Shweb
05-13-2008, 11:04 PM
Every morning my father wakes me up just before dawn. I rise up out of my bed to the sound of small waves crashing up against the shore. Every morning it's the same routine: I get up, get dressed, and meet my father down at the dock where he waits for me with the nets and the vests ready. We go out into that cold lonely sea before the sun comes up, and come back with tons of fish before she goes back down. My father and I don't have an income. We simply take the fish down to the nearest town and trade off for things we need such as butter and soap. Then we shove off back to our lonely little lighthouse, on its lonely little cliff.
We live in Scotland on the island of Isla, and we live there alone far away from town or any people. I suppose I had a mother once but it's less than what my father tells me about her that I really do know. He says she was a beautiful woman who loved and cared so much that she gave her life at my birth so that I would live with more love and care than any other child. Of course, those stories grow old after twenty two years of hearing them over and over. I don't want to know more of my mother, those stories are enough. I guess I'm afraid of the thought that I wouldn't be much pleased with her if I actually knew who she was. But then again, it would be nice to know what she looked like. My father tells me she had my same green eyes and my same blonde hair. But I don't know for I've never even seen a picture. Nonetheless I carry on just fine with my day to day life.
My father grew up in this light house which he says was built by the sweat and blood of his grandfather who passed it down to his father who passed it down to him. I suppose one day he hopes to pass it down to me, but I surely hope not. I honestly grow tired of the same routine over and over. The view is pretty and the quiet is calming, but it's a bit too lonely for me to handle. I've read in books about places far off that hold opportunities and chances open for anybody to simply come and take them. I surely would like to move into town and become part of something more than a house with a light and one man to keep me company. Though he does keep me company. My father has a new story for me every night when we sit around the fire and drink tea before going to bed. And when I stare into his glossy gray eyes I can really see the fires and skies and people he speaks about in such detail as to make you believe you were there. I write those stories down after he goes to bed. I don't know why I do it but I do. I guess writing things helps me get to sleep because I always wake up with my pencil and my notebook in my bed with me. Since my father wakes me he always makes a rather funny comment about it. I honestly don't know why I always relied on my father to wake me up, but now I catch myself regretting not ever learning to rise on my own. I regret it after waking up on the morning of December twenty first, my twenty third birthday.
I remember that morning quite vividly. I woke up cold and shivering to find that it was light outside which was strange because we never once woke up when there was light. I got up out of bed and searched the house for my father but didn't find him. I walked down the stairs to the kitchen where I found a half cup of cold tea and an empty plate which seemed like it had muffin crumbs on it. I ran out the door and gazed over the cliff into the sea in hopes to spot my father's boat, but I saw nothing. I waited there, on the steps to the house, all day. Finally a stranger walked up and asked, " Are you Ian Lachlan?" "Yes I am can I help you?" "I'm awfully sorry to bother you sir, and I'm awful sorry to be the one to tell you this, but we found your father's boat out at sea today sir. And you see? We don't know why or how it happened, but your father was in the boat lying on the deck cold as the last fish in the sea." I replied quietly, " My father is gone?" "Yes sir", he replied, " The crew gave him a fisherman's burial sir and we didn't know who he was until we saw his boat's half scraped name on the side as we cast it out to sea. That's when I came hurrying to find you sir. " I replied, " That's quite all right sir. If you could please leave me be for the moment." "Yes sir."
My father had died that morning alone on his boat in the loneliest place in the world. Of course, many questions began to arise. I wondered why my father didn't wake me that morning to come fishing with him. Every day since I was a little tyke he would wake me to come fishing with him, and he picks the day I turn twenty three to die? I cried out that night, "Why now pa?! Why so soon?! Why so sudden pa?!"
I cried harder than the waters came in the rainy season soon after that. How perfect for me that the weather matched my state of being. My father had left too many questions unanswered. Questions now to be lost forever within the walls of this old lighthouse. It seemed that everywhere I look in this crummy little house I see a mystery that my father created on purpose to torment and torture me. But why?
