If you haven't read John Grabski's short and flash fiction you're in for a treat.
His voice is pure, straightforward,
and filled with magic combinations of words that will stop you and keep you
reading at the same time. And reading his stories, you'll wonder why no
one has ever written about the things he writes about. If you have a
couple of hours, check out his website GRABSKI. It's filled with stories that will
keep you reading and looking for more.
His work has appeared in Boston
Accents, Change-Seven Magazine, The Tishman Review, Boston
Literary Magazine, Unbroken Journal, Eclectica Literary Mag, Animal
Literary Mag, The Harpoon Review, Ash & Bones, Crack
the Spine, Rope & Wire, Frontier Tales, Cyclamens
& Swords, Foliate Oak Literary Mag, Rocky Mountain Revival
and a host of others. He holds an MBA with distinction from the University of
Liverpool and is an alum of Harvard Business School.
You can find his published work at GRABSKIworks.com or reach him on twitter @GrabskiJohn when he's not writing or riding his horse.
You can find his published work at GRABSKIworks.com or reach him on twitter @GrabskiJohn when he's not writing or riding his horse.
Sugar
to Rust
(First
Published in Jan 2017 edition of The Harpoon Review)
Winter.
You are eighty-four:
I
call you a bastard but long after your gentle side had disappeared, owing to
two decades of vodka. Now you sit, surrounded by pillows and stare through the
only window that matters. That single pane that faces the bird feeder, empty
and swinging alone. It’s the only sign of life in this long forsaken place. This
pine board box where you spent your childhood—your beloved sugar shack.
A mirror hangs, smudged and crooked, on the
adjacent wall and reflects your shrunken face—your beard, tangled and gray. On
the floor lies this week’s USA Today. Its curled pages marred with burns—a
yellow, ashen hue. The day is empty. No news worth reading and the birds have come
and gone. In a surly voice you instruct me to cancel the subscription. There
won’t be unpaid bills when your day comes.
Autumn,
a decade before:
You
smile from your wheelchair but only when you feel there is no other choice. At your
granddaughter’s wedding, you ask the groom between shots of whisky, “What kind
of man starts a family with a part time job?” You worked two shifts and
weekends to boot and that was before you had married—hauling booze from Long
Island to New Bedford, under straw in a cabbage truck.
Six months prior, sometime in May, Dorothy,
your wife of fifty-four years collapses at breakfast without warning—her death,
followed by your brother and son. After her funeral, two months pass before you
utter a word. When you call for a meeting over dinner, your children breathe a
sigh of relief—a sign that you’re coming around. But it’s only to declare your
decision to sell the house, and your intentions to move to the sugar shack just
out of town. You close with instructions for a weekly delivery of bologna,
cigarettes and booze. When you finish, you depart without saying goodbye.
Autumn,
the year you turn sixty-four:
Halloween,
1960, the year the doctor took your leg. “Have you read Moby Dick?” you ask. You
stare out the hospital window and watch children in costumes skip down the
street. A tear wanders down your cheek. “My babies, my babies, my world,” you
say.
Summer.
You are fifty-four:
It
is early evening in June and there is a party in the house that you bought for
your aging Mother. You are surrounded by sons, daughters, grandchildren and
sisters. With coffee in hand, you interrupt with your usual toast. “Look to
each other, my beautiful children. Be true and kind and gentle. And when
hardships come, and they inevitably will, when waves are cresting the bow, rise
up and declare together, I am the whale, I am Ishmael, and this is my sea.”
Fall.
You are forty-six:
You
work two jobs and bring fish home from the cannery on Fridays. You promise Dorothy
that a raise is around the bend. She smiles, and says it was never about money.
A loving home is all she needs. You bite your lip and nod. For love you supply in
abundance, expecting nothing but her smile in return.
Winter.
You are thirty-nine:
Christmas
Eve you insist upon the role of Santa. Just before midnight, you dance in the
snow and shake bells beneath the children’s windows. You lob snow balls that
land with a thump on the roof—no doubt Donner and Blitzen. Afterwards you wolf
down a tray of cookies, have a nightcap and go to bed. But not before spending
time on your knees, giving thanks for your blessings and the day ahead.
October.
You are twenty-nine:
The
last leaves of autumn float down from the trees as you return home from the
cannery astride a beat up 1200cc Indian motorcycle. The low rumble of the
engine brings Dorothy to the porch and when you tell her the price she pelts
you with a dozen potatoes. A volley of banter ensues and you are ashamed but
lost for the reason why. It was the first time you’d ever bought a gift for
yourself.
After dinner in silence, with your eyes
aglow, you unbutton your shirt. Dorothy casts a confounded look. On your chest,
above your heart, you uncover a tattoo. The word, ‘DOT’ beneath the arc of a
rising sun. Dorothy smiles and shakes her head. It marks the end of the only
cross words that you’ll ever have between you.
Spring.
You are twenty:
You
twitch and there is a pit in your stomach but you summon the courage to lift
her veil. There is the scent of hyacinths as you kiss her hand, and then her
lips. You honeymoon at the Seaport Hotel a mile down the road, and spend the
next two days making plans for a home, your first Thanksgiving and names of
children to come.
Summer.
You are nineteen:
You
arrive at the beach six hours early. You gather driftwood and dried leaves to
build a fire to steam clams that you dug from the sand the morning before. You
reach to feel for the silver band that pricks your thigh through the pocket of
your dungarees. When Dorothy arrives, you slip off your shoes and walk to the edge
of the sea, hand in hand. The froth encircles your ankles in rhythm with the
ebbing tide. With the sun behind you, you ask her to marry.
You cannot blame her for the moment it
takes to decide. She, a young woman of eighteen, bears the weight of your
dubious ways: the untoward liquor runs, the unintended scuffle with neighbors
on the fourth of July, and the time you took the ill-witted swipe at your
father. But you raise your chin, bright with promise—confident any bad days in life
were long since left behind you.
