Winter Wonderland
Puts the fun in dysfunctional
- 305
- Posts
- 13
- Years
- Florida
- Seen Jan 25, 2017
This is my first crack at writing a story. Please give criticism/appraisal/"You suck! Get off the stage!" Whichever one it is you feel like delivering. n_n
Chapter one: Aaron Benjamin Cutts
"Grandpa, tell us the story!"
The childlike voice sounded again for the umpteenth time asking for the same thing: a story. This story, however, was not of the normal Once-Upon-A-Time variety. This story was long and filled with the intense sorrow only people of old age could even begin to understand. The story was not one of war, death, or anything of the sort, although they are included; this story was of love. So, for that reason and that reason alone, this sad story of heartache is beautiful.
My name is Aaron Benjamin Cutts. I am currently 67 years of age. My teeth are false, and my bones ache with years of weariness. My sense of clothing is decades behind this generation. I can be a very grumpy human being at times, and I have enough medication to kill a newly initiated adult. This is my story.
"No, child. Once you're older, you can know all of my secrets," I replied. The boy looked at me from eyes that brought about a mixture of pain and pure happiness to my heart. He wasn't very big in stature. He was approximately 5'1", with little meat to his bones. He retained his childish face and his voice matched it. His golden hair was recently trimmed and came to just above his eyeball. He has his mother's hair.
"C'mon dad, tell him," said his father entering the room, "After all, he's just turned thirteen! That's practically a man, isn't it?" He sipped on his coffee as he looked at his son through his glasses. His age was starting to show upon his face in the form of wrinkles. These weren't wrinkles that told story of sadness, though. No, these wrinkles hinted at many years of smiling.
"What?! Thirteen?!" I began to play along, "Well, I reckon I do have to tell you. You are, after all, a mature adult. Go on; sit on that couch with your parents." Young Aaron Jacob Cutts then decided, being an adult and all meant he was capable of making his own decisions, to pull up a chair beside his mother and father. And so, I began telling the story of my life. Beginning, obviously, where every life starts: at birth.
The year was 1943, my mother, the beautiful creature she was, was screaming at an octave fit to wake the dead. I loved her. For her to go through the unimaginable pain of child birth and still love me afterwards? Well, I don't reckon anyone else would have been fit to raise me. My father was never around. He was off fighting some war for people he never would have met. To me, that is just silly. However, everyone else saw him as a hero. By the time I even knew what a father was, he was long gone, six feet below the ground in a cemetery.
The first few years of my life were no different than everyone else's. I cried, learned to say mama among other words of Basic English, and learned to walk. Nothing groundbreaking ever happens to an infant. My mother told me I was special, but I very much doubted it. My mother raised me to read, write, and do basic arithmetic. She refused to raise an illiterate creation. By the time I was of age to obtain proper schooling, I was years ahead of my fellow classmates. As a result of said intellectual advancement, I was quite the arrogant child.
"Mr. Cutts, might I ask what you are doing?" my school teacher stood over me observing my strange drawing. Miss Amy Maple had an expression of amusement stretched across her bony face.
"I… uh…" I stammered, "I was just—"
"Wasting time," she cut in. Miss Maple went over to her desk and picked up a wooden ruler and strolled back to the desk I resided in, "Hold out your hand," she demanded. I stuck my hand out and she patted it swiftly three times with the ruler. I didn't realize until after she went and continued with her lesson that I had just been made an example of. My cheeks burned with embarrassment. The day continued on with Miss Maple rambling on about printing letters such as A, B, and C. Then we were released for lunch at noon. While my classmates filed out of the classroom, Miss Maple motioned me to come to her desk.
"Yes, ma'am?" I asked her uneasily. She sat there with her fingers intertwined. Her brown hair was in a tight bun and her red dress was completely free of wrinkles; she took great pride in the way she looked. On her desk was a blank sheet of paper and a pen right beside it.
"I would like for you perform a few tasks for me, if you could," She smiled, "I would like for you to print your name." I performed the simple task writing Aaron Benjamin Cutts on the blank sheet. "No, Aaron. We don't write in this class; we print."
"I'm sorry, ma'am," I stammered, "My momma didn't teach me to do that. She taught me to write." Miss Maple pondered for what felt like an eternity.
"Just a few more questions," she wrote something down on the paper, "What does this say?"
"Ma'am, it says that a kangaroo ate dinner at five in the afternoon. But, I don't see what that has to do with any—"
"Solve this," she cut in again. I looked at the problem scrawled onto the paper. It was simple addition.
