Young Writers Society

"I don't think you should leave him in suspense, Mum," I suggested.

"That's not my intention but don't forget your Father will pry information from you too, soon enough."

"And that is a promise," he added firmly. "Now, what sort is on your mind, Martha?"

"You have proved it," mum answered instantly. "Through and through, you have proved it."

"Proved what?" I asked confused.

"Open the journal, and read the ending of the passage again, son."

Obeying, I opened it, and flipped through the July 25th entry, and reread the ending. After a few seconds, I observed the cross, and the scribbled message inside it. Then I closed the book, with my thumb book marking the date and peered at Father, whom was smiling again.

"I love you, Father. I'm glad you returned safely."

With that, he limped towards, bent over and embraced me, just as I had envisioned it when I read the journal. An arm was wrapped around my neck, while Father's right wrapped itself around the lower half of my back, squeezing.

Soon, he began whispering in my right eardrum. It tickled but I listened intently to the rest of his message. "From the morning until the evening the time shall be changed, and all these are swift in the eyes of God. Son, the meaning I am trying to convey is within that span from sunrise to sunset, our Lord is selective, and in a single day, a person will accompany Him. Understand?" father asked.

"I should live my life to its fullest, correct?" I whispered into his left ear.

"Yes, son. I knew my boy was intelligent," he whispered.

His compliment provided happiness within me, and I smiled, as I continued listening to his whispers.

"If I could express… I, my point is, oh, in the filth! Samuel," father whispered again. "I will come straight to the point I suppose. I have a confession. Luck was never on my side, and so, I remained an only child. I never wrote it, but I too, am grateful the Lord allowed me to return home, and embrace my brother."

Before I responded, Father released me, turned, limped back to his rocking chair, and before he sat, Father touched his right kneecap, and winced. Within a few seconds he squatted and took a seat.

"What did he say to you, Samuel?" mum asked.

I grinned, and the uncomfortable emotions I experienced earlier, washed away after Father's revelation. "Should I tell her, Father?"

"Well?" mum asked.

"Who is the one prying now?" father retorted, and chuckled lightly.

"Well?" mum asked again.

"Cannot a father and his son keep one secret?" he asked seriously.

"I shall respect that," mum replied behind me.

Father nodded in return.

"I suppose that answers that question," I remarked.

"Yes, but I am not finished with you, Samuel," he said.

"Oh?" I asked curiously.

"I believe it is your turn. What say you share with me your opinions with my journal entry. You have had plenty of time in contemplating."

I swallowed nervously. "Am I allowed to ask questions instead, Father?"

"If questions will help assist you, than yes, you may ask them."

"The flower, I'm assuming it's a flower, is it a rose?"

"Yes – the white rose of Yorkshire. Every passage in my journal has one in the upper right-hand corner."

"At the end of the entry, there is a cross, with a message in it. It's difficult to read it. Could you tell me what the inscription says?"

"Pass the journal to me, son," father said.

I leaned forward, with my thumb still in between the pages. I held the book outwards.

Father gripped the spine of the book, and flipped through quickly. I heard him mumble as he was rereading.

I watched him bring his journal closer, and now his face was completely hidden. Silence erupted, and while I fidgeted by scratching my cheek or rubbing one of my shins with a toe, I waited as patiently as I was able.

Within a few minutes, Father closed, and set the journal in his lap. I decided to study his facial features, and hopefully find a clue in what to expect next. Father was frowning, which made me feel unhappy as well. I realize now, he has been through tremendous ordeals, and if I find a solution - that's it!

The idea burned, and I grinned inside my head. I will wait until the time is correct, I instructed myself.

I felt someone shake my shoulder, and I reacted by rubbing my eyes. "I apologize, Mum. What is it?" I asked without turning my head behind me.

"Your Father appears to be ready," mum said.

"Hello, Father," I said, attempting to coax him into speaking.

"On the outside of the cross, it says, Lord Watch My Family, and in the inside of the circle, it says, And Pray For Me," father mumbled.

"Lord, watch my family and pray for me, is that what you said?" I asked.

"Yes, Samuel," father muttered so quietly, I barely heard him at all.

"I suppose Christ kept to his promise, didn't he? You did return to Boston."

"Yes," he muttered.

