The "Freeola Customer Forum" forum, which includes Retro Game Reviews, has been archived and is now read-only. You cannot post here or create a new thread or review on this forum.
“Can we forgive him now?” he asked my mother. The voice was bitter, and ricocheted of the desolate kitchen walls.
Can we forgive him now? Him was me, I slumped against the wall, a trickle of blood rolling down my cheek and dripping drops on to the sad linoleum floor. He was my father, or at least he claimed to be. In all my memories I could only remember him actually being my father on one occasion, when he taught me how to play some forgotten child’s game. His face had softened as he had seen me sitting alone on the living room’s tattered rug, and all the while as he patiently taught me the game I had sat transfixed by the blue eyes and the caring smile.
But that man had left some time ago. He had been replaced by an angry face, whose tortured contortions of rage had left deep furrows in their place. He returned home at 6:00pm and drank. Usually whisky, but when the money was low he turned to cheap red wine instead. All the time while he drank he watched me, growing ever more angry, his eyes burrowing into me and his face contorting, because I sat and read. I read to escape him. I would go to the public library and borrow as many books as I could fit into my school bag. Eventually I stopped reading them in the brightly lit living room and read in my room. Away from him.
“Can we forgive you now?” he asked me. The voice was filled with rage not remorse, as I lay dazed against the wall.
“I’m going to stop running” I said as he kicked me in the stomach with all the force he could muster. I wretched as my mother winced.
I was a good runner, they told me. Not a good runner, an outstanding runner, the coach had said. A tribute to his father, my father had said. The other runners hated me and that was their problem. They all wanted to catch me, and yet they had nothing to run from. I did. Every single race my father would kneel by the track side; his whisky breath and his drinker’s gut, would leer across at me in some act of inspiration. Perversely they were. I would hold the gaze of his cold blue eyes and wait for the inevitable blink as the starter’s pistol recoiled. In that split second my one aim was to have moved as far away from him as possible before he opened his eyes and realised I was gone. Far, far away.
“Your start is lousy” the coach would say “But you run like a man possessed”
He didn’t see that I wasn’t running for him. And the other runners didn’t see I wasn’t running against them. I was running from Him; my father, and his greasy face and his alcohol and his beatings. I had something to run from, which made me faster than all the others. I always failed though, not in their eyes, in mine. I ran through the tape at the end and wanted to keep running but I was always swamped by hands and faces, patting my back and shaking my hand. I was such a good running machine. And then he would be standing there proudly, not of me though, but of himself. I hated that man.
I had always run from him. Others, particularly the longer distance runners, ran without reason. It seemed a lost irony on them that they were forever running in circles. And the crowds cheered those who could run in circles faster than anyone else, faster than themselves. As they were all running in circles too. I was different. I had a destination, a goal, an ambition. I wanted to be a writer. Not just any old hack though. I wanted to be a writer who would have his books stacked cover upwards in libraries, taking up the space of six books stacked sideways. And one librarian would say to another “Is it really necessary to stack these books cover forward? We will now have to move every single disrupted book along the shelf to fit it in.” and the other librarian would hand her the book in question, my book, and all would be forgiven.
“Can we forgive you now?” he shouted. Lights went on across the road as his drunken tumult aroused the neighbours.
“I’m going to stop running from you” I said as he hit me.
Again and again and again and again. He hit me. I lost consciousness, as my mother winced.
I am looking at my book now. Sitting in the public library, looking at my own book with the cover facing forwards. The cover shows a man running towards the horizon. The man is not looking behind him, nor can we see behind him, because what is there is no longer important. All that matters is the destination, not the past. Seeing my book on the shelf I can’t help but feel melancholy. I am a fraud. A cheat. A liar.
A phoney.
“Can we forgive him now?”
Yes because he is a writer whose books are displayed cover forwards. He is a writer as great as Arturo Bandini. He moves in circles, literary circles, with the great and the good and they all adore him because he writes it like it is or ought to be.
I am no better than anyone else. I have only pretended to have been. I spent a lifetime running away from him, running towards the horizon only to find that once I had run as far as I could I had reached the start again. And he was there waiting for me. I run in circles. Like everyone else. I run around and around until I drop.
As I sit here in the public library looking at my book I am overcome by a fathomless grief that makes my gut ache in glorious sorrow.
So I get up and I leave. I stop in a bar and I have a drink.
