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ficTion
Click the
following links to navigate to original fiction prose written
by Brazosport ISD students.
"I
Hate O. Henry"
- Nicholas Brooks
"Darkness
Faded" -
Lindsey Rushing
"Rebirth"
-
Vickie Stevens
"The
Fountain"
-
Andrew Majors and Ashlyn
Jones
"Blessing
in Disguise" - Nick
Moore
You may
respond to any of these by clicking the Response button below
the title.
I Hate O. Henry
by Nicholas Brooks
Outside, the rain steadily pounded against the window of his
bedroom. Lee looked at the blank sheet of paper before him
with only his name and date at the head of his paper and
sighed in despair.
He looked at the hands of the clock sitting on his desk beside
him; the insane ticking made each movement of the small hand
seem like a lash of a whip. It was an unbearable torture –
having to write the O. Henry short story.
Holy crap! How in the heck did I get myself into this mess?
Letting out an agonized moan, he grabbed his hair. He only
wished his story ideas were as accessible as his hair.
“I know I should get to work on this thing,” he mumbled
to himself with no real conviction behind the words. Looking
longingly at the TV at the other end of his room, like a
starving man looks at a sizzling, medium rare steak, he shook
his head in resignation.
Come on, Lee, get it together. You’ve slacked off
waaaay too long. Snapping his head away, he forced himself to
look at his paper again. As he brought up his pen to his mouth
and chewed the end of it – a habit he could not get rid of no
matter how hard he tried – his brow came together in deep
concentration …. Then a spark flashed across his face and a
small smile tweaked at the corners of his mouth, “Hallelujah!
That’s it.”
Taking the pen out of his mouth, he began setting down
the words that would save him from the doom of a zero test
grade.
“I’m doing it, I’m really doing it!”
He looked down at the straight lines and winding curves that
his muse had told him to write in huge, black, bold letters
for the title of his short story: Don’t drink the water!
“Aww, shoot, that’s no good! You would think after
twenty-five times I could get it right.”
Taking the paper and crumpling it up into a ball, he threw it
into the already overflowing wastebasket beside his desk. “Man
this is going to take forever”
***
He was sitting in his desk
in the B-4 creative writing class only a few short minutes
before Thanksgiving break and freedom when Lee received the
horrifying news.
“Now listen up for a minute, class,” Mr. Ratcliff - who
reminded Lee of a small water buffalo with his mass of wild
hair - shouted over the general hum of chaos. After a moment
the classroom noise died down.
Mr. Ratcliff looked around to make sure all focus was
on him. “Thanks. Now as you all know, the Thanksgiving holiday
starts after today and you will have a whole week off…but that
does not mean you can just slack off. There are only three
major assignments in this course and you have already
completed two. I expect you to come in next class period with
the third: a completed short story in the style of O. Henry,
double spaced and in twelve point font, three to six pages
long.”
Suddenly the bell rang. Lee grabbed his books and his backpack
and began walking swiftly towards the door, hearing at the
last second a reminder from Mr. Ratcliff, “Don’t forget to do
your O. Henry story!”
Hey, I’ve got a whole week to work on it. I’ll do it
later. As he left the class, Lee was absolutely certain he
wouldn’t forget about it.
Of course, like every other teenager, he forgot all
about it.
Until Sunday morning when he got the call from Nicole,
his friend from down the street who was also in Mr. Ratcliff’s
creative writing class, telling him about what a great job she
had done on her story.
“It’s all about a couple on a honeymoon cruise who meet
up with this other couple who……” As Lee listened on the phone,
he began to feel like his intestines were being tied into
large knots in his stomach making him want to puke.
The paper! I forgot about that stinking paper!
“Hello… earth to Lee, you still there?” Her brisk voice
from over the phone awoke him out of his trance.
“Yeah, I’m still here…um… I’ve got this great piece but
I can’t talk about it just yet. I don’t want to ruin the
surprise...Uh… well; I’ll see you in class. ‘Bye.” Hanging up
quickly, Lee frantically began gathering up his notes from his
backpack.
***
So
here he was, stuck in his room on a rainy Sunday afternoon,
sitting in front of his bedroom desk with a fresh sheet of
paper in front of him and a huge case of writer’s block. Lee
had tried to write everything from a carnival story, a Good
Samaritan story and a story about a rich idiot who drank bad
water in Mexico, but nothing satisfied him.
An O. Henry story seemed impossible to write. He had
little plot, few characters and definitely no good ideas.
