PRACTICE
Write about a couple moving out of their house or apartment.
Write for fifteen minutes. When you're finished, post your practice in the comments section. And if you post, be sure to leave feedback on a few practices by other writers.
![It's Nice [Explored]](https://farm3.staticflickr.com/2843/9388834014_ddb7a41295_b.jpg "It's Nice [Explored]")
Photo by Kat N.L.M. (Creative Commons)
For many reasons, they were happy to leave. There was the shower that would not drain regardless of how many bottles of Drain-O they poured down it. There was the cheap carpet that would get caught in the vacuum cleaner and rip up in strings. And there was the couch, a relic from her mother, which was so saggy, the pillows so deflated, the upholstery so anciently-patterned and stained they were going to abandon it at the nearest church as soon as they could borrow a truck.
Of course, there were the things they'd miss, but these were the convenience of having a home. They knew they wouldn't have one for several months, and the routine a home allows is comforting. They would miss it because they didn't have to think, and soon they would be doing a lot of thinking.
Everything comes out when you move, all the good memories along with ugly ones. He found a box filled with old letters from girlfriends and a picture of her when she was in her “ugly stage” and there was also the bottle of Clicquot, the champagne they drank on their honeymoon in Santa Monica.
Ok, here’s my practice:
When Mommy sews she has to do a lot of seam ripping. She takes this little tool with a tiny knife on the end and uses it to tear out thread that shouldn’t be there. She always gets kind of mad when she has to rip seams. One day I asked her why. “Because I have to waste my work, time, and energy!” She had said, raising her hands in frustration.
Waste. That’s kind of how I felt when Mommy and Daddy started having fights. Daddy would come home from work late and Mommy would be angry and Mommy would burn dinner and Daddy would be angry. They were angry about a lot of things I didn’t know about, too.
Then Daddy started going away for long times. He would leave not come back for forever. Then one day he did come back and he and Mommy signed a lot of papers. Mommy said nothing much would change – I would spend summers with Daddy and the school year with her. That was all.
But it wasn’t. We had to leave the house too. It wasn’t much, but it’s been my home ever since I was born on the raggedy green couch in the living room. It’s kind of hard to think that I’ll never smell flowers in the backyard anymore, or swing on my tire swing. That I’ll go to a different school for first grade, with different kids and a different teacher.
My life’s going to look pretty shabby after I rip all these seams.
I enjoyed reading this. I like that it has the innocence and emotion of a child going through a difficult time. I liked how the child was already missing things from her old home. My favorite part was how it was how you brought the story full circle. Nice job.
Thanks, Eliese.
Always love the perspective of the child. When the child talked about ripping the seams, it felt ominous to me.
Thanks. I really enjoy writing from the point of view of children.
Your intriguing hook pulled me right into your story. I couldn’t imagine what a child talking about a seam ripper could have to do with a couple moving.
You write well from the point of view of a child. Nice. I liked it 🙂
The last sentence doesn’t seem to be something a 5 or 6 year old child would say, nor does the comment the child makes at the beginning of the 2nd par. “Waste.”
Other than that, I think the child’s voice works well.
Adelaide
Thanks, Adelaide. I thought something felt off. That definitely helps.
First prompt! Hope you enjoy it…
It seemed to her that these boxes were just unpacked, but
now they were once again leaning against the far wall with marker scribbled on
them to tell the treasures hidden inside.
Ella let her gaze roam around the bare room, seeing their living room in the empty morning light.
This was where many moments will forever live in her heart. Over there? She
kept her desk and spent many a night painting that one last stroke of the
painting that would complete it. And that window? Her favorite chair would sit
right under it, just begging for her to curl up with a cup of tea and her
current romance novel of choice. The back corner was where Jacob would sit at
his own desk, his gaze lifting every once in a while to find her and toss a
smile in her direction. Each wall and crevice holding the memories close.
With her eyes beginning to shimmer with unshed tears, she rested her back against the wall and slid down slowly, sitting on the bare floor. Their first apartment looked nothing like what it should. The pictures were taken down and the walls
were now bare. Furniture was dismantled and packed, no longer taking up the room.
Ella didn’t even know where to find her favorite tea cup, instead drinking out
of a take out cup. How can she enjoy her morning tea if she can’t drink out of
her own cup?