I leave at closing time and stumble home. And I repeat this every day. Because when drunk I am not aware of the circles in which I run. I just run. And my life has purpose again.
"I don't want your forgiveness"
Can we forgive him now? Him was me, I slumped against the wall, a trickle of blood rolling down my cheek and dripping drops on to the sad linoleum floor. He was my father, or at least he claimed to be. In all my memories I could only remember him actually being my father on one occasion, when he taught me how to play some forgotten child’s game. His face had softened as he had seen me sitting alone on the living room’s tattered rug, and all the while as he patiently taught me the game I had sat transfixed by the blue eyes and the caring smile.
But that man had left some time ago. He had been replaced by an angry face, whose tortured contortions of rage had left deep furrows in their place. He returned home at 6:00pm and drank. Usually whisky, but when the money was low he turned to cheap red wine instead. All the time while he drank he watched me, growing ever more angry, his eyes burrowing into me and his face contorting, because I sat and read. I read to escape him. I would go to the public library and borrow as many books as I could fit into my school bag. Eventually I stopped reading them in the brightly lit living room and read in my room. Away from him.
“Can we forgive you now?” he asked me. The voice was filled with rage not remorse, as I lay dazed against the wall.
“I’m going to stop running” I said as he kicked me in the stomach with all the force he could muster. I wretched as my mother winced.
I was a good runner, they told me. Not a good runner, an outstanding runner, the coach had said. A tribute to his father, my father had said. The other runners hated me and that was their problem. They all wanted to catch me, and yet they had nothing to run from. I did. Every single race my father would kneel by the track side; his whisky breath and his drinker’s gut, would leer across at me in some act of inspiration. Perversely they were. I would hold the gaze of his cold blue eyes and wait for the inevitable blink as the starter’s pistol recoiled. In that split second my one aim was to have moved as far away from him as possible before he opened his eyes and realised I was gone. Far, far away.
“Your start is lousy” the coach would say “But you run like a man possessed”
He didn’t see that I wasn’t running for him. And the other runners didn’t see I wasn’t running against them. I was running from Him; my father, and his greasy face and his alcohol and his beatings. I had something to run from, which made me faster than all the others. I always failed though, not in their eyes, in mine. I ran through the tape at the end and wanted to keep running but I was always swamped by hands and faces, patting my back and shaking my hand. I was such a good running machine. And then he would be standing there proudly, not of me though, but of himself. I hated that man.
I had always run from him. Others, particularly the longer distance runners, ran without reason. It seemed a lost irony on them that they were forever running in circles. And the crowds cheered those who could run in circles faster than anyone else, faster than themselves. As they were all running in circles too. I was different. I had a destination, a goal, an ambition. I wanted to be a writer. Not just any old hack though. I wanted to be a writer who would have his books stacked cover upwards in libraries, taking up the space of six books stacked sideways. And one librarian would say to another “Is it really necessary to stack these books cover forward? We will now have to move every single disrupted book along the shelf to fit it in.” and the other librarian would hand her the book in question, my book, and all would be forgiven.
“Can we forgive you now?” he shouted. Lights went on across the road as his drunken tumult aroused the neighbours.
“I’m going to stop running from you” I said as he hit me.
Again and again and again and again. He hit me. I lost consciousness, as my mother winced.
I am looking at my book now. Sitting in the public library, looking at my own book with the cover facing forwards. The cover shows a man running towards the horizon. The man is not looking behind him, nor can we see behind him, because what is there is no longer important. All that matters is the destination, not the past. Seeing my book on the shelf I can’t help but feel melancholy. I am a fraud. A cheat. A liar.
A phoney.
“Can we forgive him now?”
Yes because he is a writer whose books are displayed cover forwards. He is a writer as great as Arturo Bandini. He moves in circles, literary circles, with the great and the good and they all adore him because he writes it like it is or ought to be.
I am no better than anyone else. I have only pretended to have been. I spent a lifetime running away from him, running towards the horizon only to find that once I had run as far as I could I had reached the start again. And he was there waiting for me. I run in circles. Like everyone else. I run around and around until I drop.
As I sit here in the public library looking at my book I am overcome by a fathomless grief that makes my gut ache in glorious sorrow.
So I get up and I leave. I stop in a bar and I have a drink.
I leave at closing time and stumble home. And I repeat this every day. Because when drunk I am not aware of the circles in which I run. I just run. And my life has purpose again.