It’s hopeless, he decided. I just can’t do it even if
it is a major grade. Maybe I could get lucky and tell him my
dog ate it. He might even tell me to forget all about it -
just about the time when bulls start wearing bloomers.
Lee looked one last time at the blank sheet of paper.
Sighing, he set down his pen and got up from his desk. Then he
turned on the T.V, abandoning any attempt to complete the
short story.
***
The next
afternoon as the bell rang Lee walked into his creative
writing class and sat down in his desk. His heart began to
speed up, making sweat form into small beads along his brow as
he saw the rest of the class pull out their short stories. He
felt like the class idiot.
“Ohhhh, crap. Ohhhh, crap. I am in some serious
trouble,” Lee groaned and wished he had his paper done for the
umpteenth time.
Looking around the classroom, he couldn’t find Mr.
Ratcliff (stand-in for the grim reaper). Instead, there was a
tall, black, bookish woman sitting at his desk with a white
and blue name tag placed neatly on her chest which read in
black permanent ink – HELLO, MY NAME IS: MRS. SPOONER.
“Attention, class,” she spoke as the bell rang to begin
class. “My name is Mrs. Spooner and I will be your sub today.
Over the holiday, Mr. Ratcliff caught the flu while he was on
a camping trip and has instructed me to tell you that he has
decided to give you an extra day to work on your O. Henry
projects.”
Lee just stared at her with his mouth hung open in
shock at this miraculous turn of events! I have one more day
to work on this short story. I will get this done and make a
hundred on this paper. No more procrastination. I will not
forget about this paper like a stupid teenager and watch TV,
he told himself.
What to do, what to do? The refrain circled around in
his head as he once more tried to think of what to put down.
Anything would be better than a zero, wouldn’t it?
***
The next afternoon in class he sat listening to paper after
paper being read by his classmates, and couldn’t believe his
ears. The first was a story about a carnival owner getting
tricked out of his money by a little kid; another was a modern
day version of the Good Samaritan and the last one was about a
rich idiot who accidentally drank bad water in Mexico. Those
were his ideas they wrote! And they were all just right. If
he’d just have worked through that blasted writer’s block, any
one of those stories would be earning him his very own red 100
at the top of his paper.
Finally it was his turn. All last night he had
ransacked his brain while looking for the perfect story; but
all that he had thought to write about was this guy who
couldn’t think of anything to write about for his O. Henry
short story assignment.
It was lame. He knew it and so did the class.
***
“I
hate O. Henry,” Lee groaned as he looked at the 50 in the
grade book. But, hey, it was better than a zero!
top
Darkness Faded
by
Lindsey Rushing
A
pair of fine Italian-woven shoes cannot forget the cool
dampness of a New York City street in December, nor can a
businessman forget the shades of white beaming from a thousand
office windows filled with paperwork, stresses, and a boss’s
frustration. Employees’ voices blend across a maze of
telephone wires that bend through alleys and bounce off the
steel buildings, only to dissipate into the deep-blue Atlantic
before the critical response can be made. Snow flurries and
job furies distort the image seen through the wire-framed
spectacles of a briefcase-dependent husband.
On the twenty-fourth floor of a high-rise apartment
building, Harper Rosenfeld can be found in his study furiously
preparing tomorrow’s storyboard, to be pitched to an
established publishing group. He never stops. Late at night,
his fingertips can faintly be heard stroking away at his
keyboard for fear of forgetting that perfect syntax of words
that is sure to concrete him into the prestigious writing
world. Harper is a workaholic, primarily concerned with the
need to prove himself to his wife Elizabeth, who just wants
him to show a fraction of an interest in her by talking over a
cup of warm, chicory coffee. He needs her approval for the
life that he provides. He longs for Elizabeth to be proud
enough of his accomplishments to want to tell all of the
uppity old women at the company dinner parties about his new
writing projects and publications. He is so self-absorbed that
he cannot see the love and support his wife is always trying
to show him.
Harper is a people-pleaser who is so scared to death of
conflict that he will take on any problem of a colleague and
try to make it better. This helpful and loving spirit is
usually drained and depleted by the end of the hectic subway
ride home, a ride filled with shiny shoes and silk suits that
are bursting at the seams of the sliding electric doors to
make their sophisticated dinner and wine engagements
overlooking the East River. Harper Rosenfeld has the look of
the lifestyle that others envy and a supporting wife that he
never is able to truly see. His happiness is superficial. He
puts on a smiling face at work—but internally, behind his
tired eyes, are burning salt deposits that have accumulated
with the slow stream of tears that his soul has been crying.