The move was finally here, and she was now without her cup. This wasn’t going to work. Ella let the tears fall down her cheek and realized that the moments had in this apartment were now withering and she had no hope of getting them back. Just like her cup, they were packed away and gone. Silent cries escaped her lips as she rested her forehead on her knees.
“Sweetheart? Are you crying?”
Jacob sat beside her with his arm draped over her shoulders.
Red rimmed eyes rose to meet his own caring stare as she whispered, “I can’t find my tea cup.”
He smiled and held her closer, kissing the top of her head. “Oh, Ella. We put it away. In the new house, we can unpack it and put it in the kitchen right above the sink; in the window sill that you loved so much. It looks out over the backyard and right into the trees. Remember how happy you were to have the window? You said you would love to drink your tea there in the morning and watch the sun rise behind the trees.”
Ella sniffled and thought of the trees. They were beautiful in the morning light. And her tea was going to taste so much warmer with that sight to great her every day. Jacob stood and held his hand out to her.
“Come on, love. Let’s go make some new memories.”
I like how you illustrate the simple things that make us so unsettled during a move.
I wrote mine before reading anyone else’s, and I love that you’ve captured the same kind of feeling. It’s so hard to let go of somewhere and try and remember what’s good about the new place. (mind you, I was leaving a city I loved to go to a city I never wanted to move to under force of work!).
Good job 🙂
But I need my teacup. Right now. It has it’s special place in the cupboard. What if there isn’t enough room for it in the new house? What if it doesn’t match the cupboard? What if I have to keep it in the box forever? It will get broken just sitting on the counter.
I just really liked the line about the tea cup. My sister just packed up for college, and she had four mugs she wanted to bring with her. I packed and repacked her suitcase until I got ONE to fit. I told her that she would only need one cup of tea at a time:)
I leaned my head against the cool glass, closing my eyes and letting out a long sigh. A single tear slipped out of the corner of my eye, rolling slowly down my cheek. I tried to wipe it away surreptitiously before he could see, but I could never hide anything from him. I felt his warm, soft hand steal into mine, giving a reassuring squeeze. I squeezed back, but couldn’t look at him yet, afraid his shining, sympathetic eyes would push the limits of my self-control.
I opened my eyes instead, looking out the window to the hills far below. I searched for the rooftop of our house, trying to follow the winding roads to where I knew it would be, but everything looks so different from the air. Before I could find it, the sea opened up below us and the city I had called home for the last three years slipped out of view under the wing of the plane.
I sighed again and turned to find him looking at me, that shining, sympathetic look still there. I attempted to give him a small smile, barely managing to get the corners of my mouth to turn up. He squeezed my hand again and then pulled me against him into an awkward hug over the arm between the seats. He kissed the top of my head.
“It’ll be okay,” he whispered into my hair. “It’s a new journey. And we’ll be together, that’s all that mattered.”
I nodded, unable to speak. The tears finally flowed.
I like it! You just made me want to cry, too. 🙂
In a way I’m sorry… in a way I’m not, because that means I did my job! Thanks for the feedback!
All the FEELS! Reminds me of moving away from home for the first time — excitement, but anxiety, too. I’m interested to know more about the “new journey” and them “being together.” Did they have to run away together? I love the way you describe simple things (that aren’t so simple in real life!): “push the limits of my self-control,” “slipped out of view under the wing of the plane.” Beautiful.
Thanks for your feedback! I was thinking about when I moved away from the last city I lived in. I’d waited to move there for YEARS, and then 3 years after, I had to leave for a new job. It still upsets me 3 years later! Although at that time I drove away, and I was by myself, I was thinking about the way my (now) husband, who had moved 3 months before me, reassured me that no matter where we were, we’d make it fun. See why I married him? 😛
WOW! I like this! I like how you show the bonding of the characters together. It doesn’t show co-dependency, but it shows something deeper. Good stuff!
Thanks 😀
Seems like the girls in these stories are the ones having the hardest times moving! The guys seem so much more ready to go. Maybe that’s because sniff, sniff, us girls are just so sentimental and teary.
Haha, it does seem that way! Though perhaps it’s because us girls are more likely to be okay about showing our vulnerable side in our writing.
