Question

write a short story on boatmsn in bravia book

Answer 1

Margaret’s brother arrives a little after four, coming up the yard in that heavy way of his, still with sleep on him and hauling two shovels and a pickaxe, the weight of his boots on the gravel as familiar to me as the sound of my own voice in my head or my boat on the water, its old wood moaning among the waves.

I remain at the kitchen table, hunched over a small glass and with a dark refilled bottle beside the flat of my left hand. These past two nights have done for the whiskey, and I am reduced now to more home-grown poisons. But that’s all right; we all have hard tastes here, and we’re well used to the fire. Beyond the window, the staggered silhouettes of ash trees stand black and dense against the horizon. I drain the glass and pour again, running the alcohol to its brim, the liquid clear and illicit and full, for now, of the early hour, then slide it across the table in anticipation of my brother in-law. A minute passes, the clock dropping its seconds in clicks, and if Michael seems to linger outside longer than usual I know that it is because he’s looking at the sky, the stars, and listening for the first flute notes of birdsong. Feeling the stillness of a rare morning without breeze. And it is as if the world is waiting.

When he enters, his steps trying to go gentle across the hall’s linoleum, the balance of the stillness shifts. After a moment he fills the doorway and leans against the jamb. Neither of us wants to speak yet, lacking I suppose the necessary words, but also because there’s little left to say beyond expressions of anger, and we’re both too beaten down for that. I gesture towards the glass, and he takes a couple of paces forward, picks it up in his thick fingers and drinks slowly. I watch him, then help myself to a last long, deep swallow from the bottle.

Answer 2

Heyaa hope it helps u dear.......
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Margaret’s brother arrives a little after four, coming up the yard in that heavy way of his, still with sleep on him and hauling two shovels and a pickaxe, the weight of his boots on the gravel as familiar to me as the sound of my own voice in my head or my boat on the water, its old wood moaning among the waves.

I remain at the kitchen table, hunched over a small glass and with a dark refilled bottle beside the flat of my left hand. These past two nights have done for the whiskey, and I am reduced now to more home-grown poisons. But that’s all right; we all have hard tastes here, and we’re well used to the fire. Beyond the window, the staggered silhouettes of ash trees stand black and dense against the horizon. I drain the glass and pour again, running the alcohol to its brim, the liquid clear and illicit and full, for now, of the early hour, then slide it across the table in anticipation of my brother in-law. A minute passes, the clock dropping its seconds in clicks, and if Michael seems to linger outside longer than usual I know that it is because he’s looking at the sky, the stars, and listening for the first flute notes of birdsong. Feeling the stillness of a rare morning without breeze. And it is as if the world is waiting.

When he enters, his steps trying to go gentle across the hall’s linoleum, the balance of the stillness shifts. After a moment he fills the doorway and leans against the jamb. Neither of us wants to speak yet, lacking I suppose the necessary words, but also because there’s little left to say beyond expressions of anger, and we’re both too beaten down for that. I gesture towards the glass, and he takes a couple of paces forward, picks it up in his thick fingers and drinks slowly. I watch him, then help myself to a last long, deep swallow from the bottle.

“Is herself asleep?” he says, and I nod. They’d given her something to put her down, because after so many days awake she was out on her feet. Now the house around us feels like a hole. She has fallen in and is still falling, and I am clinging to an edge. Everything that has gone before seems redundant now, all the efforts at survival, the love, the wasted laughter. Beth, who’d only ever seemed so small between us but who within five minutes had managed to diminish to almost nothing the time before she’d entered our world, has cleaved us entirely open in her going. Without her, Margaret and I are nothing but collections of bones, emptied of worth. All I’ve wanted, ever since the hospital had first admitted her, was to be able to sit by myself and cry. But I am twenty-eight years old and haven’t spilt a tear since I was a boy, and it seems that I have lost the ability to let go in that way. Margaret weeps, haemorrhaging tears almost, but I can only stand there, helpless, not looking at her but neither looking away. If I was a better man, I’d take her in my arms and hold her, to feel her hair unkempt in my face and eyes, and her cheeks wet against mine and hot with fever, and to know the broken-hearted heave of her breath punching through her thin body. But that’s still a step beyond what I can manage. I want to be strong for her, and we both know that it is what she needs and probably what I need too, but words of comfort are stuck in my throat. We’re deep in this together, and yet the world feels untouchable around me. It’s as if I’ve been set down on a jut of reef in the middle of the sea, some small hard rock with bottomless water a step away in every direction, and there is nothing I can do but stand and watch while others around me struggle to stay afloat and while my betters sink and drown.
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Mark brainliest if it helps u dear......
@diya