The house is as he left it. Abandoned. At the end of that long and dusty road; a prison surrounded by a moat filled with cotton, almonds, canals and mosquitoes.
Heavy branches shade the concrete walk; mulberries left to rot stain it red, concealing forever the hand prints of a boy, the paw print of his dog, and a date drawn in like graffiti with stick, marking the year it was poured.
The living room is as he remembered; dull ivory walls and shaggy carpet the color and length of uncut grass. The kitchen is adorned in Harvest Gold. The wallpaper that lines the hallway has faded from pink to gray and is lined with soulless photographs that are yellowed and cracking with age and neglect like old and ignored teeth. Frozen smiles. Feigned happiness.
At the end of the hall, the door to the room on the right is locked. Inside the ghost of his mother cries in the darkness for the attention she would never receive; her endless wailing isolated her; leading her farther into her abyss; bars of leaden despair; a prison created in the depths of her fractured mind.
In the room next to hers, the pink one, the ghost of his sister paces like a lion in a cage; grinding her teeth, her skin itching and raw, her eyes darting about, trying to focus on everything, seeing nothing; gone. “Where are you?” he asks. “Will you ever return?”
In the room next to hers, the green one, the ghost that was his youth braces for a beating. He covers his head with a pillow, blocking out all sound; retreating to a place where everything is good; where angels remind him of his grandmother; where the world is his; the world of the writer.
Outside his room an angry ghost waits, holding a leather strap and yelling; it’s deep and menacing voice shakes the house; the ghost of the sister closes her door; the mother is deaf to all but herself. “You are a failure,” the angry ghost screams. “You’re an embarrassment … you were a mistake… you are not my son.” The angry ghost; the father; the tiller of the soil that nourished only doubt.
But, they are only ghosts.
The house is as I left it. Haunted. At the end of that long and dusty road; the one I learned to drive on; practicing over and over — driving up and back — planning the day when I wouldn’t return.
*
Copyright© 2007 Mark B. Papale All rights reserved
Wow Mark, that was powerful… and if that is your youth, may you never look back in fear — just straight ahead, up and away!
Loved the fact that an instrumental version of the Doors “Riders On the Storm” was playing.
A haunting piece indeed…….parents don’t know the damage they do.
oh mark.. this was truly intoxicating.. i love the pictures and the images,, good god the images… you are gifted,, and ever so much a success in every way……
the whole piece is powerful but this line, especially, ” the ghost that was his youth braces for a beating”
A wonderful piece of writing. Thankyou
It’s hard to put a response into words. Everything I think to write sounds hollow.
Details like Harvest Gold pulled me in; a fragmented description of the rooms and people were devastating.
The last line is especially poignant.
Somehow it left a chilly feeling within me. Very glad you planned your escape and did just that.
I’m so sorry. This was very heartfelt and so sad. I’m so sorry! But, I’ve heard that be a good writer you must survive the worst childhood you can endure. Sounds like you did!
Good morning Rob, Jo, Paisley, Pauline, Keith, Deb, Guatimi and Mary,
Thank you all for stopping in. I appreciate the comments and the time you all took to read. I am looking forward to settling in to read your work.
Mark
A beautiful way to tell the horrible truth…
what an incredibly powerful piece of writing! truly haunting. the images are great too, especially the second one.
So powerful.
Brilliant writing – chilling, terrifying as words can be -
Good morning Greggo, Manictastic and Tumblewords!
Thank you for stopping in. Your time and comments are appreciated.
I love the way the story took me through this reflection, seeing each as to what brought them to that point, seeing them now as they were, life’s realities harsh here, very vivid with imagery.
Enjoyed reading this.
I hesitate to write something like “this is wonderful,” because I don’t want to make light of the fact that this amazing piece is autobiographical. This is exquisitely written down to every agonizing and desperate detail. The raw candor is astounding. I applaud you on laying yourself open in such an outstandingly skillful way. Thank you for the opportunity to read this.
-Ashley Lyn
P.S. Thank you for your generous praise of my piece. Your kindness is truly wonderful.
Hi Missy, Hi Ashley Lyn –
Thanks you both for stopping in. This was a difficult piece to publish.
A very powerful poem, rich with imagery and layers of meaning. When I read your title, I was expecting something humorous along the lines of “Caspar the Friendly Ghost.”
Casper, the friendly ghost
The friendliest ghost you know!
The grownups might look at him with fright,
But the children all love him so.
He always says hello
And he’s really glad to meet ya’
Wherever he may go,
He’s kind to every living creature.
Grownups don’t understand,
Why children love him the most,
But kids all know that he loves them so,
Casper the friendly ghost!
—-
Thanks, Paris! I’m glad you stopped in.
Ok, it’s my turn now to applaud this wonderful post. You did great, even though it left me feeling sad for the boy who couldnt wait to leave…I am glad he did. Thanks for sharing.
Hi UL – Thank you so much for stopping by and commenting.
What can I say Mark? Wow!
~JD
The best revenge is to live well…
Your words are powerful and beautiful in their aching sadness.
xx
Thanks, JD. Wow works!
Ms. Minx – Living well is something I have down to an art. Thanks for coming back.
Fantastic work, sir. You write so very elegantly, and this particular tale left me with goosebumps.
Although that might be because I am not wearing any trousers.
Lord, you simply must keep your trousers on. The cool, wet winds in London are no friend of Lord Palmerston.
again incredible.
I could see each ghost as you did…I could see your reactions to them as well…and I could understand your plotting to never return. I don’t think I’d want to either.
ds
The world would be a little less interesting without that Hungry Ghost, wouldn’t it?
anita marie
Hi Jodi – thanks for coming back!
DS – There’s nothing worth going back for – the town had been dead for years.
AMM – True – The Hungry Ghost drives many a person toward creativity.
This is beautiful, Mark. The last line is perfect…An ‘Ars Poetica’ of sorts
Thank you Sarah. You’ll be hearing this again shortly!
When the past holds ghosts of pain, the hunger for something more is a fire in the belly that can’t be extinguished. Wonderfully intense writing. Peace, JP/deb
Hello again, Deborah. Thanks for coming by to read and comment. Your insight is appreciated.
you have intrigued me
your third eye is wonderfully developed
It seems you and I exist in similar frequencies of reality
I would like to speak with you
visit my website and contact me
my email address is there
Wolf
Wolf – Thanks for stopping in. I checked out your site and your writing is amazing – nice and dark.
your work is amazing and the only thing I can tell you is to keep on writing and This made me feel so Weird (in a good way.)
Thank you, Darcimp for stopping in. I appreciate your comments.
Love the work.
Keep it up.
Thank you, Lowly Treasured, for taking time to read and comment. I appreciate it.
mark
I must say an extreemly interesting piece. It was…creepy
Wow aht was absolutely amazing. The presence of the ghosts and all that they carried with them just sent shivers down my spine. You’re amazing with words.
I’m a writer too. An amateur, of course, but it would mean so much to me to hear your feedback on my work, however +tive or -tive it may be, as long as its’ honest. Thank you!
Brinda, thank you. I’ll definitely take a look at your site and report back to you!
M