Very realistic as I had to fly from Melbourne to Broome (far north west) last year. My wife had gone ahead with getting a job and a house and a car. It wasn’t until we flew over the turqoise waters of Roebuck Bay that I realised I was nearing my next destination.
This is my practice about a couple who is moving:
They were empty nesters, had been ever since their younger son left for college twenty-odd years ago. Paradoxically, their empty nest was anything but. They morphed into dedicated accumulators. Weekend shopping forays netted additional chairs, occasional tables, oil paintings, oriental rugs, art glass of all shapes, colors and descriptions…well, you get the idea.
Their life no longer could accommodate the superfluous, the ornamental. They were simplifying their very existence. Paring it to the core. Retiring the Cuisinart, wok and pannini maker. Walking away from two twelve-piece settings of fine china.
Their sons and daughters-in-law had no desire for any of it. Not their taste. Fair enough.
Simplification freed them, they told themselves. They culled their possessions down to the necessities and sent that stuff ahead in the moving van. The rest was for the estate sale company to deal with. “Just send us a check,” they said, as they handed over the house keys and drove off.
It was quiet in the car for a few miles, then the wife, oh so hesitantly inquired, “Honey, did we really need to give up the curio cabinet?”
“Margaret, it’s going to be the longest six hundred miles of my life if you are going to rethink every decision we’ve made in the past six months,” Jim said, a headache already intruding.
I’m hoping that the curio cabinet fits in the trunk, when he turns the car around to go back and get it!
Definitely a possibility. Thanks for the comment.
This piece made me laugh. It’s such a typical ‘moving house’ scenario. Well done.
Thanks, Davey. That’s encouraging.
This brought back so manymemories of our move from a 5 bedroom house to a 2 bedroom house 7 years ago. I agonized about everything we had to give away or throw away.
Adelaide
Did you have any regrets?
No regrets. Love the smaller house, love the rural small town atmosphere.
Adelaide
I like the ideas here. I think it needs a bit of surgery… perhaps cut out some things that doesn’t need to be said. Make the readers wonder a bit.
Chase, I appreciate your insight. I agree that tightening could make it more compelling. Thanks
Mila is lying on her large bed staring up at the beige ceiling. Her brown eyes slowly trace the crown molding; looking at each corner. It is her way of saying goodbye. Today is moving day. She remembers doing the same thing in her hospital bed after surgery to remove the tumor from her right lung. Saying goodbye was a relief then, but it is not
today.
She sighs and rolls over onto the other side of the bed to find it empty. Her
husband Eliot must be downstairs carrying boxes. She gets out of bed and stretches
her weak body. She showers, dresses, gives Eliot his morning smooch, and starts
lifting boxes with friends and family.
The van is halfway full by the time she arrives. Inside are all their things. She can see her favorite white and blue polka dot armchair, the lamp her mother gifted Mila on her wedding day, and more possessions filled with memories. But they are all just things; unimportant really.
This year she learned what was essential in life. Fighting to live can have
that effect.
A strong arm wraps around her shoulders. “How are you feeling?” Eliot asks her. She hates that question. She has heard it to many times lately, but she answers anyway.
“Not too bad. The exercise is invigorating.” She lifts a box full of groceries. “I just want this day to be over with.”
“Me too.” Eliot agrees.
They spend half of the filling the moving van and the other half unloading it. It is hard work for everyone, but especially for Mila. She is exhausted and short of breath. All she wants to do is lay down in bed and sleep. Eliot,knowing how tired she is, takes out theparts for the bed first. He puts it all together while she is half-awake on the couch.
When he finishes he lifts her small body and softly places her on the bed. She kisses him on the neck and thanks him. She stares at the new white popcorn ceiling in her tiny apartment. She looks at each corner, taking only a moment,and says hello to her new home. Hello to her new life.
Another nice piece Eliese. Moving…so to speak …
Thanks Davey! 🙂
I like the use of the present tense here. That makes the actions seem immediate, and I think you have the right mix of showing (she’s exhausted, she’s heard that question so many times) with reflecting back–two references to what she’s endured, with plenty of description of what she feels now.
Thank you Robert. I like your insights on this piece.
