The Honorable Thing
It isn’t time yet. But the time is near and all this slip slides towards it. Beyond it. A little boy in a big world slip slides towards it. It in turn, spitting stones, hurtles at him headlong, and soon enough. The tide comes in: he, a man, old enough, slip slides off the face of his little world; at one forty eight in the afternoon he dies. Late evening, “he was love,” she says. The one he loved. “For today, then, in his own words, love is dead.” In a room full of tears no one has the heart to bring up the facts. His mother, her mother, and then her love console her into the first hints of the night as the last rites conclude.
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Categories: Short Stories
I wish to see more of this, if there is more that is. I love the persistent and deliberate alliteration and repetition. Makes me wonder how frequently I can use a phrase of my choice to my advantage. My favorite part and perhaps the heart of the piece:
“Late evening, ???he was love,??? she says. The one he loved. ???For today, then, in his own words, love is dead.??? ”
Is there ANYTHING at all we can do about these question marks other than manual editing?
Thank you Noor : ) This is it, in its entirety.
Sorry all regular Rilers for the prolonged absence. Too many of us at lalaland have all but been consumed…
As one poet put it: ‘the little boy was not aware/that he had been eaten by the grizzly bear.’
Nevertheless, summer is upon us, mangoes beckon — and hopefully they’re neither be exploding nor bursting, just yum.