[Original Fiction]
I wrote this story at the behest of my English teacher who wanted an example of how to write a short story based on the prompts for the "Original Composition" portion of the English Government Exam. The prompt I used was something along the lines of: "At different stages of our life we face difference decisions"
Peas and Carrots For Me, Yes Sir
G
890 words
She looks between Charlie and her Mama, and doesn’t understand why it suddenly feels as if she’s picking sides.
The clouds are just starting to roll in when Mary moves out to the front porch, sitting down on the creaking, rain-warped steps. Her brothers are coming in from the fields, kicking up clouds of dust behind them, shirts slung casually over their shoulders, tanned and freckled skin bright with sweat. It hasn’t rained in a while, and Mary watches the ominous black clouds approach with a kind of weary relief. When she breathes, the air is thick and wet in her mouth, makes her eyes heavy.
“Mary!” her Mama calls from the kitchen. “Are your brothers--?”
“They’re coming, Mama.”
She fingers the lace along the hem of her dress, smiling as Charlie and Jack stroll across the yard, Jack shedding more clothes as he goes.
“Christ Almighty but it’s hot,” he groans, wiping dirt from his face with the sleeve of his discarded shirt, tossing leather work gloves down beside her, sending clods of soil in all directions. Mary cringes away, drawing her dress after her with a grimace, adding a stuck out tongue for emphasis. Charlie, the elder of the two boys, grins indulgently at Jack and begins buttoning up his own shirt again.
“Jackie-boy, put on your shirt. It’s dinner.”
Their Mama appears in the doorway, dishtowel in hand. Mary jumps up and Jack ushers her into the cool of the house, his large hands steady on her shoulders. She cranes her neck around and watches her Mama take a step out onto the porch, hands going to her hips. Mary can’t see her face, but the stiff line of her back is familiar in all the worst ways: ones that remind her of a shiny black coffin and her Papa’s slack, dead face.
“The mail came today, Charlie...” she hears her begin to say, then Jack steers her away, and her Mama’s voice is lost under the screeching of the stairs.
At dinner Charlie is strangely quiet, and Mary feels her heart clench every time her Mama’s eyes flick up from her plate to look at him, normally bright blue irises gone flinty and cold. Jack talks the whole time. In fact, he can’t seem to stop talking; uncomfortable, nervous chatter that falls flat on the butter-thick tension in the room. He’s young yet, only eighteen that June, and hardly knows any better way to deal with the stifling silence than she does at no more than ten.
“Would you like peas or carrots, Mary?” he asks her at some point, almost desperately. She looks between Charlie and her Mama, and doesn’t understand why it suddenly feels as if she’s picking sides.
“Carrots, please,” she mumbles eventually, licking her dry, cracked lips, and finishes her meal without another word.
Later, in the evening, when she comes downstairs to say goodnight, Charlie and her Mama are still at the table, a piece of folded paper lying between them like a glove thrown down. Mary crouches in he shadow of the doorway, hugging her knees.
“What are you doing, Charlie?” her Mama sighs, shaking her head. “Leaving your brother and baby sister like this. It’s not right, and you know it, boy.”
Charlie’s jaw clenches, sharp and stark in the wavering lamplight, and his long fingers curl into a fist. “I know that if I don’t get out of here and get a proper education this family isn’t going no where. Do you want that kind of future for Jack and Mary? Working in the fields ‘till they’re old and gray just to keep this damn farm afloat?”
“Your Papa is dead, Charlie, and I don’t have many years left in me either. What are we going to do when you’re off at school? What’s Jack gonna do? The boy is eighteen, Charlie--”
“And you know that if Dad hadn’t died he’d be in the same place as me right now.”
Mary watches them both, shuddering at the anger that crackles between them, Charlie’s face like thunder, her Mama’s mouth a thin white line. She doesn’t understand what is going on.
“I’m making the right decision, Mama. I never wanted it to come to this, but I’m not your child anymore. It’s no ‘peas or carrots’ for me. I’ve gotta choose for all of us.”
Her Mama shakes her head slowly, hand trembling as she brings it to her face.
“Then you’ve doomed us all, Charlie.” Her voice is rough, and Mary’s fear abruptly spikes at the possibility of her Mama crying. “You’d better look them in the face and tell them what you’ve done.”
Mary had heard enough. Feeling oddly weak, she creeps back to her room, face tight with tears she doesn’t remember shedding, burying under the sheets as if she could somehow hide from the strange, unfamiliar reality suddenly staring her straight in the face.
“Peas or carrots,” she thinks, almost hysterically. “Peas or carrots.”
The last thing she hears before falling into troubled, fitful sleep is the sound of the front door slamming, and Charlie’s steps moving out inexorably into the night. Sometime later, though she isn’t awake to realize it, her Mama stands silhouetted in the doorway and watches the gentle rise and fall of her chest, holding the crumpled letter in both hands.