It is late, around 9:30 p.m. on a cool night in
December, when Harper decides to take a walk down to the
quaint little internet café on Tenth and Main, just a couple
of blocks from his house. He just needs to clear his head. The
storyboard is complete. He needs some time to think about the
purpose of this life and whether sacrificing time with his
wife, and every other relationship for that matter, is worth a
lifetime that is so temporary and fleeting. “Dear,” Elizabeth
said, “must you go out to that Internet café every time you
place a period at the end of a sentence? Won’t you come sit
with me on the balcony? It is a beautiful night tonight.”
“I’ll be back soon.” That is all Harper says as he
walks out the door leaving his wife once again to sip
Chardonnay alone, with the stars as her only companion.
Elizabeth’s wine glass holds a distorted reflection with every
ripple created by the tears of sadness that every so often
roll down her cheek.
Twenty-four….nineteen….eleven….seven….three….finally
the metal doors open to the lobby. Harper greets Joe, the
doorman, with a faint “Hey, Joe” and smiles and steps out into
the brisk autumn air. 9:34 p.m.--Harper casually strolls down
the dew-covered sidewalk toward Patel’s 24-Hour Internet Café.
At the intersection of Eleventh and Main he abruptly pauses
for a furious, yellow taxi-cab and then calmly strides on with
his khaki trench coat slightly misted with the black flecks of
earthy dampness flying from the hurrying tires. Around the
corner, Patel’s can be seen with its 24-hour neon sign glaring
in the darkness. Harper is forced to interpret the bold “Do
Not Walk” phrase that appears so brightly he is temporarily
blinded by its glowing luminescence. For that brief moment,
life all makes sense. At Tenth and Main, time is relative; due
dates have no meaning. He feels a peace and serenity that are
unexplainable. Contentment and joy bombard his spirit. With
every pedestrian’s passing he can see their every happy memory
and joyous occasion imprinted upon their eyes. Some memories
are of weddings with a bride and groom dancing back and forth,
while others contain a father and son playing catch in the
backyard. “Why do I feel so happy? These are not my memories.
I have no son to play catch with or a fluffy dog to lick my
face when I am sick. Where are my memories?” thinks Harper.
“Why can’t I remember?” As he thinks, an old man in a gray hat
begins to pass silently by. He does not smile. He does not
speak, but turns his head with the intentions of a polite nod.
As he turns, a wooden tobacco-stained pipe falls from his
lips. In good gesture, Harper bends to pick it up. The old man
kneels to meet him. Harper’s eyes meet the strange,
white-haired man’s eyes. In the left , he sees a woman alone
and crying into an empty wine glass, sitting on a misty
balcony overlooking city lights; in the right, he sees a
self-absorbed husband in a khaki trench coat mumble a few
words and walk out the door. He hands the pipe to the
stranger, who walks away and disappears into Patel’s Internet
Café. Harper feels ill. His veins pulse with uneasiness. He no
longer feels calm and peaceful. “The woman. The woman looked
so familiar…..Elizabeth!” When Harper sees the pain and hurt
that he has caused his wife through the eyes of a stranger, he
begins to realize what an inconsiderate and narrow-minded man
he has become by his own foolishness. He wants to run. He can
bear the pain no longer. He wants to re-glue the shattered
heart and sew up the shredded spirit of his wife that had
become unraveled so many years ago. He turns to run back—but
with his first step, he falls down. He stands up wobbly with
achy knees. His glasses, askew on the ground, reflect an old
man in a gray hat with tangly white hair protruding from the
bottom and bushy eyebrows forming a thick frame around his
face. Harper stands speechless. He looks exactly like the
stranger that had gone into Patel’s Internet Café. He crosses
the street; he has to find that stranger. He has so many
questions to ask him. He steps into the Internet Café and
searches the rows of computers. There is no sign of life. All
of the computer monitors are turned off, except for one tucked
away in a corner. The screen is a brilliant white, inscripted
with “Can You See Now?” in bold, black letters. Confused,
Harper asks Rajesh Patel who has been using computer number
twenty-four. “Why, you were, Mr. Rosenfeld,” says Rajesh.
