Incomplete short prose.

Here is what i have been doing with my weekend. It is not yet completed; there are a bunch of stylistic errors, but enjoy if you like short stories. Oh yeah, i will something relevent for the class soon.

I remember the smell of the yellow flowers across the dewy grass when waking as a child, a breeze that fell upon my chest through the perched summer window. And I really remember hearing my grandmother in the kitchen—cooking pancakes with blueberry’s and chocolate chips. It was summer—always summer, these memories. For what is life without eternity—these small moments when we are truly awake, yet dreaming. A dream that displaces that feeling of being out in the distance (maybe not far enough)…

For there is a drunken Indian on my aunts reservation where she works, as a nurse, who has wet tears crusting around his eyes—his last drop of bourbon emptying out of an iridescent bottle, and burning his lips at 11:30 in the morning—for that last drop was never enough to console him about his dead wife, his obese children, and that worthless monthly government check that hardly bought him enough to drink as pleased…And there he is a few hours later as my aunt and I approach the park drunker than hell where it is still nice—nice with the yellow flowers, the sun at noon with the little clouds dancing through the sky, and a place to dream with the little Indian children who imagine fame and fortune rocking back and forth into the sky, on the new swing sets the federal government finally purchased. My aunt told me Elijah (the drunken Indian) was always sad like this. He was sadder than most she explained—for he had got in a car wreck a few years back breaking his wife’s neck, and shattering a few of his bones as well—that’s why when he was sober enough to stand straight, he walked with a limp, eternally reminding him of that scorching memory.

My aunt had been there when he woke a few hours after the incident, and how he learned the full details from the state trooper—who was the first to arrive on the scene, and see Elijah’s wife’s flipped dangling head, and crooked neck. The topper discontendly reposed when he was asked to give a full recount of what he saw—but, he grimly gave it out of the long nights stress, and the honesty it was worth to the fragment middle age man, on the white linen bed surrounded by hospital equipment. When he was about 100 feet out he quickly approached what he thought to be—a couple slow moving cars on the highway; when they did not move or appear to advance forward at any particular velocity he knew exactly what had happened. When coming upon the sight of the burning orange lights in the distance—he found that there was a flipped rear ended red dodge pickup truck on the side of the two lane highway, a green Honda civic totaled from hood to steering wheel, and a bleeding man kneeling next to the right front tire of the crushed green car with his head in his palms. My aunt said the man who was driving the civic had been drunk…

Something faded in Elijah’s brown eyes when he heard the officer finish recounting his nights duties, (which she reasoned broke him down so much he picked up drinking himself)…for he knew he owed the world at least that favor—pious sober living had brought him thus far, and he would rather see the rest his days in shade. A place like the one he found himself a few years later as my aunt and I approached the park; with the children who had not yet been thus far—that place where a butterfly could touch upon those yellow mariposa’s, and return to cover as the heavy summer rain soaked the grass, and Elijah’s clothes when he was too drunk to pick himself up, a place where rainbows formed with the low dark moisture and the sunshine, and a place where all who saw him really tried, but could never care for his well being.