Cold and white, flurries muffle the air like clouds of frigid dust. Hurry on, persistent child. Wind stings, raw, bitter, like father’s loving caress. Abstain, willful young man.
Brother throws his keys on the table just inside the door and shakes the snow from the shoulders of his jacket as he takes it off. He goes to the kitchen to find boy sitting at the table, drawing a picture by the dim afternoon light.
“How’s mom?” asks boy.
“It was a miscarriage,” answers brother.
Boy looks up at brother and narrows his eyes.
“You wouldn’t know, you weren’t there!” brother disclaims.
Boy goes back to his drawing.
“What are you making?” brother asks.
“Nothing,” boy answers.
Brother peers over boy’s shoulder to behold a well detailed account of the previous night. Father stands over shattered mother, his mouth agape, his fist raised. Brother cowers, twitching in the corner, his knees to his chin. Below the drawing boy has written, ‘Father’s Love‘.
Brother, snatching away the drawing, shreds it with his teeth before eating it.
For part ten, click here.
Linda G. Hill 
There’s a fascinating mix of realism and almost Kafka-esque surrealism in this story. This is the first fiction I’ve read of yours, so I had no pre-conceived notions or ideas of what to expect. It’s an interesting style — very pointed and sparse — not a word wasted.
Thank you! This series was actually an experiment in minimalistic writing. I wanted to see how much I could condense it and still squeeze the emotions out. I don’t normally write like this.
The series was originally written a year ago. I’m just re-releasing it now, as back then I only had about 10 followers.
Thanks so much for following 😀 I hope you enjoy the series.
No sound effect this time just admiration. Helena said it all. Okay just one . . . *gasp*
Thank you, John. 🙂
I cried……
😦 Sorry.