Great close third person narrative. You can definitely tell the narrative is doing more than just telling the story. It’s interesting the starts a little pessimistically in terms of it not being a good thing happen, but the last sentence somehow develops into optimism. It makes you want to know what direction her life is taking
I love how you saw exactly what I was trying to show. Thank you for your interesting comment 🙂
Packing up a box of memories; that was how the young girl felt. She didn’t have much, hadn’t been long in the home, but the memories were there. She didn’t know if they would all fit into the shoe box with its coloured elastic bands around it to stop the lid from coming off, but she would try and force them in anyway.
‘Teas ready,’ came the shout from downstairs. ‘Hurry up Tania, you’ll want ya’ fish
fingers before you ‘ave to go.’
Tania smiled as the last swirls of the kind lady’s voice spun their way up through
the part open door to her. She would miss this lady. There had been others she
didn’t miss, that was for sure, but this one … yer, she’d miss her. And as she
gathered up the last of the memories from the crowded bedroom that, for the
last three months, she had been sharing with two others—they were staying, lucky
them—she crossed her fingers, nails bitten down to the quick, that the next
place she went with her memory box would be like this.
In the kitchen she ate her tea slowly. Maybe, if she ate slowly time would slow down
also, maybe the spindle arms of the austere clock face would take pity on her
butterflied stomach and hesitate. Just for her.
‘What you thinking ‘bout love?’ asked the kind lady.
Tania smiled up at her through a few fish-crumbs. She didn’t reply, she never did,
she never spoke to anyone apart from the memories that she carried in her box.
And then the clock hands did their work and dragged the sound of the glass-muffled car engine to her door.
And she left with a hug from the kind lady, eight crossed fingers and her box of rubber
band-wrapped memories, her friend.
This was a bit hard for me to understand sometimes. I did like the accents, even though they might have been the reason for the confusion. I felt that the accents brought the characters to life. I was also wondering what ‘eight crossed fingers’ were.
My favorite parts were how she wanted to slow down time, and how Tania felt about speaking. This story makes me want to why she is that way, and where she is going. I think it’s a good thing to be left wondering sometimes. 🙂
Thanks Eliese. Yer, needs a bit of pollishing around the edges. Glad you liked the accents, Southeast UK working class. The eight crossed fingers: index finger and middle finger, ring finger and little finger, right hand and left. 🙂 for extra good luck. Different wording needed there perhaps.
As for where she is going, I’ll leave that up to your imagination. Or maybe Tania will appear in a story some time in the future, we’ll have to see.
Thanks for the feedback anyway. have a good day (or night/afternoon I suppose now as I think most of you guys are in the US …)
Oh the eight crossed fingers are sweet! Have a good day too.
It was the last box in the bedroom. Of course it was the heaviest; she’d loaded it with books and magazines and all the unmatched odds and ends–socks and earrings and whatnot–and he grunted not only at the weight of the box but at the throb of pain in the small of his back. “Good grief, woman! Why in the world did you overload this one?” And he thought: I sound just like her dad. And he wished he hadn’t spoken.
“I’m sorry,” she gushed, “I am so sorry. Do you want me to help?”
Of course he wanted her to help. And yet he didn’t, because after all he was the husband and he’d already been a jerk, scolding her that way, treating her as if she were one of the kids instead of his wife. And husbands did the heavy work anyway.
“I can get it,” he grumbled. He tried to smile and work himself out of his bad mood. “We’re finally getting out, and this is the last box in the house, right? We don’t have anything else to take out of here, do we?”
“Nothing more,” she said. “Jen and Carl took the fridge, and Willie is going to take the microwave to his apartment. The washer and dryer stay, since the one the Lewises left is better than ours.”
He hugged the box to his chest and shuffled through the door, bending his head down as he’d done every time he’d come in and out of the room for the last thirteen years. The floorboards creaked at the spot where the water stain had appeared on the hall carpet last spring. He leaned to the left, brushing against the wall because the railing on the right was only thirty or so inches high and he was afraid he’d tip over and fall down the stairs. None of this is my problem anymore, he thought. I can just leave it all behind and not feel guilty over the things I left undone. . . .
Interesting contrast to the other story in this thread about the couple who was separating. Good job rounding out the characters; I’m invested and want to know more!