Eventually she moves away, closing the door behind her, and the lamplight fades into darkness.
Peas and Carrots For Me, Yes Sir
G
890 words
She looks between Charlie and her Mama, and doesn’t understand why it suddenly feels as if she’s picking sides.
The clouds are just starting to roll in when Mary moves out to the front porch, sitting down on the creaking, rain-warped steps. Her brothers are coming in from the fields, kicking up clouds of dust behind them, shirts slung casually over their shoulders, tanned and freckled skin bright with sweat. It hasn’t rained in a while, and Mary watches the ominous black clouds approach with a kind of weary relief. When she breathes, the air is thick and wet in her mouth, makes her eyes heavy.
“Mary!” her Mama calls from the kitchen. “Are your brothers--?”
“They’re coming, Mama.”
She fingers the lace along the hem of her dress, smiling as Charlie and Jack stroll across the yard, Jack shedding more clothes as he goes.
“Christ Almighty but it’s hot,” he groans, wiping dirt from his face with the sleeve of his discarded shirt, tossing leather work gloves down beside her, sending clods of soil in all directions. Mary cringes away, drawing her dress after her with a grimace, adding a stuck out tongue for emphasis. Charlie, the elder of the two boys, grins indulgently at Jack and begins buttoning up his own shirt again.
“Jackie-boy, put on your shirt. It’s dinner.”
Their Mama appears in the doorway, dishtowel in hand. Mary jumps up and Jack ushers her into the cool of the house, his large hands steady on her shoulders. She cranes her neck around and watches her Mama take a step out onto the porch, hands going to her hips. Mary can’t see her face, but the stiff line of her back is familiar in all the worst ways: ones that remind her of a shiny black coffin and her Papa’s slack, dead face.
“The mail came today, Charlie...” she hears her begin to say, then Jack steers her away, and her Mama’s voice is lost under the screeching of the stairs.
At dinner Charlie is strangely quiet, and Mary feels her heart clench every time her Mama’s eyes flick up from her plate to look at him, normally bright blue irises gone flinty and cold. Jack talks the whole time. In fact, he can’t seem to stop talking; uncomfortable, nervous chatter that falls flat on the butter-thick tension in the room. He’s young yet, only eighteen that June, and hardly knows any better way to deal with the stifling silence than she does at no more than ten.
“Would you like peas or carrots, Mary?” he asks her at some point, almost desperately. She looks between Charlie and her Mama, and doesn’t understand why it suddenly feels as if she’s picking sides.
“Carrots, please,” she mumbles eventually, licking her dry, cracked lips, and finishes her meal without another word.
Later, in the evening, when she comes downstairs to say goodnight, Charlie and her Mama are still at the table, a piece of folded paper lying between them like a glove thrown down. Mary crouches in he shadow of the doorway, hugging her knees.
“What are you doing, Charlie?” her Mama sighs, shaking her head. “Leaving your brother and baby sister like this. It’s not right, and you know it, boy.”
Charlie’s jaw clenches, sharp and stark in the wavering lamplight, and his long fingers curl into a fist. “I know that if I don’t get out of here and get a proper education this family isn’t going no where. Do you want that kind of future for Jack and Mary? Working in the fields ‘till they’re old and gray just to keep this damn farm afloat?”
“Your Papa is dead, Charlie, and I don’t have many years left in me either. What are we going to do when you’re off at school? What’s Jack gonna do? The boy is eighteen, Charlie--”
“And you know that if Dad hadn’t died he’d be in the same place as me right now.”
Mary watches them both, shuddering at the anger that crackles between them, Charlie’s face like thunder, her Mama’s mouth a thin white line. She doesn’t understand what is going on.
“I’m making the right decision, Mama. I never wanted it to come to this, but I’m not your child anymore. It’s no ‘peas or carrots’ for me. I’ve gotta choose for all of us.”
Her Mama shakes her head slowly, hand trembling as she brings it to her face.
“Then you’ve doomed us all, Charlie.” Her voice is rough, and Mary’s fear abruptly spikes at the possibility of her Mama crying. “You’d better look them in the face and tell them what you’ve done.”
Mary had heard enough. Feeling oddly weak, she creeps back to her room, face tight with tears she doesn’t remember shedding, burying under the sheets as if she could somehow hide from the strange, unfamiliar reality suddenly staring her straight in the face.
“Peas or carrots,” she thinks, almost hysterically. “Peas or carrots.”
The last thing she hears before falling into troubled, fitful sleep is the sound of the front door slamming, and Charlie’s steps moving out inexorably into the night. Sometime later, though she isn’t awake to realize it, her Mama stands silhouetted in the doorway and watches the gentle rise and fall of her chest, holding the crumpled letter in both hands.
Eventually she moves away, closing the door behind her, and the lamplight fades into darkness.