By Tashina Johnson

Share:

The following is an excerpt from Sundown. The story follows the narrative of a young girl, Claire, who suffers a terrible loss after running away from home.

III. (RAGE)

       As a child, rare moments were spent peeking from behind my mother’s bedroom door, watching as her fingers plucked sweet notes from violin strings, her bow hand moving rhythmically in the air. Her face was serene in a way I had rarely seen.

       I memorized the graceful slope of her shoulder and the way her eyes shut as she lost herself in her music.  I watched as greatness unfurled from her fingertips, and yearned to be a part of that peaceful world beyond the door frame. I wanted to be graced with those same gentle touches. I wanted her to adore me like she adored her strings. I wanted her to share her music with me. To see me — to look at me. But she never did.

       Soon, those moments became fewer and farther between.

       Soon, she’d pick up beer bottles instead of her bow. 

       Soon, a deep longing stirred within me, and with it, a growing rage.

IV. (STRAY)

       My mother never smiled much. Not from what I could tell, anyway.  She rarely spoke my name unless to tarnish it — rarely extended a hand in my direction unless to strike me. Her anger engulfed her like some stubborn flame, slow to simmer yet quick to burn. 

       I longed to run away from that godforsaken house. I couldn’t let it consume me. 

       On one miserable January evening, I grabbed my bike and drove it all the way to Lynn’s house. There was nowhere else to go, really. I knocked on the door and waited for a few eternal seconds, breathing shallowly. I could smell mom’s pipe tobacco and cheap bourbon on my shirt. I could still hear the ringing of her leather belt as it cut through the sound of her screaming (always, always screaming). I scratched at the red bruises that blossomed on my arms. 

       And then, the door opened and light streamed onto the porch. A familiar woman with dark eyes stared back at me. Lynn looked a lot like her mother, except her mom’s eyes crinkled at the corners, and a sea of gray hairs covered her hairline. She smelled of tea packets and lilac and all the sweet things I hardly deserved.

       I must’ve looked like some lost puppy, alone and easy to startle, because Lynn’s mother gave me a curious smile and reached out carefully to grasp my shoulder. I felt the panic leave me in waves. I was tired of tiptoeing around in my own home as mom simmered silently – tired of white knuckles on coffee cups and locking my bedroom door. 

       A baby’s vibrant laughter rang out from down the hall, and then, Lynn’s voice. I smiled despite myself. 

       “It’s late,” Lynn’s mother said. “You coming inside?”

       From within the house, I heard the faint sound of Lynn’s guitar.

Process

Sometimes when I write, the story just tells itself. That was the case with Sundown. It’s a gloomy little brainchild that I one day just dropped into a blank google document. I was inspired by a bunch of coming-of-age media and other stories I wrote of a similar nature that were left unfinished. My ultimate goal was to somehow portray the violent ups and downs of adolescence in under 2,000 words. In the end, I came up with a short story about grief and loss, love and longing, and family: both of origin and of choice.