Thank you, Lucy. I hadn’t read the other posts before submitting mine. This scenario had loads of possibilities.
Hi Robert,
This is a good beginning for a longer story. What things had he left undone and why? And what happens next? I get the feeling “things left undone” refers to more than just house maintenance. I hope you finish this.
Adelaide
Thank you. I’m glad you picked up on the implications of “things left undone.”
The transition would be a tricky one. It wasn’t every day that someone moved into a different body. But the old one didn’t have the pieces Theresa wanted.
She looked up and stared at the mirror where she’d drawn lines around the body parts she hated. There was a dotted black line – scrawled with a Sharpie – around her Adam’s Apple. And circles on her chest where breasts were supposed to be. The rest of the marks were down below; those were the most important.
Staring at her inferior crotch, Theresa pictured herself walking the local mall. It had been closed down and musty and she thought she might get some privacy to walk around in her heels and skirt. She was desperate to appear in public – just once – but frantic not to be seen. Unfortunately, in her situation, one person was a crowd. That was all it had taken to start the rumors. “Chick with a Dick” appeared in white shoe polish on her car the following week.
Theresa reached down and tucked everything between her legs. Seeing the empty space, she started crying, the mascara forming two prison bars on her face. What she saw now felt right. She was ready for the move. From Timothy to Theresa. On paper, it seemed like such a tiny change; just a few letters.
Interesting concept — moving to a new body. Also touches on a subject I don’t think many people are familiar with, but certain phrases make it a bit more relatable — haven’t we all been desperate to appear in public but frantic not to be seen? Good descriptions here.
Our friends said good-bye; the wind whispered good-bye; even those annoying neighbor dogs that always yapped when we stepped out barked us a farewell. It was as if the whole world knew we would be gone in a matter of days. It was okay. That was okay.
When I opened the door on the Saturday morning of our leaving, I didn’t expect to find a large cake saying “Sorry to See You Go!” on our front porch. Especially since it was a gift from the boss that fired Marley in the first placed.
I scowled but picked it up anyway. In all honesty, I wanted to throw it across the street at those jerks. But Marley was taking the news perfectly well. So why couldn’t I?
I kicked the door shut and set the cake on the counter. How did they expect us to eat it when we already packed all our plates into boxes? It seemed like just the thing they’d do.
Marley came out, all smiles as usual. He kissed my cheek as he passed, still in the process of putting on his tie. “You ready for the road?” he asked cheerily.
It was all I could do to muster up a smile. “Definitely,” I said, trying and failing to match his enthusiasm.
He raised his auburn eyebrow at me, seeming to detect the lie. He the knowledge well, however. “Well, you don’t look like you are,” he said, nodding to my nightgown.
I heaved a sigh and wrapped my arms around his neck. “Well, I’m not ready quite yet.”
He chuckled. “I could’ve guessed.”
I ran my finger along his cheekbone. “It’s not fair. How come we have to move just because that nasty old Scrooge fired you?”
He shook his head, as if I was a child shooting out nonsense. “It’s not that. It’s simply that I found a better, more worthy job. Is that so bad?”
“It might not have been had you chosen this job before he fired you.”
“He didn’t fire me…” he said, wrapping me in a hug.
I pulled back too quickly. “Didn’t fire you? You can’t be serious. He told you that he found better workers that would work at a lower cost. I don’t know about you, but that sounds like firing to me.”
“Hard times call for hard calls,” he said, patting my cheek. “Now, go get dressed.”
I gave him a good long stare. I wasn’t angry at him, but for that one instant I just wanted to slap him. When my temper finally melted, however, I relaxed my muscles and headed back down the hall.
If he was happy with it, then I guess I could be, too…right?
I like the dimension of the characters in this. I’m interested to know a little more into the actual story, and why they see it so differently. Very natural scene between two intimate characters. There’s just a little bit of sentence structure and clarity needed, but it’s a great job!
Thank you for the feedback. Those are some things I’m going to have to be working on in pretty much everything I write.
This is a good piece of writing. You engage the reader quickly with the characters without the situation getting too sentimental. Is it a true story? It reads like one?
Well, actually it isn’t. But thank you!
Great attention to the details of her emotions, you felt as if you were in the room with them standing at the door.
