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Periwinkle Streams

Samuel Solomon Sanders

By

About the Writing

Yes, we are all used to the story of the dystopian world and the tortured main character. Our author, however, provides a striking image of a young man ravaged by the depression of his past. Food is definite scarcity in his world, but we as readers are enticed to naw on the hurt of the situation. From the bottom

of my heart, I hope the world never comes to the extremes portrayed in this story. Still. Enjoy the story.


-Samuel S. Sanders, The Wave Editorial

The Writing

Periwinkle StreamsSamuel Solomon Sanders
00:00 / 06:45

SSS

Monday, December 5th, 2022


Periwinkle Streams


CHAPTER ONE: My Childhood

When I was little, there were trees. And no, I'm not talking about those fake, crimson-brown hunks of metal the government plants on roadsides—I'm sure you've seen them—I'm talking about those huge, leafy cotton balls topping a stalk of soaring wood. Those beauties were raw sugar for your eyes, and if a slight breeze was blowing—it was pure ecstasy.


My earliest memory is a modest one, though I cherish deeply: lounging in my mother's comforting arms, mother and son swinging carelessly beneath the fig tree in our backyard. My little eyes would always be glued to the gentle sway of the leaves, and that day was no exception. My mother smiled down at me; the corners of her aging eyes crinkled in happiness. She was so beautiful. 

When we were young, my brother Joey and I would- "Ah!"

A sudden burst of outrage sent the pencil flying wildly across the room. "Get out of my head!". A chair soon followed, piercing the opposing wall. "Gah!"


Jake awoke with a start, as usual. "Ugh." He scrubbed his face drearily. "He's gone into one of his states again." Shaking his head, Jake bent down slowly and reluctantly to pick up a pair of semi-clean trousers, only slightly dusty. He gave them a slight shake, shrugged, and decided they would do. "Comin'," he grumbled. Jake stood up slowly, extending his broad legs once again. Only partially dressed, he stumbled over to the splintered wooden door and shoved it open. The two rusted hinges along the door protested, squealing softly. "Blast!" The bright light of the blazing sun affronted Jake's sensitive eyes, causing him to squint severely. "Infernal sun doin' every'n it can to blind us all, the whole darn human race." He took a second to adjust, glancing tentatively at his surroundings. The austere parlor was teeming with nesting insects basking in disposal, with curtains hanging in tatters from the window holes and sheets of paper fluttering loosely about the floor. Each and every one of the house's previous visitors had, with a single glance upon the piles of waste and its residents, wrinkled their noses in disgust at the sheer repulsiveness of the scene. 


A four-room house, the parlor was arguably the largest of them all, though with little area consumed by furniture. Most of Jake and Winston's belongings were either strewn about the scarred floor or used to trade for a few weeks' food. An air of loneliness remained in the place of the renounced possessions. A large, treacherous drawing table sat tragically in a corner, the betrayal of its legs a limpid and constant danger to any near writer. A small candle burning atop its flat lid exuded bonhomie, much like a Venus Fly Trap may sweeten its alluring leaves before a strike. Directly in front of this desk stood a periwinkle stool, bright even amidst the dreary surroundings. Slumped over the top of the table was a ragged man, thin glasses lying cracked beside his head. Every so often, his shoulders would shudder slightly, breath ragged.


 "Dad, didn' I tell you to not work on that wretched biography no more? You gon' give yourself a heart attack, what with that PTSD'n all." Thoroughly adjusted to the light, Jake crossed the room in four long strides. When he had reached his father, Jake pulled up a stool from the floor, dusted his dirty jeans, and sat down. Leaning forward, he said cautiously, "Pops, c'mon, let's get you some'n to drink, yeah? You've been at it fourteen hours." Jake reached a hand out to rub his trembling father's frail back, trying to ease his pain. "It's not gon' bring him back, killing yourself like this. You need to-"


 As Jake's fingertips touched the hunched back, the man's head swung upwards with a manic energy. 'Do not tell me what to do," he snarled. "You don't know what I need, Jake; at this point, I would have rathered to have been infertile, to have ended the lineage with me, what with your humiliating southern accent and blasted filthiness around my house. You've never even had a brother, let alone watched one die!" He glared hatred into the young man's eyes. "Your mother would be so ashamed of you." The fury drained from the old man's eyes at these words, and he seemed to look past Jake into a deep sorrow. A tear rolled down his rough cheek and pitched towards the gritty floor. Winston, cheeks sagging, turned slowly about and resumed his silent sobbing, shoulders shaking with each pitiable heave. 

Jake sat there wordlessly for a moment, his face a mask.

Only the creak of the periwinkle stool marked his departure.


Outside the rickety house, a large field of two hundred and twelve acres gave a seemingly endless view of dead, browning corn stalks. Throughout this mass of perished plants, the raw remnants of the past, withered, adequate harvests littered the dreary landscape. To any eye, the sight of the terrible injuries the land had suffered brought wetness and a cudgel to the heart. With his back facing the house, Jake kicked his heel roughly into the aged headstone beneath him, pondering the previous altercation with his father. The course of the argument was not new, nor was the outcome; however, today, he had truly felt the weight of his father's words. 


He turned his head to the sky with closed eyes, basking himself in the evening sun. Somehow, the potent contrast of the sun's light and the darkness inside him brought forth an unmitigated wall of sinisterness. "I hate him, momma, and I'm done." He clenched his jaw suddenly. "I'm done bein' beaten around emotionally' n physically by pops, dealin' with his horrid quirks and constant scorn. His melodramatic laments, his insatiable urge to hurt. I've tried so, so hard to be there for him after you died, just like you said I should. Day in 'n day out I help him with his blasted biography 'n I feed him 'n I try to clean 'n I bathe him 'n-' Jake opened his eyes suddenly, tears flowing. He fell to the ground, knees bearing scarlet blood across his mother's flat headstone. "I'm tired. I'm just so tired, momma."

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