If Walls Could TalkA Story by Emma Bee
A short story I did while at this really great writing camp a couple of weeks ago
If Walls Could Talk
If walls could talk, they’d laugh at us, they’d all laugh and say, “What makes you think
you’re not being watched.” If walls could talk that’s what they’d say. At least that’s what my
father told me they’d say.
I’d asked him that question when I was too young to read, but old enough to count my
fingers and toes. “Do walls watch us daddy,” I said, “do they know our secrets, do they know
things about us that others don’t.” He’d pat my curls, pick me up into his lap, and hold his
grandfather’s pipe in one hand. He told me that everything has a spirit, and everything is
watching, then he’d tell me what they’d say; if trees could talk they’d ask men not to chop them
down, if cars could talk they’d ask their drivers to fill them with gas once in a while, and if walls
could talk they’d laugh and say “what makes you think you’re not being watched.”
He’d tell me things some parents would be afraid to tell their children, afraid it might hurt
their subconscious, corrupting them. My father’s philosophy was, if you tell them now you won’t
have to deal with it later. He’d let me sit in his study for hours in his red velvet chair with the wine
stain forever worked into the fabric. I would sit there and listen to his jazz music that played on
the record player. He would tell me stories and let me stay there when I needed a good cry. He
always had time for me, when I’d ask him to be somewhere, he would be there. My father adored
his children, my sister and I were his world and he loved us to bits.
My father was a writer, and he would always draw his inspiration from us, he’d let us play
in his study and we would tell him our childish stories of princesses and dragons and castles by
the sea. He once wrote a book about the two of us, and did the illustrations himself and handed it
in to his publisher who expressed his dislike of my father’s doodles on the page.
I loved my father, and I loved his stupid puns, and random quotes of other authors. I
loved his warm eyes and the way he crossed his legs and sat back in his chair whenever he
was about to tell us a good story. I guess he is my hero, he showed me all he could and saved
me when I’d scrape my knee. I guess you could say I used to be daddy’s little girl.
© 2011 Emma Bee
AboutI love to write and read writing of all types, and so therefore have joined this website to publish my writing over the summer. more..