As soon as I started questioning, I started hallucinating. I'd wake up in the morning and find my dead father sitting at the table drinking tea and staring out the window. I'd write down stories that my dead father was telling me before I went to bed. And I'd wake up in the morning and go fishing with my dead father. I knew it was crazy and I knew I was sick but I just had to use these images to the best of my ability. I used them to try to figure out all the stupid little puzzles my father left behind. Sadly though, one night I went berserk. I began throwing things around and breaking furniture and pictures and windows and all sorts of things were flying everywhere until…
I don't remember much of what happened before, but all I can say is that I found myself standing in front of a burning light house. All I did was stand there and watch. I stood on the ground for seven hours while that house burned clean to the ground. That magnificent glow was somewhat of a godsend to me. Everything I knew and everything I didn't know was now set ablaze in a fire that engulfed the midnight sky. No more questions, no more mysteries, no more hallucinations, no more father. The next morning I went looking through the ashes with a few towns people who happened to see the fire. We were looking for items that were salvaged in the flames. I found but one thing, my little storybook. It was the only thing that survived, and it was hidden under the bricks to the fireplace.
I decided that I would rebuild the house using my sweat and blood, and two years later, on my twenty fifth birthday, it was done. I had pitched a small shed in the meantime to live in until the house was complete. It looked nothing like the old one, but it was what I would surely call home. About two months after I was living in it, a knock came at the door. I opened it to find a most beautiful woman standing in the doorway, " Hello madam can I help you?" She replied in the sweetest voice, " Hello my name is Annabel Gillian. My daddy and I have just purchased the land across from your house and I thought I'd stop by the only house on the entire hillside and say hello." "Well," said I, " that's very kind of you. If you don't mind my asking though, why would your father buy such a useless piece of land?" She replied, " Well we're about to build a house on it and move in here. Daddy is going to open up a fishing market nearby and he thought it would be good to move closer to work. Is that ok with you sir?" Of course it was ok with me but who was I to say anyways. It sounded like her father was pretty self made, and the only thing I was interested in was a job at his market. Of course I introduced myself to her as well and eventually, I did get that job at the market along with the beautiful Annabel's hand in marriage.
We lived greatly and happily with her father's financial backing as my employer, and as a couple in love with each other madly. We had more than love, but friendship that would last forever. She only sought what was best for me and I only sought what was best for her. This way, we were blind as to what was best for ourselves, but we trusted each other enough to know what we wouldn't let each other get hurt. It was the most perfect time of my life.
Ten years later, on June twenty first, Annabel's father passed away. It was one of the toughest times for us both, but it was also a bountiful time for us. Mr. Gillian left his fortune to "The Loveliest Couple in Scotland, my children Ian and Annabel." The night of his funeral Annabel and I decided we were to have a child, and we began to pray for one consistently. It took us five years to do it, but eventually we did. On June twenty first, the fifth anniversary to Annabel's father's death, our son was born. Unfortunately, my sweet Annabel passed during his birth. I was filled with mixed emotions being depressed at the death of my wife, but thrilled to have a newborn son. I whispered in his ear quietly the first time I got to hold him, " Your mommy was a beautiful woman who loved and cared so much that she gave her life at your birth so that you would live with more love and care than any other child." And it was true. I will never forget her, with her brown eyes and shiny blonde hair, just like mine, and just like our boy, Donnan's.
I raised him all the same as my father raised me, but we would only fish to sell it in our market. Donnan was a natural fisherman, and he was as strong as a horse. My boy would bring nets in himself and scale even the biggest fish in seconds. Our little fish market began to make much profit with him by my side. Boy did he grow up fast though. The mornings I would wake him up before the sun came up went by so quickly, that the years seemed like days, and the days seemed like only minutes. Twenty three years passed by so quickly, and I grew old quicker than I would imagine. One June morning I thought I'd let Donnan sleep in. I went out to fish in that boat alone that morning, but I never returned. The thing is that I passed peacefully while that silence of the ocean screamed in my head, and that beauty of the surrounding wasn't visible in the dark of the morning.