Just a 15-minute practice. It’s rough and unedited, but here it goes:
There was a loud crash and stifled yelp in the other room. John inhaled slowly to restrain his annoyance.
“Are you alright?” He tried to raise his voice loud enough without showing his frustration. His words were only returned with silence. He put down the picture frame he had been wrapping and walked into the kitchen.
Maia stood in the middle of the room, staring down blankly at a large box that had just moments before been filled with plates and bowls. She looked up at John. Her cheeks and the tip of her nose were beginning to redden as they always did just before she cried. Her eyes glistened with the threat of oncoming tears.
“I forgot,” she said after a moment, “are you taking these or am I?” John was frozen by her expression, but recovered quickly.
“I think the one who can lift the box should get to keep it,” he joked, trying to free them from the gravity of her impending tears.
“I can lift it,” she muttered. The words were more hostile than she intended. He began to suspect that she hadn’t asked his help in the first place to prove that she really could lift it. To prove that she didn’t need him anymore. He didn’t know how it had gone this far. They were packing up the life they built together, and sending pieces of it to separate places. The “ours” was being split into a “yours” and “mine.” He wanted to tell her this was a mistake, that their life could be salvaged; their lives could be taped, stitched, and glued back together. Instead of becoming a new family, anticipating a new member, it was torn away; their relationship along with it. But those were the things he wouldn’t say, couldn’t say. Instead, he picked up the box.
“I’ll put it in your car.”
I love this. Especially: “The “ours” was being split into a “yours” and “mine.” He wanted to tell her this was a mistake, that their life could be salvaged; their lives could be taped, stitched, and glued back together.” Such a great expression of the desperation in the narrator’s voice. I hope you expand this story — I want to know more about these characters. I hope they make it!
Thank you! Their story has been expanded in my head since their impromptu creation for this practice. I guess that means it’s time to make it a full one
Thank you. They’re definitely being expanded into a longer story
I agree with Lucy. I really like this too. In the beginning I thought that everything was fine between them and was surprised when it wasn’t. I like how you ended it, open but final.
Thanks for the input!
First of all, I apologize–I misread the prompt and missed the part where it was supposed to be a couple. Sorry. First time nerves, I guess!! *blushes*
Moving
He’d never liked this place. He was glad to be leaving it behind. Glad, glad, glad. He’d be sure to leave the memories behind too–they could sit among the dust bunnies and cobwebs and rot.
And yet, as he did one last walk through to make sure he had everything, a sense of wistfulness and longing settled over him. He studied the peeling wallpaper and the faded curtains. He remembered his mother trying to hang the wallpaper herself when she found out how much a professional would cost. Even when it was new, the wallpaper had been bumpy and uneven. Now it was tired and worn out, just like the rest of the house.
Just like he was.
Yesterday the world had seemed fresh and new, full of promise. A job opportunity in another state, a chance to start over in a place where no one knew him. A completely clean slate.
Today he stood in this house where he’d lived since he was a baby and wondered if he’d ever really be able to start over. Was it really possible to leave all that baggage behind?
His mother had tried. She’d left his father and moved in with the mailman–a cliche if there ever was one. The demons had followed her though. Even free from the clutches of her husband and his debts and this rundown shack, she spent more time with the bottle than with her son.
He’d finally stopped asking her to seek help for her addiction, just like he’d stopped asking his father to come to baseball games or to stay off the gambling sites. There really wasn’t any point.
He shook himself. Enough of this foolishness. Time to get a move on. He’d escape the clutches of this place and never look back. His future was in Omaha.
As he walked out the door, he grabbed a loose edge of wallpaper and pulled. It tore. He shoved the tattered strip into his pocket and slammed the door shut behind him.
I really like this. The “glad, glad, glad” bit is so simple, but memorable. The wallpaper seems to be a symbol of something, and it makes me want to read more. What is he running from? What does the wallpaper “mean” in the grander scope of the story. Good job piquing interest!
Thank you very much!
