Sharon Barrett
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Stories (4/0)
Hauntlet
I’ve never liked boats. Not that Papa cared how I felt about it, but in all my life I had been on a boat three times and I hated every single minute of it. Imagine my surprise when one fine Thursday evening he comes home from work and announces that we're going to America. What rubbish. Six days on a fucking boat, nowhere to go but back and forth from bow to stern, over and over and over like a caged animal. If you got sick of that you could just heave yourself into the ocean. Before I even set foot on the ramp of the Titanic it gave me a sick feeling in my stomach and in my head, as if my whole body knew better than to climb into that floating metal coffin, unsinkable though it was boasted to be. I’ll never forgive Papa for buying those tickets, for sealing our fate all for a chance to move to America. In the sixty years since I set foot in the land of opportunity, I'm still not sure it was worth it.
By Sharon Barrett2 years ago in Fiction
Puppy Fuzz
Dear Michael, Today would have been your 33rd birthday. I remember your last birthday, like so many of the birthdays before it, spent down by the pond, jumping off the big rock and splashing with the bullfrogs. If I close my eyes, I can make myself stand right there in the tall grass, watching all of us cousins play, with Dad, and all our aunts and uncles nearby, helping to set up for a casual family party by the water. I can hear the low hum of Grampa's lawnmower in the distance as he makes his way down the path through the woods towards us. No doubt his wagon is loaded with picnic food: watermelon, corn on the cob, coleslaw and potato salad and barbecue chicken. And jello mold, of course. I always love seeing him ride across the field towards us, with his bad leg dangling off the side of the mower, a crooked wise-ass smirk on his face and a corny joke on his lips. You and him were cut from the same cloth, you know. Both too smart for your own good. I remember the day you earned your ironic nickname. Do you remember trampling through Nana's strawberry bushes in hot pursuit of a rabbit? When she caught a glimpse of you, covered in smooshed berries and her garden torn apart, she said to me: "If there were a patron saint of getting up to no good, your brother would be it. Hey that's what we'll call him, Saint Michael the Troublemaker!".
By Sharon Barrett3 years ago in Families
Riding with Holly
It is Friday afternoon, and I am anxiously waiting, kneeling on the couch backwards to look out the living room window. I keep my eyes peeled on the driveway, waiting for her, for Holly, my mother. My two older brothers, Danny and Michael, are elsewhere, at this point knowing better than to bother waiting around for her. She is supposed to pick us up every other Friday evening at five o'clock, and return us home, clean and fed, on Sunday afternoon. That's the arrangement, but it rarely goes that way. Sometimes she is gone for weeks, sometimes months. Many Friday nights have ended with me still kneeling on the couch waiting for her until it grows dark outside and I finally leave my post, disappointed beyond belief. But at eight years old, I'm still young and dumb enough to wait. I still believe her when she says she will come. And on this particular night, she does. When her car pulls into the gravel driveway, we say our goodbyes to granny then rush out the door to pile into the maroon sedan with fabric interior, kicking aside the trash piled up on the floors. The smell of cigarettes clings to the seats and the ceiling but I don't care. It smells like her and I breathe it in. She is here, like a summer thunderstorm, no bra in a black floral dress, blue eyeliner around her green eyes, hair pulled back into a ponytail with unruly bangs falling over her eyes. She's really not beautiful, but she's cute, and I take in the sight of her as if she is a miracle. She had been lost to me for so long, and so every time I see her I wonder if it will be the last. I examine her closely, the fine curly hairs on the nape of her neck, the butterfly tattoo stamped on her shoulder, the rose one on her ankle. I drink in her laugh, the way she holds the steering wheel as if she would drive us all away from here. But instead, she drives us to McDonald’s for our Happy Meals, blaring 90s hit country with the windows down to let out the perpetual cloud of Marlboro smoke. Tonight she is not drunk yet. She is functioning, happy, talkative. She asks about our lives, our friends, how school is going, what we have been reading and learning about. As we crawl through the drive thru line Mom lights another cigarette, and then another, the smoke pouring out the half down windows, the boys already arguing. One by one she tosses our Happy meals into the back seat, and relishes in the few moments of silence as she pulls out onto the main road, heading to the grocery store.
By Sharon Barrett3 years ago in Families