See Donnan, I wrote this story for you so that you wouldn't be as confused as I was when my father died. I wrote this story in order to tie up all the loose ends, and give you a reassurance about every aspect of my life, your mother's life, and your life as long as I knew you. I'll leave this on your bed next to your drawing books and colored pencils. Goodbye son, I wish you the best.
We live in Scotland on the island of Isla, and we live there alone far away from town or any people. I suppose I had a mother once but it's less than what my father tells me about her that I really do know. He says she was a beautiful woman who loved and cared so much that she gave her life at my birth so that I would live with more love and care than any other child. Of course, those stories grow old after twenty two years of hearing them over and over. I don't want to know more of my mother, those stories are enough. I guess I'm afraid of the thought that I wouldn't be much pleased with her if I actually knew who she was. But then again, it would be nice to know what she looked like. My father tells me she had my same green eyes and my same blonde hair. But I don't know for I've never even seen a picture. Nonetheless I carry on just fine with my day to day life.
My father grew up in this light house which he says was built by the sweat and blood of his grandfather who passed it down to his father who passed it down to him. I suppose one day he hopes to pass it down to me, but I surely hope not. I honestly grow tired of the same routine over and over. The view is pretty and the quiet is calming, but it's a bit too lonely for me to handle. I've read in books about places far off that hold opportunities and chances open for anybody to simply come and take them. I surely would like to move into town and become part of something more than a house with a light and one man to keep me company. Though he does keep me company. My father has a new story for me every night when we sit around the fire and drink tea before going to bed. And when I stare into his glossy gray eyes I can really see the fires and skies and people he speaks about in such detail as to make you believe you were there. I write those stories down after he goes to bed. I don't know why I do it but I do. I guess writing things helps me get to sleep because I always wake up with my pencil and my notebook in my bed with me. Since my father wakes me he always makes a rather funny comment about it. I honestly don't know why I always relied on my father to wake me up, but now I catch myself regretting not ever learning to rise on my own. I regret it after waking up on the morning of December twenty first, my twenty third birthday.
I remember that morning quite vividly. I woke up cold and shivering to find that it was light outside which was strange because we never once woke up when there was light. I got up out of bed and searched the house for my father but didn't find him. I walked down the stairs to the kitchen where I found a half cup of cold tea and an empty plate which seemed like it had muffin crumbs on it. I ran out the door and gazed over the cliff into the sea in hopes to spot my father's boat, but I saw nothing. I waited there, on the steps to the house, all day. Finally a stranger walked up and asked, " Are you Ian Lachlan?" "Yes I am can I help you?" "I'm awfully sorry to bother you sir, and I'm awful sorry to be the one to tell you this, but we found your father's boat out at sea today sir. And you see? We don't know why or how it happened, but your father was in the boat lying on the deck cold as the last fish in the sea." I replied quietly, " My father is gone?" "Yes sir", he replied, " The crew gave him a fisherman's burial sir and we didn't know who he was until we saw his boat's half scraped name on the side as we cast it out to sea. That's when I came hurrying to find you sir. " I replied, " That's quite all right sir. If you could please leave me be for the moment." "Yes sir."
My father had died that morning alone on his boat in the loneliest place in the world. Of course, many questions began to arise. I wondered why my father didn't wake me that morning to come fishing with him. Every day since I was a little tyke he would wake me to come fishing with him, and he picks the day I turn twenty three to die? I cried out that night, "Why now pa?! Why so soon?! Why so sudden pa?!"
I cried harder than the waters came in the rainy season soon after that. How perfect for me that the weather matched my state of being. My father had left too many questions unanswered. Questions now to be lost forever within the walls of this old lighthouse. It seemed that everywhere I look in this crummy little house I see a mystery that my father created on purpose to torment and torture me. But why?