Dazed with anxiety, Harper agrees and slips out the
door. He does not understand his strange predicament, but
decides to go home and work through his uncertainties within
the safety of his own home. As he walks, he begins to notice
differences that were not there an hour ago. Subway terminals
are now teleport stations. Garbage men are now robotic,
plastic figures. Buildings now have top floors that are buried
in the clouds. Women and men physically look the same, but
their faces are expressionless. They have become so engraved
in routine that many have puppet strings hanging from their
bodies, causing others to stumble and fall.
Harper comes to his apartment building, and instead of
being greeted by Joe, he is greeted by a Pakistani’s hologram
that will do the job cheaper. Harper climbs in the elevator
and tries to prepare himself for what he will find behind his
apartment door. He presses the button for the twenty-fourth
floor and remains silent in suspenseful agony. He steps out,
walks down the hall to apartment 24E, and opens the door. The
room is colorless and drafty. He does not see Elizabeth. He
cries out in shame—“All I ever wanted was to make you happy.
Oh God, how I wish I could fix this mess that I have created!”
Through the sobs, he hears a stirring. He listens. He waits.
Nothing.
“Coffee. Have coffee with me, Harper.” It is Elizabeth.
Though she has aged, he now sees the true beauty in her
smiling voice. With every gulp of chicory, their bodies begin
to warm the room. The colorless walls fade into vibrant hues
from the love
re-established between two people over a simple cup of joe.
top
Rebirth
by
Vickie Stevens
My heart began to beat. Wait…I’m dead; how can my heart
beat if I am dead? The subconscious pulse in my chest
intensified steadily, like a deep faint ticking of a clock,
but this time it showed no signs of stopping. I blinked
several times, bubbles passing my eyes, and I noticed I was
surrounded in a blue haze of water. My nerves were slowly
replenishing my numb body with a warm sensation as time was
quickly passing along, with each second promising my body to
feel more alert. I peered to the right, my arm suspended in
this water I lay afloat in, black wires cascaded from the top
of this capsule, and was connected to a few places on my arms,
my legs, and my back. Below my nose, was a clear, plastic cup
releasing oxygen in small streams continuously.
Alone in the dark, cold depths of my sanctuary, I could
remember my death; it was almost like a faint dream. The
screams from the crowd, the fugitive seized by police, his gun
falling to the ground, the blood on my hand, the crime, my
tears, my prayer for salvation, and then darkness.
The loud shouts nearby immediately broke my
reminiscing, and then light shined from above, and I could
tell I was in a laboratory. I peered out of the other end of
the glass capsule’s wall, my reflection glaring back, and
beyond the wall awaited blurred figures of men. They wore
bright white coats, and stood nearby many computers. One
scientist stepped forward as the rest talked with each other.
He glanced briefly at my face, and back to a large machine.
Typing a few keys, a large sound erupted from above my head,
and the water, which had been keeping me afloat, was draining
out. The tips of my feet touched the cold drain at the bottom
of the capsule, and then I was holding my own strength up. The
scientist gently opened the capsule from a handle on the side;
something I had overlooked. He took my arm, and delicately
began removing the wires attached to my body.
“Hello, I’m Dr. Allens,” the scientist said, continuing
to remove wires.
“It’s a success!” another man behind Dr. Allens
proclaimed. Dr. Allens’ assistants beamed with joy and pride.
Dr. Allens carefully removed my mouthpiece, and the artificial
air was cut off immediately, leaving me gasping and coughing.
“What…is this?” I asked, surprised I could speak at
all. Without the water from the capsule, my body began to feel
stiff and ached from wire holes.
“You, Alanna Walker, are the first and successful
experiment of Rebirth,” Dr. Allens noted.
“What is Rebirth…how long have I been dead?” I asked,
and Dr. Allens smiled, eager to explain his genius idea.
“Today is December 5th 2025!” I’ve been…dead for
twenty-five years?
“Why was I brought back to life?”
“Well, your family paid a very large amount of money to
steal your corpse from the morgue, and well… we’re an
organization that plans to bring people to life. We call our
machine and process Rebirth.” My eyes widened. The rest of his
speech passed over me, because I was too busy thinking about
how crazy my family was to actually pay scientists they didn’t
know to bring someone back to life.
