First request for devist8me

[KB.]

Write me a story about a mother's love towards her son (9months) and daughter (2 years). ~Devist8me

(Pure fiction taken from two better ending stories that two poeple wrote trying to script fate)



She looked down at the sleeping child and remembered a day a year and a half a go when he had been a twinkle in his Father’s eye. Those eyes never could tell a lie, and she knew what he was thinking before he even put Marvin Gaye on the stereo. This little man she held in her arms, Jude, named for the patron saint of lost causes, named after how she thought of his Father. Both the saint and the cause he was; at least in her eyes. Their daughter Faith was still fresh in the world when he got that twinkle, and thankfully she still was. Her daughter reminded her that things didn’t always follow a pre-determined time line, life ain’t linear a love used to say. The son reminded her that sometimes the world just weighs far too much and the ones that feel the need to carry the burden collapse under it’s weight eventually.

They started the warrior tribe as he always enjoyed calling them later than they had first talked about, but the original plans had not come together as was discussed at first. They married a few years later than they had first planned, and they kept their promise to keep some time for themselves before populating the world with big headed babies. Yet there was Faith playing on the swing her father had built, and here lay Jude sleeping quietly, his hazel eyes not giving away his every nine month old thought. It was amazing what you could see in the eyes of a babe. He winked at folks from time to time, and she had no clue whether it was intentional or a reflex, but knowing his flirting Father she was sure it was exactly how it looked. He was a quiet baby, never cried, patient as he could be. Faith was loud, wanted the world to hear her every word, had an almost unquenchable desire to tell stories in her abstract toddler way. You had better not dare look away or act uninterested, she would just speak up and politely remind you that it was rude to not pay attention to children. She was getting close to three, but she spoke like she was thirty.

Jude, stirred a bit, and those neon green signs to his little innocent soul flashed open. God, they looked just like his daddy’s. He grinned and giggled, that he must have got from her. Faith looked over and almost sat in her Father’s favorite spot, but she looked around and chose another. Mom smiled, that child was ever aware, she wondered if she was waiting, or just knew he wouldn’t be there and decided to not pull up the thoughts; for her own needs or for someone else.

She loved these two little gnomes, for that was all they could be. Little mischievous copies of their parents, set in miniature. They both had those hazel-green eyes, but they had her coal black hair, and the little girl tanned just like she did, a nice earthy tone. She figured they would both be short, she was a tad over five feet, and he was an inch or two under six. They had different hands, the babes were short and a little chubby like hers, but Faith’s were long and skinny like his. She loved the complete mixture of it, the wholeness. They reminded her of a man she adored, who she loved but not in the way most would think. She shared that man; at least his heart and mind with dozens upon dozens of lost causes across the too big world. These children though, she shared them with no one, they were hers and his. They reminded her that sometimes people leave far too soon, and that you had best make the most of the time you have together. She would make the time with these two and the one that was growing inside her even as she thought; she would make that time worth a story or three.

He was gone, their Father; the world finally got too heavy. His heart had given out, he had just turned forty, and they had spent the day listening to Jimmy Buffet singing about a pirate doing the same. They had laughed and cried at the things they had seen, wrote, heard, and spoke over the last ten years. How they almost took a good story and ended it differently than the audience had hoped. They had almost taken literary license too far. Jude was six months old at the time, and she saw that sparkle in his eye again. Right between pirates turning forty and a song about a breeze in Alabama; Otis Redding sang about arms feeling blue, yearning, and a man wanting a little woman to hold. They spent the night sprawled out like they had just met, the night was cool it was still early March. Jude and Faith both were at his parents, his momma had finally gotten those grandbabies she longed for. They ate tomatos like they were fruit, which they are. They played music loud and sang along, they worked on that twinkle. As the sun was rising in the early hours she noticed he was fading, going to sleep the sleep of the loved. She shook him a bit, and looked him in his hazel eyes; she told him she wasn’t Norah, but she would sing him to sleep. She figured if he was that close she couldn’t fail. She started in on his favorite song of hers, he sang Dylan’s version to her, but only when he thought she was already asleep. He couldn’t sing he said. She sang “Heart of Mine”, and when she was done he thanked her, kissed her on the lips, and fell fast asleep. She looked at his tattoos, especially the one that said Muse. She remembered how much he had loved that girl, and how much it was going to kill him when she told him the news tomorrow. It did, as she looked back she wondered what of it had been the undoing of the right. After she told him he looked at her, and she nodded her head at him. She would stay with the children, and he would go find his suit, and some flowers. It would be a long trip, four hours would be an eternity as he traveled north. He was the last of the ones needed to carry a box to a hole. He didn’t come home, he was gone. The muse of all his tragedies had managed one last one. Poetics and all. The doctors said it was stress related, but she knew better; he was just done. She didn't blame him one bit.

She looked at these two little angels and wondered who would tell them stories about a man who had loved too many, too much, and for too long. She was biased. She loved them for who they were, and who they would no doubt become, she loved them because of who had helped her to create them. She loved them and the one to come because they were something that she had not had to share with the world.

[KB.]

almostfamous;633555 wrote: Wow. It was very, very, well-written, just sad


Sad is allowed in fiction.