the rest of the story or leave it at that. Enjoy…

Imagine back. Look back to the early 1900s. Now imagine a third-world country not too far off from Florida. Luscious fruits hang from a vast majority of trees, waiting to be plucked, as children in the park salivate at the anticipation of ripe. A society different than the one in which we live today, where the man made green rules over that of Mother Nature. A time span where a wise man, not an individually spouting fallacy filled statements through nostalgic flashbacks, would say was”the good ol’ times.” There weren’t many roads, and the few roads that were only had to bare a few carriages a day. Most of this land was made of beach, and the farther you got from the water, the more “rural,” you’d find. In a small village, where babies are born natural amongst the household they’ll spend the rest of their lives in, a laboring mother screams in angst, welcoming to the world a baby girl she would never raise.

Now it’s not clear whether this mothers absent was presence threw acts of abandonment, death or etc. Perhaps she died that very night in labor because back in these times, the rate of successful child births was not as high as they are now, especially in a country fairly stricken of poverty. Perhaps the thought of raising a kid under the immense financial burdens at hand drove her insane and she fled leaving her dear child behind. This we do not know, however we do know that her lack of presence caused her bundle of joy to grow up under the roof of an uncaring step mother, who similar to the step-mother depicted in the story of Cinderella, only showed a love for the children who came out of HER womb. The overbearing step mother automatically blueprinted her life to have no form of education associated with it, unless you consider cooking and cleaning seven days a week an apprenticeship.

Not exactly prince charming, but the next best thing came galloping into her life after prominent success through a business venture of some sort in another island not too far off. His persona was pure and loving. An avid card player, up into his eighty’s he contended in competitive sit downs, always with a wide smile from sideburn to sideburn, slapping each winning card down with an extra UHMPH. He liked to make others feel special. He enjoyed giving gifts and the presence of others. The man had almost twenty years on the now grown baby, but the attraction was still strong, and insurmountably drawn to each other they were. Maybe it was love at first sight, maybe it wasn’t but one assertion that can be stated is that no one thought 11 children and fifty years of marriage would come from this union before the good man would be called for his appointment at the roads.

Without an education, the mother of 11 couldn’t teach her children how to make a life for themselves or carve a place in this cluttered world, but she could present them with the opportunity to do so, making sure they got their education, giving them a household they could always come back to, with a promised love filled environment, no matter what matters of commotion were existent. A sanctuary; a space where one could clear there mind; a space where one could de-exist from the outside world; a space where one entered with a bag full of problems and left with a bag full of clean laundry. Love was all she could offer, and although she didn’t have any diplomas or job history, her resume as a mother was abundant and plush. And being such a giver, each of her 11 children would adopt one of her characteristics (more than just one, but would be known for one distinctly).