The Skies Are Lighted With Lamps #17 (A part of my novel)

 

Merry, Toney’s wife, was busy putting up the last of the curtains in the dining room.  Humming a tune to herself, her smooth hands worked like that of a surgeon.

Jason, their sixteen year old son, held a stick in one hand and a small dull Swiss knife in the next.

He held the knife firmly in his hand, its handle wrapped with a piece of cloth.  The knife, his father had given to him as a present, over five years ago.  Occasionally he brought the two together, scraping the blade against the wood and blowing off the dust that gathered on his hands.

Copyright © 2017 David Alexian

All rights reserved.

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The Skies Are Lighted With Lamps #15 (A part of my novel)

“Sarah, she sleeps with you?”  A whisper broke the silence.

Shelly released the grip she had on the kitchen towel, used to dust the bread crumbs into a plate she held at the corner of the table.  She straightened her back and turned to him.  Just shaking her head at him, then looking down at the work she was doing.

“Sarah, our daughter, Shelly, I don’t know her…twelve years is a long time.”  Deo’s eyes glazed as the lamp’s light in the centre of the table beat against his face.

Shelly moved closer to him, as if to hug him, but stopped short.  He looked at her, hesitated, but then threw his right hand around her neck, pulling her closer to him.  As Shelly cried softly against his chest, he turned his head and looked out through the window and into the dark distance.

 

Copyright © 2017 David Alexian

All rights reserved.

The Skies Are Lighted With Lamps #14 (A part of my novel)

As Deo sat at the table, Shelly cleared the dishes, removing the children’s, then his.  He eased back into his chair, as if to allow her sufficient room to reach his plate, and then, just kept looking at her.  Shelly could not remember her husband being this quiet, but under the circumstances, she continued doing the same.

After a few more minutes, Deo sluggishly got up from the chair and made his way to a small wooden window in the kitchen; a window he recalled building just before his incarceration.  A gentle smile enveloped his face, as the nights air struck him.  Reaching into his pocket, he took out a pack of cigarettes and reached over to a box with matches near the kitchen sink.  He shook it, listening to the sticks crashing into each other.  He then placed a cigarette to his lips, lighted the match and leaned into it.  There was a silence, so much so that he could feel it in the air, heavy.  He looked from the corner of his eyes at his wife’s piercing gaze.  He recognized that much had changed since he was gone.  He blew the match out and crumpled the cigarette in his hand, but the pack he returned to his pants pocket.  He chewed on his thumb nail for a few seconds.  Deo looked at the thumb, while playing around with a piece of the nail in his mouth.  Then spitting it through the window, he scratched against his two day old beard.

Copyright © 2017 David Alexian

All rights reserved.

The Skies Are Lighted With Lamps #13 (A part of my novel)

Now, the house was a wooden ‘L’ shaped structure with three rooms; two ten by twelve bedrooms and a ten by ten kitchen area.  The average size of most houses in the area.  The toilet and room for bathing was outside.  This too was the same for a number of other people in the neighborhood.  The community was simply designed, and the people had a view of not having too much bothered them.

                                   ***

Since Deo was gone for years and Sarah, at the time was still a baby, she shared the bedroom with her mother up to that point.  The other three girls shared the other bedroom.  Each night the girls enjoyed staying up late, talking to each other about hair styles, the eligible young men or clothing which they saw in old catalogs swapped with other girls in the village.  This night though was to be different.  Without the girl’s mother barking at them to go to bed, they willingly left the table for their respective rooms.

Copyright © 2017 David Alexian

All rights reserved.

Following a character

The more I write about a character (follow them and ask them questions), the more they reveal themselves to me. I have this character called Deo in one of my stories, and thought I knew him well, but I am discovering this man is more mysterious than I thought. He has a story to tell; something he is hiding.

I think I will ask him what it is. Or hope he tells me, at least if he considers me his friend. I just hope I could deal with whatever he reveals.

# 8 DESERTING THIS DAY OF HURT

For a moment, she stood there on the front porch, alone, her arms draped around her body.  The bottom of her eyes felt heavy.  Hoping the east wind too calm her heart, her eyes it drenched instead.

“DESERTING THIS DAY OF HURT”

Copyright © 2016 Annmarie Deen & David Alexian

All rights reserved.

# 6 DESERTING THIS DAY OF HURT

The handrails painted gold, the staircase tiled with stones. There was a little play park to the left in the yard.  No children there at the moment, but it looked nice.

 

“DESERTING THIS DAY OF HURT”

Copyright © 2016 Annmarie Deen & David Alexian

All rights reserved.