Hey all. Today’s bit of writing is a short one. I’m not feeling so well, and I’m finding it a little hard to concentrate, so most of my hour’s writing was spent squinting into nothingness trying to make words magically appear on the screen. Still, I lasted the hour, so at least there’s that.
Anyway, I’m going to go take a nap.
By E W Morrow
Word Count: 437
They say everyone who looks into their family history will find a secret sooner or later. I hope that’s not true. Now that everything’s gone digital it’s easier than ever to go digging. Hell, there are websites, entire companies, who’s sole purpose is to sell you the shovel. It’s so easy, but I don’t think it should be. As distance shrinks, as the world get’s smaller, all we have left is time. What good can come from sifting though the past if at any moment you might unearth some secret that time sought fit to bury in the first place.
Then again, maybe it’s not as bad as all that. I confess I am more than a little biased in this regard. The past holds no comfort for me, no buried treasure, only ghosts. Vengeful ghosts. My own family tree bears a branch so black and twisted that I have begun to fear it’s cancer may have spread to the very roots. I wonder if I have been tainted, not just from the things I have learned, the knowledge I have gained, but from birth. Am I capable of, nay inclined to, committing horrors like those I have learned of? Will my unborn child be as ruined as I am? Is it madness to think this? Or would it be madness to believe otherwise? I don’t know.
My own, personal, horror began six months ago. It was several days since my wife, Julia, had taken the pregnancy test. They were happy days. We were jittery with excitement, the kind tinged with a little bit of fear, but I think that was appropriate for first time parents. Of the two of us, I was the more contained. Julia became a whirlwind of nervous energy, and she was adamant about finding ways to focus it. I swear, if I had let her talk me into it, we would have begun and finished converting the den into a baby’s bedroom half a dozen times. Instead, she took me window shopping for strollers and car seats. She compiled lists for future grocery trips and began comparing prices at all the stores in a twenty mile radius from our house. In two days we had four congratulatory meals with four separate groups of friends and family.
And, of course, she signed us up with an online ancestry research site.
I’ve never been one of those people who was much interested in his lineage. My parents had always told me that we were German-Irish and that was it. I never probed any deeper, and until the news of the baby, neither had Julia.