Before I revealed my idea, I asked one more question. "Why are some of the pages in the journal torn and covered in soil?"

"I dropped it several times because my hands shook."

"Nerves?"

"Yes, Samuel. I only had light from a fire a few yards from me, and as I mentioned, time was against me before a soldier put out the fire. Confiding also added to the hand jerking."

Now, there's your opening. Capitalize on it!

"Speaking of confiding," I started, and rubbed my chin thoughtfully.

"Yes?" father asked.

"If I retrieve the quill, may I please write something in your journal? Writing is sometimes easier, than speaking, even if it is their family."

Father raised an eyebrow, and I sensed he was uncertain.

"How is your body recuperating?" he asked.

"I'm still a bit stiff, but I'm healing," I remarked.

"I see. Martha, whilst I search for a blank page, could you fetch the quill for him?"

"You will have to steady yourself, Samuel when I move from the bench. Without my weight, the bench may slide. Just be careful and try and not topple over," mum said.

"Thank you for the warning," I said, and placed both my hands behind me and leaned against them for support.

The bench creaked, and I turned to my left, watching Mum walk briskly towards the bookcase. The quill was on the top of it, in its usual spot, and she gripped it and the ink well. She walked towards, and handed me the quill and the silver disc object that stored the ink if I required more.

"Thank you," I said, as I reached for the quill with my left hand. "Now, all I need is something to write in," I remarked seriously.

The bench creaked, and I felt Mum's feet brush up against my shoulder blades. I leaned heavily against the bench again, and looked at Father.

"Here," he muttered, and Father held out the book. "My finger supports five blank pages. That should be more than sufficient."

I reached forward, winced when slight pain stabbed my neck, and slipped my right fingers, book marking the pages he had reserved for me. I placed the ink well next to my left thigh, and opened Father's journal.

Without missing a beat, I began writing immediately. About thirty minutes passed, and no one disturbed me. When I finished, I placed the quill next to the ink well, closed the journal, and held it outwards for Father.

Father tilted his head down, and then raised it. "I am allowed to read your writing before your mother?"

"I wrote it for you, not her," I replied.

"Men and their secrets," mum huffed.

"You may read it too, Mum. That is, that is if Father wants to share after he's finished."

"I suppose I will be patient then," mum remarked.

He grabbed his journal from my fingers, and flipped through the pages. I hoped father would read my writing aloud, so I could hear it too but to slight disappointment, he read silently.

While father read, I glanced out the window behind him. The sun had disappeared, leaving a brilliant hue of reds, blues, and purple colours in the sky. I predicted in a few hours, stars would immerge, which excited me in a sense. When father and mum retired to the quarters, I'd have the opportunity observing the North Star tonight, the very same father looked too when he thought of us.

"Samuel," father said nearly in a whisper. "My thanks."

"You liked it?" I asked.

"Yes," he muttered.

"Could you expand further on that comment?" I pried.

"No," father muttered.

"Why?" I asked.

"Because, I will cry."

"That was not my intention," I sighed. "I wanted to cheer you up."

"I am just touched, that is all. I believe the chevron has a new spot in my journal to call home now."

"Really?"

"Yes."

"Thanks!" I hollered happily.

Father shielded his right ear immediately after my outburst and winced. "Quite a pair of lungs God has distributed to you, son. Hand this to your mother. I believe she should read your entry as well."

I smiled about the comment with my lungs. "Alright, but only if she promises to read it aloud," I said slyly. "I want to hear what I wrote."

"So be it, Samuel," mum agreed. "Give it to me, please."

Father leaned forward again, and I leaned outwards, grabbing the journal. I passed the closed book over my head, and felt the object disappear from my fingers.

Behind me, I heard pages crinkle, and gusts of air stirred the hairs on the back of my head, as mum flipped through quickly.

"Our son's passage is at the very end, Martha but he did break our secrecy."

"I found it," mum said. "And what secrecy are you speaking of?"

"Read, and you shall be informed, my woman," he said, waving the back of his left hand.

"Alright, Welcome. I shall read, and determine why my husband has become so eager all of a sudden with our son's writing."

"Could you read it aloud, Mum?"

