FICTION || Lergon Parris: 'My Dearest Elliot'

    Penned in Rage Journal, Amplifying Marginalized Voices

​The floral curtains danced modestly and gracefully as they entertained the flirtatious breeze from outside bringing romance on its breath. Blinded by their passion, the curtains failed to see the apple tree just outside the window also dancing as it was the recipient of the trickster's magic words. Having captured the hearts of the naive curtains, the breeze moved through the window and onward to its next conquest leaving the nubile curtains now dancing like harlots.

The woman in the room closed her eyes as the breeze caressed her soft face, inviting lingering memories to the forefront of her mind. She rose from her desk, the soft frills of her expensive gown brushing the bottle of ink and spilling it on the letter that she had been writing. Nimbly, she grabbed the bottle, saving most of its contents. With a frustrated sigh, she fulfilled her initial reason for rising and closed the window, rejecting the breeze's advances. The woman then retreated to the desk and looked down at the now ruined letter which she crumpled between her hands. She then reached for another sheet of paper, dipped her quill in the remaining ink and started her new letter.

My Dearest Elliot,How are you, my love? I hope this letter finds you well. I see that you have not responded to my previous letters but that is alright. I will continue to pour my heart into each one and hope that they provide you comfort on your harshest days.

How fares the war sweet Elliot? I ask not for its outcome, but I wish you back to me. I do miss you, Elliot. I miss you as any devoted wife misses her husband. We were freshly married right before fate's cruel hand took you to war. Such is the nature of our world; it is however a cruel outcome. A husband should be with his wife, and a wife her husband.

I have to resign myself to your memory. The cherry blossoms have started to beautify the tree, our tree. That beauty however does not hold a candle to the symbolism of the 'M' and 'E' letters so lovingly carved on its trunk...

"Margaret! Margaret!" the girl's attention was arrested from her letter by the shrill voice of her mother calling from the room's door.

"I have brought your supper, my dear, oh please try to eat something." This was followed by the clatter of crockery as the tray was placed by the door. Mother had long since given up on trying the handle of the door as it was never open.

"Oh Margaret, I pray that you find the conviction to eat my dear. Your flesh will wither away with this sadness." After a long unanswered silence Mother exhaled in defeat and turned away from the locked door. Margaret dipped her quill once more and continued her letter.Oh Elliot, I preserve myself for you and live for the day when I hear a knock at the front door and open it to find your cheerful face looking back at me. As I write this, as always, I am wearing 'the' dress, you know, your favorite. This is the dress that I was wearing when you first asked me to be yours. Do you remember?

Sweet Elliot I end this letter now my darling, but I will write again. I will write to you every day until you answer, or I see you walking up to our porch.Yours now and forever,Margaret.   

She picked up the paper and scanned its face for a few seconds, then she neatly folded it and placed it in an envelope from the desk's drawer. The woman then gently rose from the desk and walked over to a table in the far corner of her room, where she placed the envelope on a neat stack of similar envelopes. Margaret then proceeded to reopen the window.The rejected breeze was no longer there. It had licked its wounds and was now travelling out over the farm as the cows grazed contently in the pasture. It touched the cheeks of Margaret's mother who scarcely noticed it as she pulled the latch on the wooden gate and exited the yard, her face a mask of worry. She walked up the little hill to the lone cherry tree and spoke to the solemn looking man standing there looking down at the grave.

"She still refuses to leave her room, and she seldom eats." she was addressing the man."It is sad." he never averted his eyes from the grave as he spoke. "Such is her grief for my son that it begets denial."He sighed then turned to the woman. "So young and deprived of the joys enjoyed in a youthful marriage." he placed a comforting hand on her shoulder. "While I too grieve as a father who lost a son, I will also say a prayer for my daughter-in-law." He turned and descended the hill with Margaret's mother following shortly after.

The breeze in its empathy put its lustful urges aside and flew to touch the modest gravestone. it read:                                                                                                   

Here Lies Elliot Pitter                                                                   1841 - 1863 

Beloved son, and husband

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About Writer

Lergon Parris is a national award-winning creative writer and author. His short story won a Short Story competition run by Ella’s Writing School in 2023. As a Jamaican native, he often pulls inspiration for his pieces from the culture, crafting unique stories for all ages. He tends to utilize anthropomorphism in his more popular works, telling stories from the perspective of animals. These narratives are often used as metaphors for human conflicts.

Interview with Lergon

Bridgette: Tell Us about Weekends in Jamaica.

Lergon: Here We Primarily Work 40 Hours Weeks, Mostly Leaving Saturday And Sunday As Personal Days. This Is Considered To Be Our Weekend. The Weekend Is Usually Looked Forward To Of Course. It Is A Time When Nothing Is Usually Scheduled. A Personal Time Reserved For Rest And Relaxation, Doing Chores And Generally Preparing For The Following Work Week. I Usually Stay At Home Doing Many Of The Things That I Like To Do. This Includes Reading, Writing, Listening To Music And Generally Relaxing. I Live Alone, So My Weekends Are Usually Spent In Solitude. Like Many Other Jamaicans, Saturdays Are Reserved For Shopping And Doing Some Business That Is Not Normally Possible During Weekdays. I Get My Hair Cut On Weekends. Sundays Are Usually Reserved For Church.

Here Parties Are a Very Popular Pastime And The Primary Avenue For Social Interaction. Jamaicans Love To Dance And They Love the Atmosphere Where Primarily Reggae And Dance Hall Music Is Played By Persons Called Selectors And DJs. We Also Have Many Beaches Here And Some Of Us Enjoy Going To The Beach On The Weekend. Traditionally, Saturday Dinner Is Some Type Of Soup, While Sunday Dinner Is Usually Rice And Peas With Some Kind Of Meat, Usually Chicken Or Beef.

Bridgette: Sounds fun but busy.