Wodke Hawkinson

Exerpt from the short story: Blue

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I was sent to that god-awful house when I was eight years old. Deep in the Appalachian backcountry, bordered on one side by a desolate field, guarded on two sides by thick stands of sinister-looking trees, and butted up against the tangled foothills of wild mountains, it was the residence of a reclusive inbred clan. The efforts of my mama to keep me away from those people were all in vain, because she died and then they had me.

The woman in charge of this filthy house was full of mean bones. Her real name was Zelda, but everyone called her Meme. An ugly name for an ugly woman. She got the name Meme because that was what she said from the time she could speak as a toddler. Me, me, me. She bragged about this as if it were a proud accomplishment. But, the truth is that she was a selfish child who grew to be a selfish domineering woman. She was my grandmother by blood, on my daddy’s side. Or so they all claimed. From the first fear-filled moment I stepped foot on the weathered gray boards of the front porch, I denied it. Out loud and to anyone who listened, until the notion was smacked down. Then, I just denied it silently but with vehemence in my soul. I can’t possibly be part of this family.