"Yes, I heard you the first time, Samuel. Give me a moment and I will begin," she replied casually. "1767," mum began, and then my ears perked up, as she continued reading my passage aloud:

"What is your opinion with my writing?" I asked immediately as soon as mum finished.

A waft of air stirred the hairs on the nape of my neck, as the leather book shut behind me.

There was coughing behind me, followed by swallowing, and then Mum pinched my right cheek lightly. She wiggled it, and my gums produced a sloshing sound. Father did not respond with comments or shown the slightest sign of humor. Instead, he had crossed his arms against his stomach, and looked straight ahead.

"Alright, Mum! You can stop with the cheeks, please."

"Have I embarrassed you, Samuel?" mum asked and released my cheeks.

"If you did, I would not have allowed the check-pinching for a solid minute. They just began hurting after a while, like a mild stinging sensation."

"I do apologize and I meant no harm. Would you care for a bandage?" mum asked.

Father responded by cupping his mouth, and I noticed both corners of his lips arched upwards.

"Are you laughing at me?" I asked.

Father shook his head with the same expression.

"Are you bluffing?" I asked boldly.

He nodded his head, and released his hand from his mouth. "Once in a lifetime, your Mother never fails to send me into laughter, and by this conversation, I am eternally grateful for Martha's sarcasm. She supplied a smile upon my face this evening."

"Samuel, you wrote a beautiful entry in your Father's journal. Wouldn't you agree, Welcome?" mum remarked.

"He did," father said, and I was relieved that his smile remained. To me it meant that he wasn't upset anymore or at least for the time being.

A hand placed itself firmly upon my left shoulder, and Mum's hand squeezed it gently. Within a few seconds, her hand retracted.

"Your penmanship has vastly improved, Samuel. Have you been practicing?" mum asked.

"Thank you, Mum, but no, not recently. I have not had a reason to write," I commented.

"I believe that is a slight exaggeration. If you have not written recently or hardly at all, then your penmanship had no path on improving."

"Yes, but, well… Yes, actually, I suppose I have a little. In meetings with the Whigs, I have forgotten, I do occasionally write a bit."

"Well, unlike Welcome, there were hardly any spelling errors; a few grammatical mistakes but no harm otherwise."

"Pardon me, Miss Influential Teacher of all that relates to literature," father huffed, and then he crossed his arms defiantly against his chest.

"I realized I have excelled in reading and writing, due to your patience, and hours spent in teaching me as a child. Thanks, Mum," I winked at father.

"Humph," was the response I received from him in return. "I am patient too," he added.

"Your patience is hardly matched against Samuels' in some respects, especially when our son inquires answers by asking you specifically, Welcome."

"Oh, bloody –" father started.

"However," mum interrupted, "His Mother is his teacher for literature's sake but Samuel's Father is his avid teacher of life, and I would assume that area would take a greater amount of patience."

"Now, who could argue with that!" father bellowed, and tossed his left arm high above his head. After he dropped his hand into his lap, Father smiled.

"Thank you too, Father," I smiled in return.

"I do have a question. Perhaps Samuel or you could enlighten me," mum said.

"If I knew the question, perhaps I could supply the answer," father winked.

I could not stifle it, and laughed. "I do not think Mum is in the mood for sarcasm, Father."

"Mood?" father commented, and his tone instantly lowered and become serious. "Who is the one that is pouring their heart and soul this evening? Who is the one that is willingly sharing a portion of their history, even if this person is not completely comfortable discussing it?"

"Welcome, button your lips," mum replied sternly. "Our son merely commented and I'm sure he meant no harm. Now, as for your comment, I disagree in some respects. If you were so uncomfortable, you'd have left long ago, correct?"

Father raised his right index finger, and opened his mouth but no sounds came out. I watched him shut his jaw, and then Father crossed his arms defiantly against his chest, and sulked.

"You do realize that your expression resembles that of an impudent boy?" mum commented.

"What is the meaning of impudent?" I asked, raising an eyebrow.

Father unraveled his arms and pointed directly at mum. "Your Mother assumes I am behaving in the manner of a barefaced child." He dropped his finger, and it fell heavily against his left kneecap. "What was your question, Martha?" father grumbled.

"Aside from the gruff attitude by my husband, I'm curious as to why Samuel thinks of you as his brother? He mentioned it on quite a few occasions in his entry."