“Don’t worry,” Dr. Allens added, reassuring me with his
eyes and hand gestures, “We’re highly educated and trained
scientists, and the same experiment was performed on a dog
five years ago. We’re getting a license to start resurrecting
the dead in a few months, so it’s not like a bunch of grave
robbers stole you to do experiments.” I was astounded. My
mother brought me up very religiously, raised me as a
Christian, and always taught me it was God’s will for someone
to die, that everything happened for a reason. I wonder what
happened to her point of view of faith during those long years
of missing me. Perhaps I was brought back to life for a reason
as well. Maybe this was God’s will…
Dr. Allens handed me a large black coat, and led me to a
doorway on the East side of the lab. Opening the door,
sunlight burst through my eyes with radiance, and I was
temporarily blinded for a minute as he continued to hold my
arm, leading me.
“Your mother is waiting for you in her car,” his voiced
trailed into the distance of my mind. Boy, am I going to have
a long talk with my mother.
“Welcome back to life.”
top
The Fountain
by:
Andrew Majors and Ashlyn
Jones
From the journal of Nikolai Korsakov;
"...It’s been a week now since I've been separated from
the rest of the division on the road to Latvia.... The cold is
unbearable... I can barely write........... Nobody is going to
find me here.... I might as well just give up and go to sleep"
I awoke gasping for air. I opened my eyes, and
squinting I saw nothing but a white blur. Almost immediately
my energy left me. The white blur faded to black, and I faded
back into a state of unconsciousness.
The second time I awoke, I could feel the effects of
whatever had ailed me. My stomach was turning and knotted.
Nothing seemed to be working. I couldn't even move a finger.
That would have to be my first goal.
It was two full days before I was up on my feet, and when I
finally felt comfortable walking, I began my quest for any
signs of civilization. Even walking was a task. It must've
taken half an hour to walk barely more than 45 meters. Every
once in a while a tear would escape from one of my eyes. Here
wandering through a snow covered forest I realized how fragile
the human race truly is.
The pain was horrible. I was famished, and I was just
about to give up when I walked through the tree line onto a
road. Such a burden was relieved from me I collapsed, and
again slipped into darkness.
The third time I awoke, I was in a bed in new clothes
and I had been washed and shaved. I sat up and an elderly man
with an oddly large mustache entered the room from behind me.
"Awake eh? Heh heh he-" he began, but was interrupted
in a fit of coughing. "Oh my! You'll have to excuse me and my
old age." The wrinkly smile that followed put me somewhat to
ease regarding being in this strangers care, but his smile
fading after a few moments of silence.
"So..." he began "...who are you?"
This simple question dragged a horrible reality into
light. Who was I? Where was I from? I could not recall a
single memory before awaking paralyzed in the snow. I told the
man all I could remember, and feeling that my fate was
completely in his hands I waited for his response.
"Be at rest. You'll be safe as long as you're in my
home." He stated, with that he turned to the door.
"Will you help me find out who I am?" I asked before he
was out of earshot.
He pointed to a chair on which was a very faded and tattered
uniform, The Red Army of the Soviet Union. "There’s a start. I
will take you to Moscow." He said, and he left.
"... Today I celebrated my 18th year... and despite my
fathers wishes I joined The Red Army... he says the ideals of
our fathers have been lost and joining is pointless...but the
army has been my dream since I was young...
On the way home I saw the most beautiful girl in the
square...her dark brown hair was gorgeous and her eyes pierced
straight through my heart..."
The city of Moscow, Russia's grand capital. Its streets
seemed so familiar to me, yet I recognized nothing. Poverty
was everywhere. People begging in the streets. Crying infants,
clinging to their mothers who could do nothing to sooth their
hunger. Is this the place I would find my past? I turned the
corner and before I could stop myself ran straight into the
most beautiful woman.
"I apologize, I should've been more careful..." I said.
Our eyes met for a moment. She seemed hopeful for a moment,
but then looked away, and hastily walked off without saying a
word.
I continued on into the square, and on to the Kremlin, where I
was sure to find my answers. What a glorious sight it was. A
city in itself. The central of Russia's power. I was rerouted
to a military area and spoke to a secretary about why I had
come and showed her the uniform.
"Sir, this uniform is 20 years old... all of our
military records from then were... liquidated...” I stared at
her in shock. Disbelief. 20 years.
"... Natalia... what a beautiful name ...surely this
must be love... tonight I placed my hand over hers and we
carved our initials onto the fountain at the VDNKh...
I'll be posted guarding Lenin's Mausoleum tomorrow... my first
real assignment..."
