The Island CH 7

Remember what happened last night? Good. Now tell the world.

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The Galiant Fuck
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The Island CH 7

Post by The Galiant Fuck »

There is a thing about moving your whole life to a new location. It’s never what you expect.


Form here.





The shitty old pick-up truck eased back onto the highway one particular night. Our family was halved into unequal pieces there and then, but at least we were finally in the cab, with heat. Mom’s friend drove, and mom held her three birds close to her on the bench seat. It was raining outside, and inside as well. Thunder and lightning.


Midway between the witching hour and the first glint of the sun’s angry eye, the rain eased to a simple thrumming of its fingers on the metal roof of the cab. The truck rolled down the gravel driveway to the long farmhouse, where a light above the door shined. Beacon to safe harbor.


The concept of moving with my most important possessions in a garbage bag was to become a familiar thing. Rez luggage.


The heavy wooden door swept open wide and a woman stood there wrapped up in a knitted afghan blanket. She smiled at us and her face crinkled around her deep blue eyes.


She said, “Come in! Come in! Children, go stand by the fireplace. Your clothing is all damp. I’ll bring you some dry clothes in a minute.”


We did as told, and that left the three women to talk in low tones in the kitchen, under the bright light. It was one of those old ones in the middle of the ceiling that held two glass circles of florescence, inside the milk glass and chrome base.


In the fireplace room, the light glowed warm form the oil lamp chimneys behind their glass orange globes. We stood close to each other and stared at the fire, looking for something to make sense in the dance of flames. Our clothes let off wisps of steam form their front side. Radiant heat.


I don’t know about you, but coming in form the wet cold and putting on warm, dry clothes is a pleasure right up there with a shot of good rum.


That calls for a drink now. When the next part begins, it would be wise for you to settle into your comfy chair and take a sip or chug with me as we go forward. The following chapters of series will be a bit long to read, and we need to make certain that the bottle is always within reach.



This is when I found out about unjust beatings in a new “safe” place. This is how I learned to fight with my fists.




3... 2... 1...



*sip*



The woman walked up to us at the hearth. She said, “Girls, I’ve got the bath tub full of hot water to take the chill out of your bones. Young man, there is a hot mug of cocoa on the kitchen table waiting for you. I’ll be right back after I get these two their night gowns.”


I left the heat of the fire and entered the heat of booze. My mom and her friend sat at the kitchen table with hot mugs of something I would soon find out was called a “Toddy.” Mom said, “Have a seat son. Let’s have a chat.”


I did as told and sipped the cocoa. It was quite tasty. I’d never had such a thing before. It warmed me form the inside out. I think that was where I found my taste for things that are dark, sweet, and warm you from the inside. It’s soul food for the thirsty. I looked up at my mom and she was smiling at me, although her eyes were damp around the edges.


I said, “Good cocoa, huh?”


She nodded, and then she handed me her mug. Well, I tell you my friend that was even better. Thanks Mom. Sometimes moms have the best ideas, isn’t that right?


The woman brought in my pajamas and sat at the head of the table. Those pajamas were soft looking, with a red plaid. She said, “You will have a hot shower when your sisters are done warming up in that tub. How’s your cocoa?”


I said, “I feel it glowing in my belly. Thank you ma’am.”


She smiled and said, “You can call me Hazel. Don’t mind the fancy stuff around here. I’m Hazel.”


I nodded and sipped.


After a while, mom got up and went to tend to her little birds. She called out, “Son, time for a hot shower. Then off to bed. Tomorrow is a big day for us.”


I nodded, my eyes drooping. That shower was something I never had before. It took the chill right out and then I was ready for bed.




*sip*




The smell of bacon frying on the kitchen wooden stove wafted up through the grate in the floor. I opened my eyes a crack in the sunshine and I had no idea where I was. I didn't care. Maybe I was still dreaming. I'd dreamed that I was buried under a pile of feathers in a nest. For a little while, I lied there in bliss before remembering that my world was smashed to pieces. *


.






* With all due respect to Hemingway, of course.



.
There is a Blackout Island. It exists. I've been there many times. The map is on the bottom of the bottle, to be read from the inside.

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Dear Booze
Drinking God's Good Scotch
Drinking God's Good Scotch
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Re: The Island CH 7

Post by Dear Booze »

Gawddamm. You are really stringing us along here. Love this story though. Keep it up, sir.
DRINK!

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oettinger
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Re: The Island CH 7

Post by oettinger »

I bet hazel was a bit nuts?
Drink!
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