I’m gonna add put the first few pages here… I’ve never done this before, so give me all the criticism you can muster. I’m 20 years old, and I finished this last December, a month after my birthday.
The Accomplishment(What follows is the entire first chapter and an excerpt of the second chapter)
By, Yusef M. Taylor
He woke up and looked down at his waist. Made his blood run away from his crotch, wiped the corner of his hand, turned over on his side so he could fall back asleep. In his head, he thought: Day fourteen hundred and sixty. He cried himself softly back asleep but not before he pulled the blanket over his head so no one – not even himself – could see him weep.
*
Her baby son woke her up whilst he jumped on her bed and fell against her shins. He took hold of the blanket before he slipped off and pulled his soft and tender frame to a safe place. He saw his mother’s eyes open into roan colored portals into his glee. She was his mother, and he knew her very well. He smiled and crawled up to her face and kissed the front of her cheek next to her lips leaving the residual of dried milk and pineapple juice and dry cereal crusts right under her eye which he loved and trusted so very much. He told her, hello mama, and she said hello to him. She took hold of his waist and took him to her bosom and felt his young and vibrant warmth and electricity while his small stomach moved silently but so loud in her heart as it was alive. So alive. He put his ear to her protruding belly like his father had done so many times. Smiled. His small feet curled up to his belly and he put his thumb in his mouth, and looked at her again before his eyes trailed off to the corner towards the nightstand where her gray blouse stained with something red on the ruche lay atop her husbands necktie. The man stepped out the bathroom with his toothbrush sticking out between his lips and waved at her. She smiled at him and blew a kiss. He went back in the bathroom.
She lost her smile.
*
He sleepwalks. He once found himself in the kitchen sprawled on the linoleum with a steak knife in his left hand and cuts on his right wrist. He never told anyone about this – even forgot it himself. When he opened his eyes now, they felt raw and red. He shaved. Ate breakfast. Skipped the coffee. Put on a suit and black tie and the shoes he bought in Peru twelve years ago. Went in the bathroom and plucked out the last blond hair he had. Stuffed it inside his ****** pocket. He planned to dump it out of his car window on the way to the campus and let it blow into the woods where it would find a home atop a dying oak leaf and finally the wind would blow it into the coppice. The tan leather portmanteau lay on the couch sinking between the cushions. Tucked inside was his lesson. The students would not like it at all. They would say it was tedious. He took the bag and slung the strap over his shoulder. The arthritis stung his bones and he bit his thin lip. Grabbed his keys. Started the car. Got on the beltway thinking about his last young hair and the distracting check engine light blinking a fiery titian on his dash.
*
The gun always lays beside his alarm clock. Once when the alarm sounded, he lifted his hand up to smack the clamor away and slapped the gun off the dresser and the pistol went off, shooting a four inch hole in the wall. He kept the gun under his bed whilst he slept for the next seven months. His daughter thanked him for that. His badge always lay adjacent to his gun, the golden shield engraved with an old insignia. Meaningless to everyone but those who wore the miniature shield. It could make a man a giant amongst men. He was an apron. He heard his daughter downstairs taking her keys from the hook nailed in the wall by the front door, and left the house. He said a short prayer. For her. Took a shower and wore the same clothes he wore yesterday. No one would notice. He never eats breakfast. Didn’t start the routine this morning. Unplugged all outlets in his house bar the living room light where the budgerigar sleeps in her cage. Walked to the front door and said a short prayer. For him.
*
The ***** left him an hour after he fell asleep and three hours before he opened his eyes. His wallet was shy an extra twenty dollars when he checked it. He was neither surprised nor offended. Her snatch was dry anyway and it stank and she was a ******. Old woman in spirit, young in body. He stepped out of the hotel bed and felt the prickly carpet floor and decided to walk to the bathroom on the balls of his feet. Looked in the mirror. Stubble on his face. He shaved it off and splashed aftershave on his ***** cheeks, not acknowledging the sting. Took the bottle of liquor from the refrigerator and swallowed it all before he knew he did. Dry retched, coughed, and spat. He turned on the TV and watched the news. A woman had been ***** in her home and stabbed over six