miyako73
05-31-2009, 04:41 PM
Bear with my errors. I still have to edit this. I just want to find out if the idea sounds interesting. Thanks!
The Last Inheritance
Miyako I.
I was five when my mother died. My father killed her. I did not know why he did it. He had never told me. I went to the court, but all I did was play my old, limbless wooden doll. My father would not even throw a glance at me. I did not understand when I heard he was guilty. He just sobbed. I asked around about "reclusion perpetua". My father was sentenced to life. I became an instant orphan. He had never said sorry. I wondered why nobody I knew had blamed my father and had ill thoughts towards him.
Ordered by the judge, I lived with my maternal grandfather, the only surviving immediate relative I had. I had learned much about life from him. He taught me how to swim by pushing my back and pulling my chin. Surviving had never seemed a struggle.
I became a writer through listening to my grandfather. He read me stirring poetry. I listened to him when he said, "Cry. Cry some more. Your tears are liquid pearls." I cried as if I mourned. He was not really that deep. I just needed to know about pain.
When he said, "Laugh until you die to free the stomach butterfly," I did laugh heartily that I almost choked. The funny story that he animatedly acted out made me giggle. He saw something in my cheerful eyes—the innocent joy of a woeful child.
We had a simple life. The monthly check he got from the government was just enough for our food and his medicines. In our thatch-roofed stone house, we read a lot to entertain ourselves. My grandfather had collected many books. He neatly stacked them under his bed. Embarrassingly resourceful, he hoarded them from the library's trash bins.
"These are all yours," he said, pointing at his dusty collections. "Don't make kites or paper planes out of them." I had read all the books and used the defaced, coverless ones for the firewood stove and for the dirty toilet. Literally, under my grandfather's wing, I ate and **** literature, the first thing, he said, that I would inherit from him.
My grandfather was good with blades and knives. He was a war veteran who had fought against the Japanese who were cruel with their samurais. The butterfly knife he had always brought with him had saved his life numerous times. Deadly knife duels occurred often in our village known for its almost toxic coconut wine. "Killing is dying," he said. "You, the killer, become numb, and you'll never be scared of death again."
He took the butterfly knife under his pillow. "This is for your protection. Don't hurt anyone without his permission." Even though I did not get what he meant, I gladly accepted it. It was the next thing I inherited from him. Carefully, I learned how to hold and fold it. The knife was glisteningly sharp. It perfectly sliced heart-shaped mangoes.
Later, the ugly complications of his diabetes confined him to his bed. Both of his legs were amputated. He just stared all day at his unworn slippers. It pained me to watch him battle his misery from dawn to dawn. The malady of old age was just unforgiving.
"Nobody waits for his demise," he said. "That's for the stars." I understood what he meant. My grandfather was a brave warrior, but he would never win the war he had been fighting. His defeated mind could not stir his willing heart. He knew he was losing.
That mid-afternoon that seemed like dusk, ominous gloom pervaded all over my grandfather's room. He called me, gasping. "Can you show me the best you've written?" I read him my deepest sonnet. He could not hide his misting eyes. "Please feed me a slice of the juiciest mango." I cut the yellowest I could pick. His eyes glowed as his lips were sweetened. "Your poem pierced my heart." I thankfully listened. "Can you do the same with the butterfly knife?" he begged. I felt numb. It was the last of my inheritance.
The Last Inheritance
Miyako I.
I was five when my mother died. My father killed her. I did not know why he did it. He had never told me. I went to the court, but all I did was play my old, limbless wooden doll. My father would not even throw a glance at me. I did not understand when I heard he was guilty. He just sobbed. I asked around about "reclusion perpetua". My father was sentenced to life. I became an instant orphan. He had never said sorry. I wondered why nobody I knew had blamed my father and had ill thoughts towards him.
Ordered by the judge, I lived with my maternal grandfather, the only surviving immediate relative I had. I had learned much about life from him. He taught me how to swim by pushing my back and pulling my chin. Surviving had never seemed a struggle.
I became a writer through listening to my grandfather. He read me stirring poetry. I listened to him when he said, "Cry. Cry some more. Your tears are liquid pearls." I cried as if I mourned. He was not really that deep. I just needed to know about pain.
When he said, "Laugh until you die to free the stomach butterfly," I did laugh heartily that I almost choked. The funny story that he animatedly acted out made me giggle. He saw something in my cheerful eyes—the innocent joy of a woeful child.
We had a simple life. The monthly check he got from the government was just enough for our food and his medicines. In our thatch-roofed stone house, we read a lot to entertain ourselves. My grandfather had collected many books. He neatly stacked them under his bed. Embarrassingly resourceful, he hoarded them from the library's trash bins.
"These are all yours," he said, pointing at his dusty collections. "Don't make kites or paper planes out of them." I had read all the books and used the defaced, coverless ones for the firewood stove and for the dirty toilet. Literally, under my grandfather's wing, I ate and **** literature, the first thing, he said, that I would inherit from him.
My grandfather was good with blades and knives. He was a war veteran who had fought against the Japanese who were cruel with their samurais. The butterfly knife he had always brought with him had saved his life numerous times. Deadly knife duels occurred often in our village known for its almost toxic coconut wine. "Killing is dying," he said. "You, the killer, become numb, and you'll never be scared of death again."
He took the butterfly knife under his pillow. "This is for your protection. Don't hurt anyone without his permission." Even though I did not get what he meant, I gladly accepted it. It was the next thing I inherited from him. Carefully, I learned how to hold and fold it. The knife was glisteningly sharp. It perfectly sliced heart-shaped mangoes.
Later, the ugly complications of his diabetes confined him to his bed. Both of his legs were amputated. He just stared all day at his unworn slippers. It pained me to watch him battle his misery from dawn to dawn. The malady of old age was just unforgiving.
"Nobody waits for his demise," he said. "That's for the stars." I understood what he meant. My grandfather was a brave warrior, but he would never win the war he had been fighting. His defeated mind could not stir his willing heart. He knew he was losing.
That mid-afternoon that seemed like dusk, ominous gloom pervaded all over my grandfather's room. He called me, gasping. "Can you show me the best you've written?" I read him my deepest sonnet. He could not hide his misting eyes. "Please feed me a slice of the juiciest mango." I cut the yellowest I could pick. His eyes glowed as his lips were sweetened. "Your poem pierced my heart." I thankfully listened. "Can you do the same with the butterfly knife?" he begged. I felt numb. It was the last of my inheritance.