It'd been two weeks since I learned how long my
dreadful sleep lasted, and still I had no clue to my identity
although my memory had begun to return. So much had changed
while I was sleeping. I spoke to some locals about what had
happened in the past two decades and learned that after
Gorbachev took office (the same year my uniform was dated to)
he started making radical reformations. Though the
reformations were meant for good, some undesired results such
as re-awaking nationalists thirst for independence arose, and
eventually led to the dissolution of the Soviet Union. Since
then, there’s hardly been anything but an alarmingly low
standard of living, and death.
I needed money desperately so decided to sell my
uniform. I wouldn't be needing it anyways. Some poor widow
could use it as a coat I supposed. The VDNKh. That’s where the
major trade in the city happens.
As I approached the fountain in front of the VDNKh I noticed
two men harassing a woman, and as I continued closer I
realized it was the woman I had run into my first day in the
city. The larger of the men pushed her to the ground nearly
knocking her into the fountain. I immediately ran towards
them, and when the two men saw me coming they immediately
fled. I imagine it was because I was holding a uniform of the
Red Army.
"Thank you...” she said in a timid and embarrassed
voice when I reached her side.
I looked down and noticed something carved into rock
beneath us, and suddenly I remembered. A heart with two N's
inside of it. I helped her stand and I looked back up at her,
her gorgeous dark brown hair, her eyes that pierced straight
through my heart, and I placed my hand over hers and traced it
over the carving.
"Natalia...” She looked at me and at the carving, and
she gasped.
".......Nikolai...”
"....my deployment to Latvia is not going over easy
with Natalia... I wish to tell her of my feelings, but now is
not the right time... when I return, all of great Russia shall
know of my love for her...
- Nikolai
Korsakov 1985"
top
Blessing in Disguise
by
Nick Moore
My parents’ divorce was not your Hollywood movie type of
divorce with angry parents hurling rude insults back and forth
and attacking each other’s shortcomings. It was not night
after night of hate-filled glares and screaming while a young
boy sits in the corner with wide-eyed confusion and fear.
There was no glaring or screams at all. There was a soundless
pass in the hallway, or a silent meal at night. There was
nothing but ceaseless silence that choked off the air to a
room and caused the lights to dim to a dull shade of gray.
There was nothing but the silent thoughts of a young boy
echoing around his mind as he wondered what he done wrong . .
. little did I, only three years old at the time, know that
these silent drones would one day teach me an important lesson
. . . together.
Then of course the inevitable day came when things came
to an end. While many situations like this end in a child
having to lose his mother or father, or if they are one of the
lucky ones getting to have a weekend occasionally with them, I
could be considered an anomaly of sorts. My parents split
their time with me evenly. There were no court dates and
custody battles, just a simple decision that seemed fair to
everyone; it was an understanding with no questions asked. In
the eyes of a five year old, this switch from disjoined
coexistence to united decision making was hard, if not
impossible, to comprehend. It would only take a little more
time.
By sixteen, one thing I had no problem comprehending
was the game of basketball. The love of the game had coursed
through my veins since the age of six, and my knowledge of it
was rapidly growing, almost as quickly as my talent and skill.
I was not the only passionate basketball fan in my family
either. Both of my parents loved the game. Not playing, but
watching me. Those moments in the stands as they cheered me on
were moments where thoughts and nagging feelings about their
failed marriage and ugly past were muddled and lost, just like
their voices in the raucous throng of Brazoswood basketball
fans.
My thoughts on the subject were muddled as well; after
one Tuesday night game, my mind would be cleared.
We were playing Clear Lake at home. It was a situation
that seemed to have no change of a happy ending, being that
Clear Lake had beaten us in every meeting over the past seven
years, with no contest being any closer than fifteen points.
However, our feisty freshman “A” team was bitter after a
humiliating loss in our last meeting with Lake, a fifty point
defeat that now only left us hungry for revenge. My parents,
friends, and other relatives filled the stands with other
fans, and I myself was in no mood to disappoint my personal
crowd.
I opened the game with three straight three pointers,
followed by three more throughout the game and a few free
throws to give me twenty points for the game, my highest
scoring total ever. However, we still lost the game by
seventeen points. I was not disappointed by this, nor was I
excited about my offensive masterpiece of a game. I had been
focused on the exuberant figures in the stands, my parents,
for almost the entire game. They had been smiling and cheering
together. Laughing and joking together. Embracing, exchanging
high fives, and cheering me on in a united voice that would
put our school’s band to shame, and it all confused me. While
my parents had never interacted much in the time I had seen
them as a couple, they now had what could be seen as a
foundation of friendship. They seemed at ease, not tied down
by a bond of marriage, but held together by that friendship.
