Old Smokey Oak

Granddad called it the "Old Smokey Oak." To most, it was a lump of firewood wasting space in the corner, but to me, it was the only place I felt safe. At night, I'd sneak downstairs, curl up in a ball and hide beneath the wooden fortress, hoping my humming would drown out the screams and crashing glass echoing through the walls from a distant room. The ghosts were relentless. When sunrise came, Granddad would be back to normal. Steadily positioned in the corner of the coffee-dark library, he'd resume his place behind that rugged oak, hunched over his typewriter, bleeding like Hemingway.


Published March 3, 2010 on 6S by Blake N. Cooper


Blake N. Cooper is the creator and editor of ThinkingTen — A Writer's Playground. He lives in Seattle with his world, Emilia, and his mini-world, Siena Violet.