That Swooshing Kind of Splashy Noise on Yester Bay
by william price
Not For Sale
Author requests article critique
Not For Sale
Author requests article critique
NOTE: This is an entry for a mini challenge for stinky stories. I don't usually write this good. :)
There is a little cove lined with weeping willows on the north side of Yester Bay, where a small boat, with one oar, is tied off on a Sycamore stump.
A hundred yards of hardwood trees and vines and pirate paths of playing children separate the cove from Villain Street where the sounds of fighting cats and yelping dogs ride the breezes and are soon swallowed by the silence and solitude of Yester Bay.
An older man, to a young child, but not so old a man to an elderly cafť coffee drinker or a man approaching his retirement years Ö but, hmmmm, He was forty something; he would like all to believe, so he was probably fifty. Letís say, a fifty year old man, no doubt on the man part though, was standing on the shore of Yester Bay with a wry smile on his not yet ancient face; depending on who was looking or doing the judging of his ancientness. But, seeing how I am writing this tale, letís all agree, and youíll have to trust me because you are looking at this through my eyes, he is fifty.
He was standing on a magical spot. Not magical in the sense of dark, sinful, conjuring hocus pocus stuff, but magical in the sense it was not ordinary in a delightful unordinary type way.
At the very spot this man. Hmmmm, letís give him a name so I donít have to go into another rant on his agedness. Letís call him, Vincent; not for any deep meaningful reason, mind you. I just happen to be looking at a Van Gogh reproduction on my bedroom wall as I type this masterpiece of stinkism.
So, Vincent, not Van Gogh, and not Price (lol). Letís not give him a last name. His name is just Vincent.
Shall we describe him some? Or shall I just let your imagination fill in the blanks. Just think of your favorite uncle and Vincent will look like him. Do you have the picture. Okay, back to the story.
Vincent, was standing with a wry smile on his face on a very, letís say KOOL, spot on the shores of Yester Bay in a cove lined with weeping willows.
The spot was special because, it was at that very portion of peebly beach, that all of the sounds from Villain Street would disappear, evaporate, and all of the sounds of Vincentís youth, his past, his summers on Yester Bay would float in from the Bay on refreshing breezes.
Thatís why Vincent was smiling; well partially.
Oh yes, I forgot to tell you, it was early morning, on a Sunday. And on this particular day, there was one sound Vincent was searching for. It was a splashing kind of noise. A noise made on a Sunday morning, way back when he was nine years old. A noise of him being lowered into the Bay by Pastor Canít-Remember-His-Name, and then hoisted back up by a power stronger than he was lowered down with. When he came back up out of the water, there was a swooshing kind of splashy noise that he wanted to hear again.
You see, Vincent needed to remember what happened on that day on the shores of Yester Bay, on an early Sunday, so he could redirect his ways.
So, Vincent stood and listened; trying to filter out all of the old sounds of his youth; trying to hear that one swooshing kind of splashy noise.
And then, he thought he might have heard it, but it was faint. He took a step out into the bay, getting his old deck shoes wet. He could hear it a little clearer. He kept stepping into the Bay further and further until he was waist deep. And then he stopped and listened. The sound wasnít coming from the Bay, so he looked up.
And then he heard it, that swooshing kind of splashy noise that was made in the very Bay he was standing waist deep in 41 years ago, of coarse it was a little closer to shore then because he was smaller at age nine, but none-the-less, the symbolism is still there. The noise, recorded in Heaven, was being played back to him. And yes, I can hear your minds working, he, Vincent, did hear a voice. ďYou are my son, in whom I am well pleased.Ē
Yes, Vincent cried. He felt that power once again that had, years ago, lifted him up out of the waves of Yester Bay.
But, then, he heard the voice again. He looked up.
ďIf you look behind the bush shaped like your cousin Jimmyís afro style hair cut he had back in the 70ís, youíll find another oar to that boat. Iím tired of watching you row in circles out in the middle of Yester Bay.Ē
So, Vincent went and found the oar. And soon was rowing away in the old small boat that used to have one oar. And the fifty year old smiled as he made a bee line to the other side of Yester Bay and the town of Presentville.
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Stinko? This is so creatively written and I love the voice of the narrator but then again that's not saying much from a person who doesn't alway seem to have both oars in the water.:0)ROFL. I really enjoyed this one. Great sticnky writing. Now I am on to writing something again myself, maybe a bit longer.Thx for your entry. God bless.Janice
I like this cozy, folksy, writing style. You know how to write from the inside out, so we DO see the locale/story through the eyes and memories of the POV character. Just one quesion: what's the "stinky" all about? Maybe I missed something :) Good to "hear" from you SirWilliam.
How brave and fine you are to leave a wordy stink-o rather than an unwordy one like the young and the rest of us. :) There's a strange logic to this story but I have to think about it. Just kidding. A really creative stink-bomb. Thanks (uh-I guess) for sharing. No really. Thanks. :)
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