| General Non-Fiction posted August 12, 2020 |
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What happened when Dad forgot to open the window.
Open the Window
by HarryT
It is a cold Christmas Eve in 1947. My brother, sister and I pile into the backseat of my father’s Oldsmobile 98 with a neat sun-visor that shaded the windshield. We are heading for my grandmother’s house on the northside of Chicago. We live in the Gage Park area on the southside of the city. We are going to our usual Christmas celebration with my uncles, aunts and cousins.
I hate riding in cars. I get motion-sickness. However, my dad has no sympathy for me, he says it is all in my head, and I need to close my eyes and think of something else. Today, as part of his own Christmas Eve celebration, he pulls out one of his Perfecto Garcia cigars. He bites off the tip, rolls down the window and spits it out onto the street. The wind whips into the backseat, we yell for him to close the window. He rolls it up and turns and says, “Don’t be such babies,” then grabs hold of the electric cigarette lighter and pushes the glowing red element onto the cigar until it has an ashen glow. When he exhales the pungent smoke swirls into the back seat. I try not to breath, but of course cannot hold out for long. I inhale and almost immediately I feel dizzy, sweat pops on my forehead, and bitter wave of vomit begins climbing up my throat. I fight hard and swallow it back down.
Dad pulls up to a stop light. His usual thing is to spit, the cigar’s slimy residue in his throat, out the window when he comes to a stop. Only this time, he forgot to open the window. The foaming white saliva crashed upon the window splashing on his coat and rolling slowly down the tightly closed glass. My mother broke out in laughter and even my father had to grin at his mishap as he pulled his handkerchief and wiped the window.
It’s a story that my brother, sister and I still tell long after my dad has gone to his reward.
Through the eyes of a child writing prompt entry
It is a cold Christmas Eve in 1947. My brother, sister and I pile into the backseat of my father’s Oldsmobile 98 with a neat sun-visor that shaded the windshield. We are heading for my grandmother’s house on the northside of Chicago. We live in the Gage Park area on the southside of the city. We are going to our usual Christmas celebration with my uncles, aunts and cousins.
I hate riding in cars. I get motion-sickness. However, my dad has no sympathy for me, he says it is all in my head, and I need to close my eyes and think of something else. Today, as part of his own Christmas Eve celebration, he pulls out one of his Perfecto Garcia cigars. He bites off the tip, rolls down the window and spits it out onto the street. The wind whips into the backseat, we yell for him to close the window. He rolls it up and turns and says, “Don’t be such babies,” then grabs hold of the electric cigarette lighter and pushes the glowing red element onto the cigar until it has an ashen glow. When he exhales the pungent smoke swirls into the back seat. I try not to breath, but of course cannot hold out for long. I inhale and almost immediately I feel dizzy, sweat pops on my forehead, and bitter wave of vomit begins climbing up my throat. I fight hard and swallow it back down.
Dad pulls up to a stop light. His usual thing is to spit, the cigar’s slimy residue in his throat, out the window when he comes to a stop. Only this time, he forgot to open the window. The foaming white saliva crashed upon the window splashing on his coat and rolling slowly down the tightly closed glass. My mother broke out in laughter and even my father had to grin at his mishap as he pulled his handkerchief and wiped the window.
It’s a story that my brother, sister and I still tell long after my dad has gone to his reward.
I hate riding in cars. I get motion-sickness. However, my dad has no sympathy for me, he says it is all in my head, and I need to close my eyes and think of something else. Today, as part of his own Christmas Eve celebration, he pulls out one of his Perfecto Garcia cigars. He bites off the tip, rolls down the window and spits it out onto the street. The wind whips into the backseat, we yell for him to close the window. He rolls it up and turns and says, “Don’t be such babies,” then grabs hold of the electric cigarette lighter and pushes the glowing red element onto the cigar until it has an ashen glow. When he exhales the pungent smoke swirls into the back seat. I try not to breath, but of course cannot hold out for long. I inhale and almost immediately I feel dizzy, sweat pops on my forehead, and bitter wave of vomit begins climbing up my throat. I fight hard and swallow it back down.
Dad pulls up to a stop light. His usual thing is to spit, the cigar’s slimy residue in his throat, out the window when he comes to a stop. Only this time, he forgot to open the window. The foaming white saliva crashed upon the window splashing on his coat and rolling slowly down the tightly closed glass. My mother broke out in laughter and even my father had to grin at his mishap as he pulled his handkerchief and wiped the window.
It’s a story that my brother, sister and I still tell long after my dad has gone to his reward.
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Writing Prompt Write a short story (100-500 words). The story must include a child's perspective of an object or situation. The story may be told from the viewpoint of the child, or an adult. |
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