Thnks,for some reason my formatting didn’t transcribe in prose as was written.I’ll resubmit.Thank you again,H
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Flash Fiction / "Daddy,don't walk so fast."
Again, I'm in trouble again. I've had hats before,but none ever fit this well,one
of a kind. A true custom fit.Made by my father, expressly for me.Today. Right now.It is so new,I can still smell the glue running down its long,conical seam.Fresh ink from the magic marker smells like his breath.Large capitals spell"I'm a Dunce".My nose is captive in the appointed corner.A sore buttocks finds no comfort on this stool.All held small next to my embarrassment. It was one way or the other with my father who was raised by Jesuit priests.My habits were few but pronounced,often,in a nature of nature.To whit; and most commonly often...flagellation,at the most inopportune times,or,passing out on the altar when monsegnieur Muphy would offer the body and blood of Christ.Or,after mass, dressing in the priests' robes to bless my four sibling brothers and of course my baby sister,who was especially wicked as she wouldn't stop crying.I tipped over the Christmas tree the second year in a row and cut the top off my finger with a push mower. It was adding up,and I was just one of six.If I waited in the corner long enough,I knew he'd break.But,it wouldn't be any time soon.Fresh oak and mesquite crackle-popped the invite to an old friends vigil of Sunday lamb bar-b-que lunch Out of nowhere,a bolt of light came to strike."come on,let's go for a drive".Impressed by the hand he left for me to grab,I doffed my duncer.Now, up for anything,we ran out the front door,leaving it open without his signature slam,jumped in 'ol blue,fired her up and put my mother,siblings and that hat in the rear view. Father had his sweet spots and honey holes for fishing that I was rarely allowed to go to.I remembered each distinctly.In the truck he talked about the friends he'd lost at war in Korea.Clouds he found looking through a dirty,farmers windshield to hold the storm inside him. Father never left a set of burning coals.Friends and family always to the fire came and spent a Sunday and its night;burning meat and memories.Now there was an empty altar meant for lamb.Bald tires on retreads hung worn sidewall threads like dogs tongues tied in confusion as we sped to the secret spot.Windows down,a toughy 'tween his lips,arms akimbo out the window elbow hung with a fresh brown bag from a stop at the Country Cousin Bait,Fuel,Laundry and Liquor at the ready,top twisted off,laying handily in his crotch.This was his favorite way to roll.I wish he'd bought some bait,knowing now where we were to go.He liked to cut the corners of hairpin turns he'd learned in his youth to make the trucks rearend slide.He said,"Don't you ever do this boy",as he grabbed his bag that was looking more wrinkled,worn. From apple orchards and roads with farmers names,patches of olalaberries we climbed into the redwoods and the pines.It's cooler now,still,I kept my window ,like fathers,down.We skidded into the small pullout under the cliff at the turn in the creek.This time there was no hand to grab,his pace was strong and sure.Three quick steps of mine to one of his long strides.I found myself behind."Daddy,don't walk so fast".Arms now pumping as he taught me how to run.Happiness is to hear the rush of a stream,smell the fresh water,see the boulders and odd rocks.At the sweetest of his spots,we sat atop.It put a quiet on him that he needed.I knew not to stay near.I and my eye were drawn to the bottom of these small falls.I could see them and their mottled tops.Tails slow beating,keeping noses to this streams seed.They dimpled the surface in raindrops,fade the waters top,a fishes afternoon silence cut by Stellar Jay. As I turned to tell him,I could see his head was down,from him ran a rain of drops like the fishes water top.Unlike the fishes,I could hear his heaves and sobs.Time stood still.I felt like a sundial in lunar eclipse."Time to go son".Home was slow in coming.He drifted 'ol blue down the mountain.I'd served in funerals as an altarboy that had this feeling.This never ending,what's to do doldrum.The wrinkled bagmade a bang against the others at the back of 'ol blue.
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burnvictim reviewed Version 1 -
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deathspeaker reviewed Version 1 -
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jonny2469 reviewed Version 1 -
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Matthewtuckey reviewed Version 1 -
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‘fits this well.’- I’d put the FS here and have ‘One of a kind’ as a separate sentence. Prevents what might be a run-on and will sound like speech in it’s pacing.
‘A sore buttocks’- drop ‘A’ if both buttocks hurt. If only one hurts, describe why.
Urbis is showing you’re not putting spaces after full stops. Is it the site’s crap formatting?
‘Clouds he found’- fragmented sentence. Not sure exactly what’s being described here.
‘truck’s rear-end’- apostrophe, hyphenate.
He’s grabbing his bag while turning a sharp corner in a truck? Is that possible? Am I reading it right?
‘Farmer’s names’- apostrophe
‘It’s cooler now’- sudden shift into present tense.
’...his pace strong and sure.’- the exclusion of the word ‘was’ prevents a run-on.
‘I and my eye’- wordy. ‘I was drawn to’, perhaps.
‘fish’ can be singular or plural, providing you are referring to one species. If you are talking about more than one species of fish, then the word ‘fishes’ comes into use.
‘I have no idea who ‘Stellar Jay’ is. I’m also perplexed by ‘fade the waters top’.
You’ve got something to work on here- we find out at the end that it’s a funeral of sorts. Your description of scenery and senses like sound are good- this is what I liked most- but there were a few clarity issues that left me bemused. A good project though.
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snarfus reviewed Version 1 -
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Okay, the first thing you need to work on is formatting. You need a complete line break between paragraphs, and you don’t need to indent quite so much with the first line of each paragraph (I missed the first line this way). Also, let’s have a space after punctuation. As it stands, this was really cramped and hard to read.
Also, some of the sentences, while I see how they work in the overall story, don’t really flow together. The most glaring was the line about the father being raised by priests, then the narrator talking about his own faults.
Basically, my main advice for this piece is a bit of reformatting. Let the first paragraph be entirely about the father, which leads into the next paragraph which starts about the rest of the family but slowly focuses on the narrator, and then do the rest of the story.
This is a good piece, it’s just a bit hard to follow at times.
oknapp reviewed Version 1 -
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Okay lets start by fixing your title. Daddy Don’t You Walk so Fast. All caps except for so.
Again, I’m in trouble again…take out the last again and write it like this:
Again i am in trouble. i have had hats before but none ever fit me as well as this one. My father did good job making it. I can smell the glue that he used to seal its long conical seam. The ink from the magic marker smells like his breath and reminds me of him. Accross my new hat my father has written the words “I am A Dunce” in big letters. Wearing my new hat i stand facing the corner. My face is hidden but red with embarrasment. My buttocks are still sore from the last punishment.
My father was raised by the jesuit priests. Everything had to be his way or no way. However, his strict punishments did little to quell my mischievousness…
A lovely memory. I fixed the above for you. If you would like for me to edit it further, let me know. I tried not to change the flavor of it. I love the part in the story where you climbed the redwoods and went fishing. I liked your description of the pines and such. I would never want to take away anything from your lovely piece, but perhaps edit it a little bit to make it more comprehensive. Just let me knw. I really liked your memory. Sandi
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