The origin of this comes from a premise a friend gave to me.
A father gets his daughter “something” she’s been wanting her whole life. On the way home, something happens.
This is the opening scene:
They’d moved for the seventh time in three years. He had to admit, he felt bad about that one. Him with a job like that and her putting up with it. No mom to show for it either. She’d died in a car accident four years ago. Some asshole drank too much and went over a cliff. So, no, when she started yelling at him at the top of her voice about how it wasn’t fair and she had just started to make friends, he didn’t blame her. He didn’t feel anger. Or sadness, for that matter. He was doing what he had to, to make sure there food kept on their plates. All he felt was tired.
He missed his house. Well, he hadn’t owned a house in a long time, but he missed his house. The house he always thought of as his. The one he had grown up in. With a mother and a father and two older sisters and a younger brother.
It had been a small house. And, no one would have remembered it when they passed in on the road.
So, he sat there, watching the sun go down, all hazy fire.
“Teslsa?” His brow furrowed as he considered the name he’d given his daughter. “Who names their child Tesla?”
Tesla folded her arms. “That’s what I wanted to know.”
Her father looked up and grinned haphazardly. The scruff on his chin itched. Maybe he’d shave later.
“I had a moment.” He shrugged. Then he noticed the beer in her hands. “That’s for me, right?”
Plopping beside him, Tesla shoved him good naturedly as she handed over the misting bottle.
Moments like this were the ones he lived for. In these moments, nothing else mattered: not his job, not the wages, not the constant moving. Not his crappy friends. Hell, not even his self loathing for abandoning everything that ever meant anything to him because, well, he’d had too much pride to let it just go.
Thoughts: This is kind of to prove a point to a friend of mine. I promised to write a short story for her. About 18 months ago. It’s not complete. She asks me every so often and I have to admit that to her that it isn’t finished. So, I guess, the point here is that I am actually working on it. Even if the progress makes a glacier look like the Flash.
A couple of things: I never ever, in my entire life, wanted something so badly that I would give anything for it. At least, not something you could buy. So, this idea of desiring something so much is a bit strange for me. The concept reminds me of Shel Silverstein’s poem “Little Abigail and the Beautiful Pony.”