THE WINDBREAK EFFECT
A SHORT STORY
LITERARY CONTEMPORARY FICTION | PSYCHOLOGICAL REALISM | TRAUMA & REDEMPTION
I’m leaning back in my favorite lawn chair, staring out at all that land. It’s mine. Every inch of it, spanning out to where the pines and oaks meet the starry midnight blue sky.
The fire crackles beside me, throwing out a stream of vermillion embers like star dust into the night, rising above and dissipating out of view. In the cool air with the smell of pine smoke filling my lungs, I pause for a moment, just sitting in the kind of quiet that feels earned. Like I’ve walked the miles and finally arrived at the finish line.
My brother’s next to me, guzzling his beer, lost in his thoughts. We’re not big on words, but we’re both thinking it: this moment, this spot, the space around us. All ours. The kind of night where, even if we don’t say much, it’ll sit with us for years.
“Never thought you’d actually do it,” he says, half-smiling as he looks around the yard. “Feels like yesterday you were still camped out in that tiny apartment, saying someday.”
I laugh, shaking my head. “Someday came, didn’t it?”
He clinks his beer bottle against mine, and there’s this warmth there—not just from the fire, but from the years we’ve spent just trying to make it.
We used to talk about a place like this, a place where we could do anything, feel that freedom, that stretch of land where nobody’s breathing down your neck.
“This is good,” he finally says, breaking the brief silence. "You earned it.”
I glance over, and it hits me—his pride, his support. He doesn’t say it much, but it’s right there.
We don’t bring up the past often—mostly because it’s like breathing old smoke. Something that still makes your chest ache, even years after the fire’s gone out. But tonight, it’s just me and him, sitting in the middle of this wide-open yard with nowhere else to run from it.
“Remember that time Dad tried to take us fishing?” he asks suddenly, breaking out a grin that’s equal parts humor and...something else. A sadness, maybe. “Middle of winter, barely light outside, and he’s got us out there with these busted old poles he picked up at a garage sale.”
I laugh, shaking my head. I remember the day. Our dad, half-drunk and holding onto his dreams for us like they were slipping through his fingers.
“The lines froze up on us, remember? He kept cussing under his breath, acting like it was our fault somehow.”
He nods, chuckling. "Yeah, yeah...and then he tossed his line out so hard he fell right into the ice water. I thought he was gonna freeze to death, but he just pulled himself out, lit a cigarette, and laughed like it was the funniest thing that ever happened.”
That was Dad. Loving in his own messed-up way. But he never could stay away from his demons. They lived with us, right in the house.
Mama was no different, only she didn’t pretend to laugh it off. When she was around, the house turned cold. Strict wasn’t the word for her—she kept us in line with a fist or whatever bottle she was cradling that night. And if she wasn’t hitting us, she was hitting Dad with words that still sit in the back of my mind like they’re branded there.
My brother shifts in his chair, and I see his gaze fall to the fire. I see the reflection in his eyes, the way the fire sparks moats of twinkling flurries from its core. “She was tough on you,” he says quietly, like he’s apologizing. “Tougher than she ever was on me.”
“Yeah,” I murmur, taking a sip of my beer, tasting that bitterness, something that feels earned. “But you took it hard too, just in different ways.”
He doesn’t argue. Just looks down, scratching his chin. “I was so damn angry back then. At everything. You, her, Dad, myself. I’d go out and get trashed just to feel something else, you know? Anything other than the cold in that house.” He hesitates, and I know where his mind is headed. “Guess that’s what landed me in jail the first time. Breaking windows, starting fights...all that crap.”
I nod. He missed his own graduation. Hell, by the time he got out and cleaned up, Mama was already gone. I was the one who had to tell him she’d taken her own life. I watched him stare through those prison bars, his whole world falling apart from a place he couldn’t escape.
“Crazy how it all turned out,” I say softly. “Back then, it felt like we’d never make it out, like that house would never let us go, like that was all there ever was—all there’d ever be.”
He raises his bottle, tipping it in my direction. “But here you are, man. You made it out. Made something real for yourself. And for me…well, I’m trying. Got a long way to go, but I’m here.”
For a second, the fire’s all that’s between us—its warmth and light the only thing filling the silence. There’s a heaviness to our past, but somehow, tonight, it feels lighter. Like this new place, this home, has given us space to breathe and remember.
The fire’s starting to die down now, losing it’s strength against the growing night, but still producing just enough light to let me see the tired look on my brother’s face. I can tell there’s something on his mind. He’s been restless since he showed up, pacing the yard, messing with his phone, all quiet like he’s here but not really.
“You alright?” I ask, trying to break through the wall he’s got up tonight.
He looks over, shaking his head with this half-hearted smile. “Yeah, man. Just... I don’t know. Feels strange seeing you here, settled like this. Never thought I’d see the day.”
I raise my beer, giving him a grin. “Guess I grew up, huh?”
But he doesn’t laugh. Instead, he just stares into the fire, and there’s this bitterness in his eyes. “Maybe,” he mutters. “Or maybe you’re just hiding here, trying to pretend life doesn’t move on.”
The words hit me harder than I’d like to admit. “What’s that supposed to mean?” I ask, feeling my defenses kick up.
He looks at me, and there’s a sharpness in his gaze that catches me off guard. “You think you’re free here, sitting in this yard, hiding out from everything? News flash, little brother—life doesn’t stand still just because you bought yourself a piece of it. You keep sitting here, clinging to this idea of peace, and you’ll just end up as stuck as Mom and Dad were.”
It’s like he ripped the ground out from under me. I always thought of this place as my escape, my chance to breathe after everything we went through. But now, he’s painting it as a trap, a prison of my own making. “This is different,” I say, struggling to maintain my composure. “It's not running. I’m building something here.”
“Building what?” he snaps back. “A life that’s safe? Comfortable? And then what? You gonna sit here and let everything else slip by, just so you don’t have to face what’s out there?”
I don’t have an answer for him. I just sit there, staring into the fire, trying not to over analyze his words. He’s right in a way I can’t deny. I bought this place because I wanted a life that didn’t feel like chaos, but maybe I’ve just built walls to keep the world out. I’ve found comfort, sure—but maybe it’s comfort that’s keeping me from actually living.
He stands up, brushing off his jeans. “I’m not trying to tear you down, man,” he says, his voice less harsh now. “I just don’t want to see you get stuck, thinking this is all there is. You’re not Dad. You’re not Mom. But you’ll end up just as lost if you think this place is gonna protect you from life.”
I watch him walk away, but his word stay behind. And for the first time, I recognize the presence of my own fear—the fear of stepping beyond these walls, of facing the unknown, of letting go of the comfort I’ve built here.
And as he disappears into the night, I realize that this place isn’t freedom. Not yet. Freedom is choosing to keep moving, to keep changing, even when it feels like everything I’ve fought for could slip away.
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