"I don't want your forgiveness"
Very good.
Im near speechless. That was beautiful. Really.
..... no.
“Can we forgive him now?” he asked my mother. The voice was bitter, and ricocheted of the desolate kitchen walls.
Can we forgive him now? Him was me, I slumped against the wall, a trickle of blood rolling down my cheek and dripping drops on to the sad linoleum floor. He was my father, or at least he claimed to be. In all my memories I could only remember him actually being my father on one occasion, when he taught me how to play some forgotten child’s game. His face had softened as he had seen me sitting alone on the living room’s tattered rug, and all the while as he patiently taught me the game I had sat transfixed by the blue eyes and the caring smile.
But that man had left some time ago. He had been replaced by an angry face, whose tortured contortions of rage had left deep furrows in their place. He returned home at 6:00pm and drank. Usually whisky, but when the money was low he turned to cheap red wine instead. All the time while he drank he watched me, growing ever more angry, his eyes burrowing into me and his face contorting, because I sat and read. I read to escape him. I would go to the public library and borrow as many books as I could fit into my school bag. Eventually I stopped reading them in the brightly lit living room and read in my room. Away from him.
“Can we forgive you now?” he asked me. The voice was filled with rage not remorse, as I lay dazed against the wall.
“I’m going to stop running” I said as he kicked me in the stomach with all the force he could muster. I wretched as my mother winced.
I was a good runner, they told me. Not a good runner, an outstanding runner, the coach had said. A tribute to his father, my father had said. The other runners hated me and that was their problem. They all wanted to catch me, and yet they had nothing to run from. I did. Every single race my father would kneel by the track side; his whisky breath and his drinker’s gut, would leer across at me in some act of inspiration. Perversely they were. I would hold the gaze of his cold blue eyes and wait for the inevitable blink as the starter’s pistol recoiled. In that split second my one aim was to have moved as far away from him as possible before he opened his eyes and realised I was gone. Far, far away.
“Your start is lousy” the coach would say “But you run like a man possessed”
He didn’t see that I wasn’t running for him. And the other runners didn’t see I wasn’t running against them. I was running from Him; my father, and his greasy face and his alcohol and his beatings. I had something to run from, which made me faster than all the others. I always failed though, not in their eyes, in mine. I ran through the tape at the end and wanted to keep running but I was always swamped by hands and faces, patting my back and shaking my hand. I was such a good running machine. And then he would be standing there proudly, not of me though, but of himself. I hated that man.
I had always run from him. Others, particularly the longer distance runners, ran without reason. It seemed a lost irony on them that they were forever running in circles. And the crowds cheered those who could run in circles faster than anyone else, faster than themselves. As they were all running in circles too. I was different. I had a destination, a goal, an ambition. I wanted to be a writer. Not just any old hack though. I wanted to be a writer who would have his books stacked cover upwards in libraries, taking up the space of six books stacked sideways. And one librarian would say to another “Is it really necessary to stack these books cover forward? We will now have to move every single disrupted book along the shelf to fit it in.” and the other librarian would hand her the book in question, my book, and all would be forgiven.
“Can we forgive you now?” he shouted. Lights went on across the road as his drunken tumult aroused the neighbours.
“I’m going to stop running from you” I said as he hit me.
Again and again and again and again. He hit me. I lost consciousness, as my mother winced.
I am looking at my book now. Sitting in the public library, looking at my own book with the cover facing forwards. The cover shows a man running towards the horizon. The man is not looking behind him, nor can we see behind him, because what is there is no longer important. All that matters is the destination, not the past. Seeing my book on the shelf I can’t help but feel melancholy. I am a fraud. A cheat. A liar.
A phoney.
“Can we forgive him now?”
Yes because he is a writer whose books are displayed cover forwards. He is a writer as great as Arturo Bandini. He moves in circles, literary circles, with the great and the good and they all adore him because he writes it like it is or ought to be.
I am no better than anyone else. I have only pretended to have been. I spent a lifetime running away from him, running towards the horizon only to find that once I had run as far as I could I had reached the start again. And he was there waiting for me. I run in circles. Like everyone else. I run around and around until I drop.
As I sit here in the public library looking at my book I am overcome by a fathomless grief that makes my gut ache in glorious sorrow.
So I get up and I leave. I stop in a bar and I have a drink.
