the Unending Journey of the Wandering Author

A chronicle of the unending journey of the Wandering Author through life, with notes and observations made along the way. My readers should be aware I will not censor comments that disagree with me, but I do refuse to display comment spam or pointless, obscene rants. Humans may contact me at thewanderingauthor at yahoo dot com - I'll reply as I am able.

Name:
Location: New England, United States

I have always known I was meant to write, even when I was too young to know the word 'author'. When I learned that books were printed, I developed an interest in that as well. And I have always been a wanderer, at least in my mind. It's not the worst trait in an author. For more, read my writing; every author illuminates their heart and soul on the pages they write upon.

Wednesday, April 25, 2007

Unkind Truth

Alex stood in the tiny cabin, staring at the spilled crumbs of what was once his grandmother's life. He'd always believed she died before his birth, but when he had to go through his mother's papers as she lay dying, he learned she lived until he was almost fourteen.

A frantic search through whatever records he could find revealed little else, but did lead him here. Grandma must have been deserted by everyone, not just her daughter. No one even bothered to wash up the last few dishes stacked in her sink.

A sad scent, the peculiar odor of an abandoned home, filled his nostrils as he sifted through the papers scattered across the floor. In his haste, some of them slipped from his fingers. He needed to understand the secret that haunted his family.

His eyes lit on a crumpled, worn photograph, of a girl with dark hair and a wry smile. Hours later, he found what he sought. A brittle document, with a picture of the same girl, pale and unsmiling, pasted above his grandmother's name, and a few particulars that revealed she'd been a prisoner at Dachau.

He crouched there, unmoving, for hours. So much made sense now, his grandmother's isolation, his mother's own strangeness, even her sardonic amusement and disgust at what he'd become. Still he crouched, until at last a single, hot tear dropped to the back of his hand, rolled across the swastika tattooed there, then was chased by another, and another...

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6 Comments:

Anonymous wolfbaby said...

How sad... and ironic.

April 25, 2007 12:34 PM  
Blogger DBA Lehane said...

Hauntingly sad...and then whack! Never saw that coming for a moment. Extremely well written.

April 26, 2007 2:16 AM  
Blogger suzanabrams said...

Powerfully poignant!
Intriguing!

April 26, 2007 9:45 PM  
Blogger desiderata said...

A*rresting. yes, we awe have secrets, often interred with our bones...--Desi

April 27, 2007 12:52 AM  
Blogger The Wandering Author said...

Thank you, everyone. And, Lehane, coming from the master of the twist, I take that as a very large compliment.

April 27, 2007 3:44 PM  
Anonymous Amin said...

WA

another stunner. Boy, that ending knocked me over. Superb. Just superb.

I love the way you write. That very short story was so full of content it's untrue.

As someone else said, never saw it coming.

April 29, 2007 5:29 AM  

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