“Why are they being so nice to one another?” I
thought to myself. I just could not figure it out. Finally,
with the courage and confidence I had mustered after my
amazing game, I decided to ask them the question that had
plagued my mind for over ten years . . .
“Great game son!” My parents yelled in unison (an act
that was beginning to annoy me).
“Thanks y’all. Hey, you feel like goin’ to Chili’s or
something and grabbing a bite to eat?”
“Yea, that sounds good,” they said (in unison once
more), “let’s go.”
When we arrived at the restaurant, my confidence was not as
high as it had been after the game. My courage was waning. I
quickly drank three glasses of Dr. Pepper, attempting to
possibly supplement my lack of nerves with a good dose of
caffeine. It worked well enough for me to get the big question
out there . . .
“Guys, I need you to listen for a sec and just let me
say somethin’. Now, I know you guys get along really well, and
y’all are cool with each other about me and with everything
else between y’all, but there’s just one thing I don’t get. If
you guys get along so well, why couldn’t you have worked this
out and been like this while you were together?”
Silence. For what seemed like an eternity, at least
enough for me to quickly finish two more Dr. Pepper’s, we all
simply sat there at the table, waiting for someone to form an
answer that they felt was appropriate. Finally, my Mom spoke.
“Nick, you have to understand. I think I speak for your
Dad and myself on this, and you have to understand that we
weren’t the same people then. When your Dad and I got married,
we were both very young and very immature. Neither of us
really knew what to do to be honest,” my Mom said as my Dad
silently nodded his agreement, “and we both just kinda bottled
up how we felt because we didn’t know what to say or how to
say it to each other.”
“How can you not know what to say to each other?” I
said in an unnecessarily condescending tone, “You were married
for Christ’s sake!” My anger came from nowhere, but was cut
short by my Dad’s even, strong voice.
“Son, I know it’s not easy to understand, but it’s true. We
were just two kids who wanted to be together but didn’t know
how to be, you know? Think about you and Alexa. Don’t you just
not know what to say sometimes?”
It was true. My girlfriend and I had been together for
over a year, and I could think of lots of times when I myself
had silently contained my anger or sadness, and it had only
led to problems. We always got through these petty disputes,
but I could imagine what years of constant contact in a
marriage with this type of weight constantly on your shoulders
could lead to. As I came to this realization, my Dad must have
seen it in my eyes and he continued.
“You see, you understand. We just weren’t that mature,
son, and we have grown enough to realize that we made mistakes
and we can be friends now that we understand our mistakes.”
“And now that we’re both remarried,” my Mom added, “we
can use what we learned to help us with our new relationships
and with ours together. You have to learn that communication
keeps people together. It keeps people connected and allows
them to understand and relate to one another, and that’s what
a relationship is all about. Because of what we know and have
learned, your Dad and I can be friends, and we can all still
be a family. Our family might not look like everyone else’s
being that we aren’t all in the same house and we might be a
little bigger, but we are still a family. Our communication
with one another and willingness to exchange our thoughts and
feelings on things is what allows this to run so smoothly and
be so good. You are very lucky baby. You get to have this
great big family that loves you, and you get to take all this
information and learn from our mistakes so that a situation
like ours never has to happen to you.”
With that simple logic, I had the crude beginnings of an
eventual life-changing belief that would shape how I nurture
my relationships with others not only up to this point in my
life, but hopefully as long as I live. These simple acts of
love, respect, and compassion are often missing after
relationships end, yet my parents understood that everyone’s
happiness was just as important as their own. Relationships
must be nurtured and cared for, just like a child, and when it
is taken care of right, a bond is forged that can never be
broken. However, if it is mistreated, neglected, and taken for
granted, it can disappear forever before you even notice it is
slipping away.
My parent’s divorce was hard on me, yet I do not regret
that it happened at all. While many people have asked me if I
wish they would have stayed together and we had led a
seemingly “normal” life, I do not question my answer for a
second. If that had happened, my life would still be filled
with oppressive silence, and my mind would be as blank as my
home was silent when it came to my understanding of
relationships and how they are supposed to work. The breakup
of one relationship in my life opened the door of knowledge
and has allowed me to strengthen and solidify all the other
ones that I have. My parent’s divorce, just like any divorce,
was not what you would call a “good thing,” however, it must
certainly was a blessing in disguise.
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