Work in Progress- The D-Word: A Collection

Recently, I made the decision to try and self-publish a short story collection which will be called "The D-Word." I was motivated after reading a news article on 27 year old author Amanda Hocking. I have since written two stories, and have started on a third. I thought, given that this week I have to read literally 3 books for classes I wouldn't have enough time to write anything else. So instead, I have opted to share with you one of the shorter stories entitled Snow. To give you an idea of what to expect, my collection will be taking a look at different aspects of life from a child's perspective. I'll leave it at that. I hope you enjoy it.

Snow by Niles Dookie

           The first time I saw snow was when my younger brother, by three years, and I went with our mom to New York City. I remember the plane flight over. Mom had been all the way in the back somewhere for the trip. Dad, Kitkat and I were sitting up front with the other members of mom’s family. There was Uncle Carlos, my mother’s older brother who barely ever said a word, and Grandpa Joey who was more animal than man at this point. Grandpa Joey seemed to only own one set of clothes, like fur on a dog, drool at the side of his lip, and this blank stare that made you turn away after a while.

          Dad didn’t speak much during the trip. When he did, it was to ask the stewardess—a  woman who had to walk like a crab down the aisles—when they would be landing, or for another one of those mini plastic bottles of liquor, and a few times for these little packets of cookies for KitKat.

            Kitkat had been real fidgety. He was the sort of kid who liked to scrunch down real low in his seat and scowl like someone was pinching him hard on the arm. His cheeks were still fat like a baby, though he was already six now.

            “Sit up straight,” I told him, pretending I was his army general again. It was one of the games we used to play back home. I’d tell him to run, and to stop, and to pull, and to “give me fifty” even though neither of us knew what that actually meant. We had this running joke where I’d say it and he’d respond “Do you have change for a dollar?”

            Kitkat slumped down more and stuck his tongue out at me. That just wasn’t what you did to your general, so I gave him a reason to scowl. I pinched his arm hard, through the wool sweater of itchy purple and blue yarn. He shoved my arm away, told me to quit it. I told him, “That’s not how soldiers act.” But then Dad looked over and we shut up like our mouths were full of Mom’s good old toasted peanut-butter and Nutella sandwiches.

            That was both my brother and me’s favorite lunch. It was chunky and sweet and went great with a glass of milk. She packed it for us just about every day for school, except on the rare occasions Dad forgot to buy more Nutella. Then we’d end up with just peanut butter. We refused jelly, though my brother had a thing for apple. Once, when she was packing our lunch, Mom had made the mistake of using apple jelly on my sandwich instead. I had forced myself to eat it because I always got really hungry at lunchtime, but when I got home, boy, did I have a lot to say.

            “I’m not Kitkat you know.”

            She was chopping something. It’s been so long but I think it was a cucumber.

            “I know, sweetie.” She smiled at me. The same smile as in the painting in the living room of her my father made back when he used to paint stills and portraits instead of houses. “I just forgot which sandwich was which. But I’ll tell you what, Pinky. If it ever happens again, I’ll personally come down to the school with a fresh made replacement.”

            She winked and stroked my hair before going back to chopping away. I think it was actually a pepper now. It never did happen again, though sometimes I wanted her to screw up just so I could see her at school and hear all the other kids talk about how I looked just like her. It made me feel special because mom was perfect. That’s what one of the boys called her once. I think one of my teachers had gotten jealous because she had then said how none of us could even begin to understand what perfection was.

            Whatever it was, so was my Mom.

            When the plane suddenly jolted, Kitkat grabbed onto my jacket sleeve. The dark cherry color almost made it look like his hand was bleeding. I turned away from looking outside the small window and placed my other hand on top of his. I squeezed at it slightly and he relaxed while I looked back out again. This was the first time he would remember flying on a plane. For me, this would be the second.

            My first flight was close to three summers back. That time, the trip was to Bologna to visit where Mom had grown up. She was always this big city girl. It was also where she had met Dad, though at the time he was merely studying abroad.

