Short Story / The Dancing God
Frank McGunvnie woke slowly; teetering on the edge of consciousness for a moment before the familiar aches and pains of age brought his mind to life. His glance immediately found the open window, the source of his great discomfort, and cursed himself for being so thoughtless. Twenty years ago the chill breeze hadn’t stiffened him like this. Some days his mind was still functioning like it was twenty years ago. He coughed and left the bed.
Frank wiped the sleep from his eyes and greeted the morning with a silent prayer of thanks. Not to the God of David or Abraham but to the God of Frank; the God that had allowed him one more day, the God that had seen another harvest through, the God that kept Molly alive long enough for one more “I love you”. This was not a God of Vengeance or worship, prayers or forgiveness; this was a God that existed just beyond the horizon and danced in the gentle autumn breeze, a living God. Frank offered his thanks in silence and entered the bathroom to perform his morning ritual.
“Hello?” Frank’s voice drifted through the empty house and fell on not one ear. He stopped and considered the sound of it for a moment. It was broken, old and used; the voice of yesterday seeping into the today. This saddened him. He fought off the cliché that was forming in his mind but in vain. “Where has the time gone?”
Frank looked into the mirror and stared into the eyes of a strange old man. The old man watched him with mistrust, the way all old men watched the young. Only, the old was watching the old, no? The lines around his eyes had deepened while his memory shallowed. For a moment he could see Molly standing behind that strange old man looking back at him behind the mirror. She gently kissed the old man’s neck and smiled beside him. She was still as fresh as she was those twenty long years ago. Frank dropped his gaze from the mirror and its occupants. “Has any time passed, really?” The last real memory he had was of burying Molly out past the corn field under the dancing God. What has happened since; anything? Was it all just yesterday? Frank turned off the light but lingered a moment longer to stare intently into the dark mirror. The old man was gone and so was his bride. Frank put his fingers to the mirror and touched its frozen softness. Though he would never admit it even to himself, it took strength to leave that bathroom and the mirror therein.
“Hello?” That old voice, trying and trying to penetrate the frozen morning; hanging and idle like the man who offered it. Frank looked around the empty house. For a moment he felt surprised at its emptiness. Was it Molly he’d expected? How long had this house been a sanctuary to idle death? The easy chair, once warm and welcoming, sat cold and forbidding; untouched since the funeral in the corn. The fireplace a desolate memory, it was festered and stained with sadness. The mood of the house was emptiness, of forgotten dreams and lost hope. The cold outside was warm comfort compared to the empty, lifeless void of this house.
Frank looked around the house confused and angered. He had built this house with nails and the love of a twenty year old girl whose flesh was as white as the mountain tops, her lips deep red and welcoming like the fire all those winters ago when they were snowed in together. Frank bit back bitter anger until it consumed him. He leapt at the easy chair and knocked it into the fireplace. A picture upon the mantle began to rock to and fro. Each moment he watched that ancient photo creep closer to its doom was like a new eternity until finally it fell to its end. Frank’s anger faded to the sound of broken glass and a newly broken memory. He bent over and retrieved the picture.
The young man that still manufactured his thoughts stood tall and proud in the photo, holding close that girl who had so quickly became his world in those days. The two of them were smiling. The kind of smiles that were of genuine abandon to the moment, the kind of smiles that you counted on one hand during a lifetime. Frank dropped the picture and picked up a piece of the shattered glass. He felt its smoothness in a far off awe until he was brought back to life by the sight of his blood gathering around the tiny shard. The pain was sharp and real but was a comfort. It showed Frank he was still alive. Yes, Molly was still dead and buried somewhere out beyond the corn field while Frank still lingered in the dry, cracked reality that lacked her. He said another silent prayer to the dancing God, who played his pipe in the wind out there on the horizon.
Frank picked up the easy chair and set it were it had stood all these years. He pocketed the picture and went outside to gather firewood. The winter was upon him.
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This is decidely good writing. The structure and syntax are exceptionally well done. The composition and flow make for a quick read.
I am somewhat concerned about the timelines. You imply that Molly was twenty when she married Frank, and they had been married for twenty years. Assuming Frank was somewhere around the same age, this “old man” would be in his 40s. That may seem ancient to a 25 year old but for those of us who look at 40 only in a rearwiew mirror, it’s not that old.
For the sake of the ego of your “older” readers, please, consider revising your time references by a few years.
It’s probably just a typo but in the sentence containing ”...holding close that girl who had so quickly became his world in those days…” you need to change became to become (had…become).
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This was an extremely well-written and insightful piece. The language was beautiful and the descriptions were heart-breaking. Wonderful, wonderful job.
Sorrow, sweet sorrow. A picture of pretend presence.
It’s a long, cold winter.
A nice short story. I like how you use the man’s religion--“the dancing God, who played his pipe in the wind”-- in addition to the weather, the ritual of waking up on a daily basis, the differences in a young and old man, the contrast between emtional and physical--“sharp and real but…a comfort”-- pain and also the season al to describe what the loss of a wife is to a man in his twilight years.
And “bit back bitter anger” is a nice use of alliteration.
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