The Skates my Father Made - A Story Told Two Ways

I love writing, it's an avenue for expression and exploration and I revel in the way a story can unravel right before you as you're writing each word. Below, I've written the same story with two different approaches. The first style is told from a current in the moment perspective and the second is a reflective style. They are both quite different and develop in their own way but are written with the same concept. If you're up for a little bit of reading, let me know which style you prefer, or what sort of style you tend to write in.

Style One

As I conduct a somewhat agile run across the frozen lake and past the water tank, I catch a flash of red in my peripherals which brings me to an emotional halt. My body is forced to catch up and launch in to a double-take turnabout. As I stand there, staring at the old neglected ice-skates my father had made me as a child, my carefree journey to fetch more bait turns in to one of hatred and regret.

The fire red lining, hand cut and stretched leather my father had hand-stitched and crafted, now torn and weathered from neglect. The rusted blades, once the house of grace and discipline, now only capable of flaking with content, hang from their now permanent home on the hook of the water tank’s support beam as a statement. My guess at mothers attempt to stir the sunken dirt at the bottom of the barrel. She knew I was coming and I would see them in all their subtle-less glory. The snow filled skates hang there and show me their true reflection of my father’s wasted talents as they decompose in to a world of the forgotten and discarded.

Bait! The thought stole me out from my downward vortex. I barge my way inside, across the creaking floor, scramble for the freezer in the corner of the warmly lit kitchen and grab the two bags of frozen bait, my take-down game face is on. I slam the freezer door shut, the rush of cold air coincides with my readiness, these fish are mine! Although my competition mode has been re-instated, it is now laced with a sombre undertone. Thanks mother!

Style Two

“Get out!” A common phrase I heard from my father’s scolding tongue as sweat would bead on his brow and the arm rests of his wheelchair would crackle under the pressure of his clamped hands. I slammed the door from disappointment and steamed down the corridor like a freight train consuming a fresh load of coal, leaving my pencils and sheets of coloured paper spattered across the floor.

My father’s fruitless sacrifice for his friend’s life had cost him more than just his legs. He spent his days in isolation and self-pity. His once vibrant lustre for the offerings and teachings of daily life had become sodden with the memories of that morning on the road. In my eyes, I had lost my greatest friend, just like he had, only he was stuck in a helpless place like a bird with no wings, paralysed atop a branch wavering under its weight.

I ran outside and wrapped my arms around myself, the air would form a brief puff of condensation as a result of my warm breath clashing with the frigid atmosphere. I didn’t care if the snow would turn my toes in to tiny ice bricks, I had to take myself back to the memories I made with my friend that brought me to a place of comfort and a sense of wholesomeness. I trudged through the snow and collapsed by the support beam of the solid water tank, my toes now numb and my knees well on the way to the same fate, my arms still wrapped around my core in attempt to stay warm and safe.

Here is where I hung the ice-skates my father had made me by hand, their fiery red lining “was to keep my small feet warm” he would exclaim while sewing it in with a thick leather needle and pure brute force. The blades would gleam so brightly in the sunlight, I would test their degree of radiance by melting spots of snow with their reflection and flail my arms in the air to get Father’s attention when I managed to melt one as big as my fist. I used to skate every winter morning, now the skates hang there by their withered threads, rusted from neglect.

My heart jump started and sent a ripple of shock through my small cold body, forcing me in to motion as I heard a stark voice proclaim “what are you doing out here in the cold with no shoes on Ollie?”.

** Exploring different stuffings

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