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TITLE (EDIT)
Sunday Morning |
DESCRIPTION
Memories. Just... memories.
[458 words] |
TITLE KEYWORD
Literary Fiction |
AUTHOR
Gregory Novak |
ABOUT
THE AUTHOR
A twenty-something jack-of-all-trades that has simple been exploring the craft of writing for longer than he can remember. Whilst humour is a fickle mistress that comes and goes, he must admit that tragedy and romance consume the bulk of his creative efforts.
[January 2008] |
AUTHOR'S E-MAIL ADDRESS
ultrafunkulah@hotmail.com |
AUTHOR'S OTHER TITLES (17)
Alexandria (Poetry) Just a quick little verse I scribbled down one day on a whim celebrating the destruction of knowledge. [24 words] [History]
Ballad Of The Opiate King (Poetry) - [151 words]
Birds (Poetry) Oh, the things we do... [159 words] [Romance]
Collected Poems (Poetry) A collection of some of the poetry I've written over the years; most of it follows the same or similar rhyming scheme and cadence (yes, most of it rhymes... sorry folks), but the material covered vari... [1,331 words]
Consciousness Stream 1 (Poetry) A relatively lengthy piece I simply spit out one day whilst feeling inexplicably intoxicated (for I was under no influence). [300 words] [Mind]
How She Stirs Not At All (Short Stories) - [319 words]
I Should Think It Like A Fist (Non-Fiction) A semi-conscious rant on language, love and whatever else I found offensive that day. [493 words] [Psychology]
I Think You'd Like Her (Short Stories) A soliloquy of sorts, we find a young man reflecting on a love now lost. [1,440 words] [Romance]
Mere Life Less Love (Non-Fiction) A short projection of private thoughts regarding love and life. [276 words]
Moments, A Lamentation (Non-Fiction) - [500 words] [Romance]
Of Art, Pt. 1 (Non-Fiction) An undulating rant on Art and its relevance to civilized life. [489 words] [Psychology]
Princes And Lesser (Poetry) An exercise in entendre. [117 words] [Literary Fiction]
Reflections On A Sunrise (Short Stories) A very old fable I stumbled across that I had written some years ago. I still reading it from time to time, I like what I was trying to do here, inspirational and all of that. [1,037 words] [Fable]
Stranded At Dusk (Short Stories) I've labeled this as a short story, although my original intent was to develop this into a longer work, possibly a novella or full-length novel. [1,690 words] [Thriller]
The Mad Diarist (Short Stories) The first fragments of a diary have been discovered buried beneath the dust of an old condemned building. The author's identity remains a mystery. [347 words] [Horror]
The Opiate King (Poetry) In Memorium of a Great Man. [151 words] [Mystical]
Worlds Apart (Short Stories) A series of piggybacking streams of consciousness, effectively stages of one man's reflection on the woman he's left for reasons (and duration) unknown. [1,595 words] [Relationships]
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Sunday Morning
Gregory Novak
I’ve always wondered whether rich men ever dream of losing their fortune. If they ever wake up in the morning in a cold sweat, wiping their face with a sigh of relief as the reality sets in that they’re still wealthy.
I remember the morning my daddy died. What a horrible thing, to be shot down in your own doorway. To be standing on the threshold between the safety of your home and the world outside. But nobody ever tells you to watch your chest. I suppose nobody ever considers that they ought to.
He died instantly, or if he didn’t he made no sign. He didn’t so much as say a word or look down at me after the bullet hit him. I learned later that he had died in the hospital that night, but until I was older I didn’t understand what that had meant. I had watched him die that morning as surely as I had seen the sun come up, and that was the truth of it. Whether his soul had held on inside until the coast was clear or until it was clear that help wasn’t coming, well, frankly I can’t say. But the man that was my father took his last breath as a man the moment he laid down on that doorstep.
I remember being told that they had found the men who had shot my father, and that they were being punished for what they did, but I remember not really understanding, or caring. As young as I was I didn’t know what things like justice or revenge or even anger meant. Not like I do now, anyway. I was told the men who had shot my father were to be executed, and that meant that they wouldn’t be alive anymore. And I remember feeling the most indescribable fear and confusion at the fact that these men were now going to be with my daddy in whatever place it was that he had gone to. He didn’t have many friends that I was ever aware of, and I hated to think that he’d have even less in his next life.
I never learned much about my father beyond the fact that he loved me, and that he had blood in him the colour of raspberry jam.
I don’t wake up these days much before noon on Sundays. I suppose I’m lucky that I work Saturday evenings because I’ve never been asked to get up earlier than that by my wife, although there are a lot of mornings I lie in bed and wish I could.
I still tense a little when I hear her open the front door Sunday mornings, even if it’s just to check the mail.
I still tell her it can wait until noon.
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READER'S REVIEWS (1)
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"I think you write fantasticly. Its asad story but often they are thes best. Your writing was very easy to read and just seemed to flow. Well done" -- Snazi.
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COPYRIGHT NOTICE
© 2008 Gregory Novak |
STORYMANIA PUBLICATION DATE
October 2008 |
NUMBER OF TIMES TITLE VIEWED
2029
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