Passing Stories

A daughter tells her father a final story

"Hey Lila,"

"Hmm?" 

"Tell an old man a story?" 

"You always sound like you're asking for one last bedtime story when you do that." Lila sighed, setting a dripping dish in the rack above her head. 

"Please?" She shook her head, sorting through her files of daydreams and stories, trying to locate one she hadn't told her father before. A lot of stories come to pass in twenty-six years, but it was never something Lila couldn't keep up with. 

"There was once a man named Julian Trace, and he was known as the Boy of the West. He was known in books, and movies and magazines, and posters; everywhere you turned, that iconic smirk was shining right back at you. The townspeople loved him, they loved his presence, his pride as he never let it grow beyond himself. He grew with this pride, took this smile and smirk to the East, far beyond where word had traveled. People thought he was odd, off, in need of a good ole' smacking, but he grew on them too. Soon he became the Boy of the East, and too he left his pride just below his knees. He learned to keep it moving, the Boy of the West, the Boy of the East, the Boy of the Sea, the Boy of the Tide, the Boy of the Land, soon, his names surpassed that of a boy. He became the Man of Times, Man of the decade, he grew from a boy to a man and his pride swelled to his chin. He had everything a boy grown man could ask for, women, men, time, money, everything between yes and no lied between a smile and the world knew it." By now she had finished washing the dishes, taking a towel to the countertops that were splashed with water or soap studs. "He took to the stars, took to the ground, took to the sea, and everything in between. His pride grew with his wealth despite him not having a dime in his name. He became arrogant, the world knew his name and he grew up knowing this as well as the next. He grew obnoxious, and demanding, people began to notice he grew ugly, and dishonest. He grew a beard white as stone, and an arch deep as a canyon, his smile grew crooked, and his smirk perverted. He grew up, and he grew old, demented and cruel. Soon, the Golden Boy, just became boy, and the Man of the times, just became man. There was nothing else for him to charm, nowhere else for him to grow. There once was a man named Julian Trace, and he was known as a man of himself. Never married, never loved, never loving. All know, he rests." 

"My name used to be Julian Trace." Lila smiled wearily, 

"Yeah," she turned around, glancing at the old, withered window frames and dad's rickety old wheelchair. At the nicks in the table from the slam of a glass or slide of a card. It was warmer when he was there, colder when she noticed he wasn't. It was easier when she kept her attention elsewhere. "I know, pa." 

Author's Note

This is one of the more recent stories I wrote for a friend just to get some general feedback, and I wouldn't mind the same from the rest of you. I appreciate most insight, thank you.