"Forty-seven, ma'am," I responded confidently. Her face lightened and she smiled more.
"How did you get that answer?"
"That's just how it is," I replied. I didn't know how I got the answer, I just did is all. I also didn't understand why she wanted to see how I did get the answer. No one ever wants to see the woman in labor; they just want to see the baby. She smiled again, except this time it was different. This time, her smile seemed genuine.
"Well, that'll be all, Mr. Cutts. Enjoy your lunch," and she motioned towards the door. I didn't understand the purpose of her quiz, but I was anxious to go home and see my mother, so I didn't question her.
I left the room and found my way out to the schoolyard where the other children mingled and traded lunches. A few children were on the playground establishing who was in charge of the monkey bars. Instead of joining the other children, I had a different route in mind. I started down the street leading through town. As I passed by several shops and restaurants, the smell of freshly baked pastries filled the air and the wind that carried it had a slight chill. Fall was on its way and I could not wait for what was in store in the coming months: Halloween, Thanksgiving, and Christmas. It wasn't very long before I was finally at my home. The house was a light blue in color. The fence around it was white to match the trim of the building. Inside there were four rooms: one was mine, one for my mother, one was a playroom for me, and one was for guests staying such as relatives or friends of my mother. As I walked in, the smell of coffee filled the air, a sure sign of my mother's presence.
"Who is it?" my mother called from the kitchen.
"It's just me, ma." I replied loud enough for her to hear me.
"Aaron? What're you doin' here?!" She rushed into the room examining me to make sure I was damage-free, "You're supposed to be in school!"
"But, it's lunch time! I don't wanna go to school anymore, ma," I complained, "The teacher asks me weird questions, and the students don't know nothin' much, and I don't know how to print, only to write, and I don't know how I got the answers I got, and—"
"Honey, please," my mother laughed, "Of course the children there don't know much. That's why they're there: to learn. The same reason you're there! I know it doesn't seem like it now, but trust me, there's a lot those teachers can show you."
"But, ma—"
"But, nothing," she interrupted. My mother was a beautiful woman. She was tall, brown hair, and her eyes were little sapphires trapped by eyelids used to prove to others that she was as precious as a gem. She was a pleasant lady; she always went out of her way to help another. However, she was as stubborn as a mule. You could argue with her to Hell and back, but when she thought she was right, she was; no matter what evidence you brought forth to contradict her initial claim.
"I'll tell you what son," she said, extending her hand out to grab mine, "how 'bout you come with me to the kitchen and I'll fix you up some lunch, and then take you back to the schoolhouse?" Realizing I didn't really have a choice in the matter, and that she was just making me feel like I had a choice, I let her take me by the hand and she led me to the kitchen where I sat on a stool. This was the start of a tradition. From that day forward, over the next few years, I sat with my mother and ate a peanut butter and jelly sandwich with milk each at noon.
After just two years of that first day, I started to get smarter and more observant. I finally found myself asking a question that shook my mother deeply. I walked into the house after school and she had already been crying. Later I would know why the man in the decorated uniform was comforting my mother.
"Ma, I have a question," I started nervously.
"What is it, baby?" she replied looking up and wiping a steady stream of tears from her cheek.
"Well, I've just been noticing, this family is made up of a child and a woman. But all the other children have a family made up of them, their mother and a man. Well, I was just wonderin'… Where's the man in our family?" I felt stupid asking the question because I felt like I should already know. My mom started to cry again but stopped herself long enough to answer my question.
"Do you see that man, Aaron?" she pointed up at the picture of a soldier on top of the coffee table.
"Yeah, I see 'em." I replied.
"That's your father, the man of this house."
"Well, where is he? I've never met him."
"He…" her voice cracked, and finally the man in the decorated uniform jumped to her rescue,
"He's doing his country proud, son. Your father's a hero." His deep voice echoed through the house.
"Well, when will he be back, sir?" I asked innocently.
"You see, son. He's a hero. He won't be coming back because he's got to continue to make his country proud. You should be proud, too. If it wasn't for him, you probably would not be allowed to go to school."
"But, I don't even wanna go, sir." The man chuckled and poured my mother a drink and me some milk.
"'Course you don't, son. 'Course you don't. Ma'am, if there's anything you need, just give me a call and I'll do whatever I can."
"Thank you, sir," my mother replied and wiped her face again on a handkerchief. And, with that, the man was gone and the door closed behind him. My mother then proceeded to stand up, wipe her face once again, and sauntered over to her room without a word and went to bed. I didn't quite understand it right then, and I wouldn't for years to come, but something real sad just happened.