As soon as I started questioning, I started hallucinating. I'd wake up in the morning and find my dead father sitting at the table drinking tea and staring out the window. I'd write down stories that my dead father was telling me before I went to bed. And I'd wake up in the morning and go fishing with my dead father. I knew it was crazy and I knew I was sick but I just had to use these images to the best of my ability. I used them to try to figure out all the stupid little puzzles my father left behind. Sadly though, one night I went berserk. I began throwing things around and breaking furniture and pictures and windows and all sorts of things were flying everywhere until…
I don't remember much of what happened before, but all I can say is that I found myself standing in front of a burning light house. All I did was stand there and watch. I stood on the ground for seven hours while that house burned clean to the ground. That magnificent glow was somewhat of a godsend to me. Everything I knew and everything I didn't know was now set ablaze in a fire that engulfed the midnight sky. No more questions, no more mysteries, no more hallucinations, no more father. The next morning I went looking through the ashes with a few towns people who happened to see the fire. We were looking for items that were salvaged in the flames. I found but one thing, my little storybook. It was the only thing that survived, and it was hidden under the bricks to the fireplace.
I decided that I would rebuild the house using my sweat and blood, and two years later, on my twenty fifth birthday, it was done. I had pitched a small shed in the meantime to live in until the house was complete. It looked nothing like the old one, but it was what I would surely call home. About two months after I was living in it, a knock came at the door. I opened it to find a most beautiful woman standing in the doorway, " Hello madam can I help you?" She replied in the sweetest voice, " Hello my name is Annabel Gillian. My daddy and I have just purchased the land across from your house and I thought I'd stop by the only house on the entire hillside and say hello." "Well," said I, " that's very kind of you. If you don't mind my asking though, why would your father buy such a useless piece of land?" She replied, " Well we're about to build a house on it and move in here. Daddy is going to open up a fishing market nearby and he thought it would be good to move closer to work. Is that ok with you sir?" Of course it was ok with me but who was I to say anyways. It sounded like her father was pretty self made, and the only thing I was interested in was a job at his market. Of course I introduced myself to her as well and eventually, I did get that job at the market along with the beautiful Annabel's hand in marriage.
We lived greatly and happily with her father's financial backing as my employer, and as a couple in love with each other madly. We had more than love, but friendship that would last forever. She only sought what was best for me and I only sought what was best for her. This way, we were blind as to what was best for ourselves, but we trusted each other enough to know what we wouldn't let each other get hurt. It was the most perfect time of my life.
Ten years later, on June twenty first, Annabel's father passed away. It was one of the toughest times for us both, but it was also a bountiful time for us. Mr. Gillian left his fortune to "The Loveliest Couple in Scotland, my children Ian and Annabel." The night of his funeral Annabel and I decided we were to have a child, and we began to pray for one consistently. It took us five years to do it, but eventually we did. On June twenty first, the fifth anniversary to Annabel's father's death, our son was born. Unfortunately, my sweet Annabel passed during his birth. I was filled with mixed emotions being depressed at the death of my wife, but thrilled to have a newborn son. I whispered in his ear quietly the first time I got to hold him, " Your mommy was a beautiful woman who loved and cared so much that she gave her life at your birth so that you would live with more love and care than any other child." And it was true. I will never forget her, with her brown eyes and shiny blonde hair, just like mine, and just like our boy, Donnan's.
I raised him all the same as my father raised me, but we would only fish to sell it in our market. Donnan was a natural fisherman, and he was as strong as a horse. My boy would bring nets in himself and scale even the biggest fish in seconds. Our little fish market began to make much profit with him by my side. Boy did he grow up fast though. The mornings I would wake him up before the sun came up went by so quickly, that the years seemed like days, and the days seemed like only minutes. Twenty three years passed by so quickly, and I grew old quicker than I would imagine. One June morning I thought I'd let Donnan sleep in. I went out to fish in that boat alone that morning, but I never returned. The thing is that I passed peacefully while that silence of the ocean screamed in my head, and that beauty of the surrounding wasn't visible in the dark of the morning.
See Donnan, I wrote this story for you so that you wouldn't be as confused as I was when my father died. I wrote this story in order to tie up all the loose ends, and give you a reassurance about every aspect of my life, your mother's life, and your life as long as I knew you. I'll leave this on your bed next to your drawing books and colored pencils. Goodbye son, I wish you the best.