Home Stories Poems Site Reviews Writing Tips Charlie Fish
FICTION on the WEB short stories by Charlie Fish

Easter Sunday
by Robert Copple

View or add comments on this story

I was having lunch with my sister Barbara and my grandmother when he staggered into the room, obviously drunk and unstable. He seemed very proud of the shoe box he was holding; he flaunted it in front of our eyes. When he opened the lid we were surprised to see four little baby chicks. They looked exactly like the ones in a storybook I had seen in second grade. Round, bright yellow, and cute, they struggled for room in the cramped box, chirping all the way.

As we watched, he took one chick in his hand and waved it in the air trumpeting some sort of drunken victory song. Then to our shock he raised it to his mouth, bit its head off and spit it out onto the table with our lunch. Despite our screaming and crying he continued and finished off the remaining three. Feeling happy with himself and snapping to attention, he about faced and retired to the bedroom.

Staring in horror at the remains of what we had just witnessed, a silence overtook us; you could hear a pin drop anywhere in the room.

My grandfather was a drunk in no uncertain terms, he was a happy drunk usually and what he did that Easter Sunday was totally out of character. That was a man who would carry around in his pocket a piece of paper with his name and address on it. He carried it in case he lost his way home. My grandmother endured his drinking, why I don't know, she would always tuck him in when he had enough.

He was the same man who would walk with me down Cuthbert Road to go fishing in the Cooper River. We would catch eels and catfish just to throw them back. "Compassion for the children, compassion for the children," he would always say and he would always have some quarters for my sister and me. I know he was in the Army for a while but he never talked about it.

I bear the scars of that day - I was five years old - fortunately they aren't obvious, at least to me they aren't. When I think about him now I wonder if the love I had for him was crushed forever by his actions that noontime. I know I can't eat or even look at egg salad sandwiches to this very day.

View or add comments on this story

Back to top
Back to list of stories

Web www.fictionontheweb.co.uk


Home Stories Poems Site Reviews Writing Tips Charlie Fish