I leave at closing time and stumble home. And I repeat this every day. Because when drunk I am not aware of the circles in which I run. I just run. And my life has purpose again.
"I don't want your forgiveness"
Can we forgive him now? Him was me, I slumped against the wall, a trickle of blood rolling down my cheek and dripping drops on to the sad linoleum floor. He was my father, or at least he claimed to be. In all my memories I could only remember him actually being my father on one occasion, when he taught me how to play some forgotten child’s game. His face had softened as he had seen me sitting alone on the living room’s tattered rug, and all the while as he patiently taught me the game I had sat transfixed by the blue eyes and the caring smile.
But that man had left some time ago. He had been replaced by an angry face, whose tortured contortions of rage had left deep furrows in their place. He returned home at 6:00pm and drank. Usually whisky, but when the money was low he turned to cheap red wine instead. All the time while he drank he watched me, growing ever more angry, his eyes burrowing into me and his face contorting, because I sat and read. I read to escape him. I would go to the public library and borrow as many books as I could fit into my school bag. Eventually I stopped reading them in the brightly lit living room and read in my room. Away from him.
“Can we forgive you now?” he asked me. The voice was filled with rage not remorse, as I lay dazed against the wall.
“I’m going to stop running” I said as he kicked me in the stomach with all the force he could muster. I wretched as my mother winced.
I was a good runner, they told me. Not a good runner, an outstanding runner, the coach had said. A tribute to his father, my father had said. The other runners hated me and that was their problem. They all wanted to catch me, and yet they had nothing to run from. I did. Every single race my father would kneel by the track side; his whisky breath and his drinker’s gut, would leer across at me in some act of inspiration. Perversely they were. I would hold the gaze of his cold blue eyes and wait for the inevitable blink as the starter’s pistol recoiled. In that split second my one aim was to have moved as far away from him as possible before he opened his eyes and realised I was gone. Far, far away.
“Your start is lousy” the coach would say “But you run like a man possessed”
He didn’t see that I wasn’t running for him. And the other runners didn’t see I wasn’t running against them. I was running from Him; my father, and his greasy face and his alcohol and his beatings. I had something to run from, which made me faster than all the others. I always failed though, not in their eyes, in mine. I ran through the tape at the end and wanted to keep running but I was always swamped by hands and faces, patting my back and shaking my hand. I was such a good running machine. And then he would be standing there proudly, not of me though, but of himself. I hated that man.
I had always run from him. Others, particularly the longer distance runners, ran without reason. It seemed a lost irony on them that they were forever running in circles. And the crowds cheered those who could run in circles faster than anyone else, faster than themselves. As they were all running in circles too. I was different. I had a destination, a goal, an ambition. I wanted to be a writer. Not just any old hack though. I wanted to be a writer who would have his books stacked cover upwards in libraries, taking up the space of six books stacked sideways. And one librarian would say to another “Is it really necessary to stack these books cover forward? We will now have to move every single disrupted book along the shelf to fit it in.” and the other librarian would hand her the book in question, my book, and all would be forgiven.
“Can we forgive you now?” he shouted. Lights went on across the road as his drunken tumult aroused the neighbours.
“I’m going to stop running from you” I said as he hit me.
Again and again and again and again. He hit me. I lost consciousness, as my mother winced.
I am looking at my book now. Sitting in the public library, looking at my own book with the cover facing forwards. The cover shows a man running towards the horizon. The man is not looking behind him, nor can we see behind him, because what is there is no longer important. All that matters is the destination, not the past. Seeing my book on the shelf I can’t help but feel melancholy. I am a fraud. A cheat. A liar.
A phoney.
“Can we forgive him now?”
Yes because he is a writer whose books are displayed cover forwards. He is a writer as great as Arturo Bandini. He moves in circles, literary circles, with the great and the good and they all adore him because he writes it like it is or ought to be.
I am no better than anyone else. I have only pretended to have been. I spent a lifetime running away from him, running towards the horizon only to find that once I had run as far as I could I had reached the start again. And he was there waiting for me. I run in circles. Like everyone else. I run around and around until I drop.
As I sit here in the public library looking at my book I am overcome by a fathomless grief that makes my gut ache in glorious sorrow.
So I get up and I leave. I stop in a bar and I have a drink.
I leave at closing time and stumble home. And I repeat this every day. Because when drunk I am not aware of the circles in which I run. I just run. And my life has purpose again.
"I don't want your forgiveness"