            That flight was horrible for me. Shooting into the air in an over-sized hot dog made me both sick and nervous. After having perfected the art of paper air-planes in school, it wasn’t hard to see that the typical design of an airplane needed some revision. But Dad kept telling me throughout the flight, the literal ups and downs, that these things stayed in the air ten times more than the typical Miami driver drifted out of their lane. It was a creative spin on the “more cars crash than planes” comparison and made me smile most of the time.

            Both he and Mom were sitting on either side of me, and when Dad wasn’t telling me about the magic behind these flying hot dogs, Mom was telling me about her childhood. Grandma had actually come from New York but had met Grandpa during a trip to see Venice, had fallen in love, and stayed in Italy, moving into an apartment building in Bologna.

            “You see,” Mom had said. “Grandma thought Venice was pretty, but Bologna blew it out of the water.” All three of us smiled. I was just happy that I had understood the joke. “So Grandma and Grandpa moved to Bologna.” She then told me about how it had the oldest college in the world. Dad chimed in how he was there when he met Mom. They exchanged glances and I could see how they got lost in the other’s thoughts.

            The trip itself was fun. Mom played on this ancient piano that stood alone in this narrow room to the side of the apartment’s main area. She played on it every night while Dad and I sat out on the balcony, listening and making feeble attempts to count the stars.

            Looking down at KitKat, his grip on my arm softening and his head slowly resting against Dad’s shoulder, I began to feel bad for him. He was too young. Mom had wanted to take him at the time, but was worried to take him while he was sick. She would have stayed, but then Dad complained about how they already had the tickets. He said how when KitKat was older, we’d all go again. I just don’t think even he realized he was lying.

            When the plane finally touched down in New York City, we all walked out slowly, as if, instead of being in our mouths, mom’s peanut butter was clogging up our joints. Grandpa Joey was especially slow, even with Uncle Carlos helping. Dad was holding KitKat’s hand when they walked down, but KitKat began to use the other to wipe his eyes even though Dad always tells us we shouldn’t.

            We collected our things, one suitcase for each of us. We would only be here for a few days. Dad’s own was burgundy and he carried it slung over his shoulder. Uncle Carlos and Grandpa Joey had similar black cases with wheels. Kitkat’s was this little Hot Wheels roller bag with bright blue, red, and yellow streaked all over it. He always pushed it in front of him because he didn’t like how sometimes his feet would knock against it from behind. Mine was light yellow like lemon meringue, and had both wheels and backpack straps. This time, I had decided to carry it. It was heavy, but I felt older that way.

            It reminded me of what Mom had said a few weeks back.

            “He’s younger than you, okay Pinky?”She had turned to the side slightly before looking back at me. “I don’t want to see you picking on him because you’re older.”

            “I won’t.”

            “Generals don’t mistreat their soldiers.”

            She smiled and I smiled back. She was the one who would always give us assignments and missions to go on. I put my hand to my forehead like what they did on those army commercials. She did the same, the tube stuck in her hand waving as her arm dropped back down.

 Mom’s bag was brown, slightly faded and torn. She had had it since she first came to the States with Dad. It was big and sturdy though, which was why she had kept it after all these years. It was probably because of the memories too. I wanted to keep it myself, but I couldn’t use it until Mom was finished with it. But I told her I would use it when I traveled the world. I would go to Bologna and Venice and see the Great Wall and the London Eye. I would travel as much as she and Dad used to before they had me and before I would have my own daughter. She nodded when I told her that. Nodded and smiled, but she was already gone.

Then, when we finally got out of the airport, I saw the snow, like fallen clouds around the lampposts and on the trees. Even when we buried Mom’s ashes in the park, besides Grandma’s grave, it was all over. I remember when Mom told me, looking at the ceiling with her eyes practically sinking into her face, that I would see the snow and it would be beautiful. As Mom always was, she was right.

 End

This is just a draft, but exemplifies what to expect throughout the collection. Constructive criticism is appreciated.