"Should I break our pact?" I asked uncertainly, and rubbed my chin with a thumb.

"You have already broken the pact by writing about it," father remarked.

I nodded. "I suppose I have. Are you displeased with my decision?"

Father sighed, and shook his head. "I cannot display contempt towards my son that has placed me on a pedestal. I am honored that you think so highly of me. Go ahead, and inform your Mother. It will not bother me at all."

I smiled opened-mouthed. I turned around so that Mum and I were in eye contact. "When Father whispered into my ear earlier, he revealed that he remained as an only child but he was grateful to return home from the war and embrace his brother – me, Mum."

Mum responded by combing the top of my head with her fingers, and then the position shifted, and soon Mum's palm rubbed one of my cheeks. I brought my left hand to my forehead, and tucked heavy, brown locks behind my ear. I had not had a proper grooming in a few years, and my hair especially was starting to grow thick and long. Although, unlike my earlier days, I believe I do not have the distinct aroma of decay anymore. It has been somewhat of a minor priority of mine; to bathe and try and not send the Whigs fleeing for their lives due to a stench coming from me.

Mum stopped stroking my cheeks and said, "I cannot disagree with your Father. You and Welcome do share similarities."

"Oh?" I asked.

Mum nodded. "Both of your stubborn natures have forced more gray hairs on my head then Mother Nature intended."

Father and I chuckled simultaneously after that.

I turned back around so I was facing Father, and pointed behind me with a thumb. "As my newfound brother, should we drop a beetle down, Mum's dress? That should provide a few more gray hairs," I chuckled, thinking about her squirming and shrieking at Father and me.

"You try such a task, and I swear I'll –, " mum started, but father raised a palm and mum stopped speaking abruptly.

"In my time, I robbed Death on many occasions, and I see no point in testing fate once more," father smirked. "I do value my life, and although watching a cannon ball ricocheting on the Earth and connecting by hitting ankles, and such, was beyond comprehension in terms of fright, your Mother's temper could be equally as frightening."

"Somehow, I doubt that," I laughed.

"True," father nodded with a serious expression. "A cannon ball was much more nerving."

"What do think about Father calling me as his brother, Mum?" I asked, without turning my head.

"There is not much that can be said, except I'm happy that you and your father appear to have such a strong bond. There is nothing wrong with that," mum replied.

Father and I exchanged smiles.

"Out of curiosity," I thought aloud, "Have you always wanted a sibling, Father? It just appeared that way when you whispered in my ear earlier but I never questioned it."

His smile faded but a trace of it still remained. "Under your grandfather's roof, the atmosphere for me personally was terrifying because of his demeanor and unpredictability. My Mother was supportive of her son, but she was a woman."

"And?" mum replied sharply. "What is wrong with woman, Welcome?"

"You cannot speak to a woman about the complications of manhood," father retorted.

"Men," mum mumbled behind me.

"Now, before your Mother interrupted, son, from the time as a young boy to God knows how long, I prayed for a brother, someone that I could express myself too and someone that understood my thoughts but He never granted my wish."

"And I'm to fill that emptiness? I'm not sure what happened with my grandfather and you, but I'm sorry, Father."

"I believe the answer is evident, son, and it should be obvious, but as for him, your grandfather is deceased, which I suppose was God's way of protecting me; praise Him."

"I wish I could have met my grandfather," I mumbled.

"No, my dear son, he was not the man you presume him to be. Let it be known here and now, your grandfather was unkind, and he adored inflicting bruises."

that was great and i really enjoyed it

This had very good imagery, it was very easy to imagine their home and their situation. I think the boy's father had a very, very strange name. At first I thought it was a part of a dialogue in the wrong place, but no. Was that his real name or was it part of fiction?

Hey there!

Thanks for reading. How far did you get? Oh, what do you think of the character's traits?

*

Yes, the boy's father's name is indeed Welcome. Believe it or not, in colonial America it was a very common name but predominately a female one. There have been instances we're I've seen men named Welcome when I visit cemeteries as early as circa 1680 in Boston. Mehitable, a female name, was also popular. There are a couple of "unusual" namesakes in this story, as I've tried to keep it as authentic as possible, sticking the era like glue.

Cheers!

If you have anymore questions, please ask.