Chapter one: Aaron Benjamin Cutts
"Grandpa, tell us the story!"
The childlike voice sounded again for the umpteenth time asking for the same thing: a story. This story, however, was not of the normal Once-Upon-A-Time variety. This story was long and filled with the intense sorrow only people of old age could even begin to understand. The story was not one of war, death, or anything of the sort, although they are included; this story was of love. So, for that reason and that reason alone, this sad story of heartache is beautiful.
My name is Aaron Benjamin Cutts. I am currently 67 years of age. My teeth are false, and my bones ache with years of weariness. My sense of clothing is decades behind this generation. I can be a very grumpy human being at times, and I have enough medication to kill a newly initiated adult. This is my story.
"No, child. Once you're older, you can know all of my secrets," I replied. The boy looked at me from eyes that brought about a mixture of pain and pure happiness to my heart. He wasn't very big in stature. He was approximately 5'1", with little meat to his bones. He retained his childish face and his voice matched it. His golden hair was recently trimmed and came to just above his eyeball. He has his mother's hair.
"C'mon dad, tell him," said his father entering the room, "After all, he's just turned thirteen! That's practically a man, isn't it?" He sipped on his coffee as he looked at his son through his glasses. His age was starting to show upon his face in the form of wrinkles. These weren't wrinkles that told story of sadness, though. No, these wrinkles hinted at many years of smiling.
"What?! Thirteen?!" I began to play along, "Well, I reckon I do have to tell you. You are, after all, a mature adult. Go on; sit on that couch with your parents." Young Aaron Jacob Cutts then decided, being an adult and all meant he was capable of making his own decisions, to pull up a chair beside his mother and father. And so, I began telling the story of my life. Beginning, obviously, where every life starts: at birth.
The year was 1943, my mother, the beautiful creature she was, was screaming at an octave fit to wake the dead. I loved her. For her to go through the unimaginable pain of child birth and still love me afterwards? Well, I don't reckon anyone else would have been fit to raise me. My father was never around. He was off fighting some war for people he never would have met. To me, that is just silly. However, everyone else saw him as a hero. By the time I even knew what a father was, he was long gone, six feet below the ground in a cemetery.
The first few years of my life were no different than everyone else's. I cried, learned to say mama among other words of Basic English, and learned to walk. Nothing groundbreaking ever happens to an infant. My mother told me I was special, but I very much doubted it. My mother raised me to read, write, and do basic arithmetic. She refused to raise an illiterate creation. By the time I was of age to obtain proper schooling, I was years ahead of my fellow classmates. As a result of said intellectual advancement, I was quite the arrogant child.
"Mr. Cutts, might I ask what you are doing?" my school teacher stood over me observing my strange drawing. Miss Amy Maple had an expression of amusement stretched across her bony face.
"I… uh…" I stammered, "I was just—"
"Wasting time," she cut in. Miss Maple went over to her desk and picked up a wooden ruler and strolled back to the desk I resided in, "Hold out your hand," she demanded. I stuck my hand out and she patted it swiftly three times with the ruler. I didn't realize until after she went and continued with her lesson that I had just been made an example of. My cheeks burned with embarrassment. The day continued on with Miss Maple rambling on about printing letters such as A, B, and C. Then we were released for lunch at noon. While my classmates filed out of the classroom, Miss Maple motioned me to come to her desk.
"Yes, ma'am?" I asked her uneasily. She sat there with her fingers intertwined. Her brown hair was in a tight bun and her red dress was completely free of wrinkles; she took great pride in the way she looked. On her desk was a blank sheet of paper and a pen right beside it.
"I would like for you perform a few tasks for me, if you could," She smiled, "I would like for you to print your name." I performed the simple task writing Aaron Benjamin Cutts on the blank sheet. "No, Aaron. We don't write in this class; we print."
"I'm sorry, ma'am," I stammered, "My momma didn't teach me to do that. She taught me to write." Miss Maple pondered for what felt like an eternity.
"Just a few more questions," she wrote something down on the paper, "What does this say?"
"Ma'am, it says that a kangaroo ate dinner at five in the afternoon. But, I don't see what that has to do with any—"
"Solve this," she cut in again. I looked at the problem scrawled onto the paper. It was simple addition.
"Forty-seven, ma'am," I responded confidently. Her face lightened and she smiled more.
"How did you get that answer?"
