Stand By is a short story written by Yasmin Dankaro, that explores the dynamic of a father-son relationship, and the roles that strength and masculinity play, even in life’s most valuable moments.
Cars slugged along with their jaundiced eyes and sagging faces, half roaring, half groaning, drivers yanking them along either way, knocking sand up and down the roads, clawing dust between the nooks of tyres as rubber gnashed metal rims. Simon sat behind the wheel at the heart of this cluster of roaring engines, jolting and halting and jolting again, his radio babbled in and out of focus, his wipers pacing back and forth. The sun did it’s best to glare the wetness away but only sought to bring about an uncomfortable humidity that only the insects basked in. He knew it was his father, but he could only be told in person. He replayed the strain in his mother’s voice earlier, picking it apart for suggestions of what could be the problem. The way syllables parted from one another, devoid of rhythm, the peaks and valleys of her tone. “Can you leave work earlier today?”……”Come to the house as soon as you can”.
Now he fixated on the fly taking refuge on his windscreen, wishing he could flap his way out of his agony and straight to his father. But as he inched his way out of traffic, he felt less compelled to race to his father’s side. He thought that in the worst possible scenario, he was ushering himself to his father’s side, in his father’s last moments. As though his car had heard his fears through his clenched fists choking on his steering wheel, it halted, gasping in exhaustion in the middle of the road. Rushing out of the car, he frantically shoved it to the side of the road. “Just because you’re rushing doesn’t mean you’re not half-hearted about it. It won’t help you.” His father had teased him while he struggled to lift his mattress as a child, squirming under its weight while at the corners of his sheets. His mother had protested continuing to make the bed for a twelve-year old, perfectly capable of making his own. His ears had heated up in frustration even back then. It wasn’t that he wasn’t strong enough, it was that his father could see it.
Now, they boiled with a panic that he could not subside. His body drained itself as quick as the panic took over him, and before he could inhale, the tears had started to roll over each other. He shook uncontrollably and sobbed into his hands, clouding him in a misty heat that only furthered his discomfort. He retreated to his car. Slowly his sobs gained back their rhythm, and that rhythm gave way to hushed breathing, and tears were drained and dabbed off his cheeks. He took deep breaths as he looked on ahead, counting the pedestrians that walked past his car in whispers. “Four…five…..si-“.
His eyes descended on the passenger seat, his old boys tie cradling his vibrating phone. ‘Mummy’. He took a deep breath. An object had never felt so heavy in his palm.
Yasmin Dankaro is a 22-year-old writer and aspiring filmmaker. She first started writing in her spare time whilst studying International Relations and has since developed an interest and skill in scripts, prose and poetry.
Feature Image credits/ Instagram: sarahalicerabbit