"That's just how it is," I replied. I didn't know how I got the answer, I just did is all. I also didn't understand why she wanted to see how I did get the answer. No one ever wants to see the woman in labor; they just want to see the baby. She smiled again, except this time it was different. This time, her smile seemed genuine.
"Well, that'll be all, Mr. Cutts. Enjoy your lunch," and she motioned towards the door. I didn't understand the purpose of her quiz, but I was anxious to go home and see my mother, so I didn't question her.
I left the room and found my way out to the schoolyard where the other children mingled and traded lunches. A few children were on the playground establishing who was in charge of the monkey bars. Instead of joining the other children, I had a different route in mind. I started down the street leading through town. As I passed by several shops and restaurants, the smell of freshly baked pastries filled the air and the wind that carried it had a slight chill. Fall was on its way and I could not wait for what was in store in the coming months: Halloween, Thanksgiving, and Christmas. It wasn't very long before I was finally at my home. The house was a light blue in color. The fence around it was white to match the trim of the building. Inside there were four rooms: one was mine, one for my mother, one was a playroom for me, and one was for guests staying such as relatives or friends of my mother. As I walked in, the smell of coffee filled the air, a sure sign of my mother's presence.
"Who is it?" my mother called from the kitchen.
"It's just me, ma." I replied loud enough for her to hear me.
"Aaron? What're you doin' here?!" She rushed into the room examining me to make sure I was damage-free, "You're supposed to be in school!"
"But, it's lunch time! I don't wanna go to school anymore, ma," I complained, "The teacher asks me weird questions, and the students don't know nothin' much, and I don't know how to print, only to write, and I don't know how I got the answers I got, and—"
"Honey, please," my mother laughed, "Of course the children there don't know much. That's why they're there: to learn. The same reason you're there! I know it doesn't seem like it now, but trust me, there's a lot those teachers can show you."
"But, ma—"
"But, nothing," she interrupted. My mother was a beautiful woman. She was tall, brown hair, and her eyes were little sapphires trapped by eyelids used to prove to others that she was as precious as a gem. She was a pleasant lady; she always went out of her way to help another. However, she was as stubborn as a mule. You could argue with her to Hell and back, but when she thought she was right, she was; no matter what evidence you brought forth to contradict her initial claim.
"I'll tell you what son," she said, extending her hand out to grab mine, "how 'bout you come with me to the kitchen and I'll fix you up some lunch, and then take you back to the schoolhouse?" Realizing I didn't really have a choice in the matter, and that she was just making me feel like I had a choice, I let her take me by the hand and she led me to the kitchen where I sat on a stool. This was the start of a tradition. From that day forward, over the next few years, I sat with my mother and ate a peanut butter and jelly sandwich with milk each at noon.
After just two years of that first day, I started to get smarter and more observant. I finally found myself asking a question that shook my mother deeply. I walked into the house after school and she had already been crying. Later I would know why the man in the decorated uniform was comforting my mother.
"Ma, I have a question," I started nervously.
"What is it, baby?" she replied looking up and wiping a steady stream of tears from her cheek.
"Well, I've just been noticing, this family is made up of a child and a woman. But all the other children have a family made up of them, their mother and a man. Well, I was just wonderin'… Where's the man in our family?" I felt stupid asking the question because I felt like I should already know. My mom started to cry again but stopped herself long enough to answer my question.
"Do you see that man, Aaron?" she pointed up at the picture of a soldier on top of the coffee table.
"Yeah, I see 'em." I replied.
"That's your father, the man of this house."
"Well, where is he? I've never met him."
"He…" her voice cracked, and finally the man in the decorated uniform jumped to her rescue,
"He's doing his country proud, son. Your father's a hero." His deep voice echoed through the house.
"Well, when will he be back, sir?" I asked innocently.
"You see, son. He's a hero. He won't be coming back because he's got to continue to make his country proud. You should be proud, too. If it wasn't for him, you probably would not be allowed to go to school."
"But, I don't even wanna go, sir." The man chuckled and poured my mother a drink and me some milk.
"'Course you don't, son. 'Course you don't. Ma'am, if there's anything you need, just give me a call and I'll do whatever I can."
"Thank you, sir," my mother replied and wiped her face again on a handkerchief. And, with that, the man was gone and the door closed behind him. My mother then proceeded to stand up, wipe her face once again, and sauntered over to her room without a word and went to bed. I didn't quite understand it right then, and I wouldn't for years to come, but something real sad just happened.