This is my first ever post here…
Clothes rolled up and tossed in boxes, all her books in another, there was no thought to spreading out the weight or making it all easier on anyone. She could care less how hard it was. She was on a plane tomorrow that would take her across the ocean and ‘home’, where she hadn’t lived in ten years. The life she and her girlfriend had built was surprisingly easy to tear apart: make a list of the contracts to cancel and the bills to pay, tell the landlord, get the deposit back and pack. She was not going to clean – her girlfriend, now ex-girlfriend, was going to have to do that before loading up all the boxes into a van and driving through the Chunnel, across France and to Germany, back to where they met, where she was from and to a home she hadn’t lived in for four years herself.
The most tumultuous of their break-ups, the anger and pain big enough to slice the connection arose from the sum of dozens, hundreds of small white lies, the last was no bigger than any of the others, the weight of it made her snap. That’s when her world fell to pieces. She unleashed every single piece of evidence she had collected in her mind over the last few months, including the time she hopped the train and watched her come in the back door of the office building from a secret meeting with a ‘colleague’ and head straight through and out the front for their planned lunch. And when she finished, she slammed the bedroom door and began disassembling the life she had built in Britain piece by piece. Within three hours, it was finished and just like that, she was booking a flight to Chicago and within a week the two were making travel plans to spend a year traveling the world together.
They would be homeless, together, and travel the world. Not for one year, like originally planned, but for four more before it all crumbled permanently.
I searched for half an hour, calling her name, before I finally found her kneeling in the garden behind the brick wall, kneeling in the leaf-mould in her white dress, heedless of the stains. She was bending over a small statue, stroking its head and anointing it with splashes of her tears.
I moved soundlessly up behind her and pressed myself into her back. “Why do you still miss him? He’s dead and gone, but you have me now,” I said. “I’m the one who needs comforting. This is my home too, and I don’t take too well to change.”
She turned around to acknowledge my presence. “Oh Whiskers,” she crooned, “I know, I know, I have you now. But Oliver is buried here! I feel like I’m abandoning him.”
She stroked my face affectionately. “I love you, too, darling, and I know it will be hard for you to move.” She dried her tears with the back of her hand, and turned back to the statue. “I suppose I can bring Ollie’s statue with me to the new house. At least I can remember him that way.” With the words, she stood up then stooped down to pick up the statue of the cat, my predecessor, and with the other hand, scooped me up too. I nestled against her chest, and purred. “Come on Whiskers,” she said.
Nice idea. This made me smile. I like how he was ‘talking’ to her. Cute, sad story.
Sad, yes. I do still cry over Ollie’s statue! His replacement hasn’t found me yet, but I’m hoping!
I like the unexpected twist here 🙂 Good idea.
Thanks, Davey. I love interpreting animals’ communication into words. Cats, especially, are so eloquent! Yes, I was seriously in love with Oliver. The replacement hasn’t actually arrived, yet!
Sweet sweet story!!
Thankyou, Heather.
Just discovered this site this week — might as well jump in with both feet! Here’s my prompt.
Ian and Jamie stood at the door, each wrapped in their own thoughts. Ian held his wife close, his arm around her shoulder, but Jamie couldn’t meet his gaze. She simply stared at the door, reluctant to face the storm of emotions behind it.
But the movers would be here in two days and there was work to be done. She took a deep breath and nodded. “You do it,” she said. So Ian opened the door cautiously, fearfully. The room was as they’d left it so many lifetimes ago. The big-girl bed littered with stuffed animals. The princess dresses strewn on the floor. Toys tossed haphazardly in this corner and that.
Jamie closed her eyes, but couldn’t stop The Memory from flooding her mind. How she went in Lottie’s room to check on her and found her small, lifeless body covered with vomit. How she screamed for Ian. How her world shattered that day.
Ian kept his eyes open, fixated on the rocking chair, the one where he sang and read stories to Lottie every night. That night, that terrible night, she wasn’t feeling well, so he held her an extra long time and sang all her favorite songs. Every time he tried to put her to bed, she would whimper, “One more, Daddy?” He had to oblige. How could he not? So there they rocked, slowly and steadily until she fell asleep. And there he rocked her, long after her eyes closed, because he knew the days were long but the years were short. He just didn’t know at the time how short.
The baby’s cries bolted them out of their reverie. Chairs scraped downstairs and dishes clanked. Jamie’s father appeared at the top of the stairs, boxes in hand, tears in his eyes.
“Ready?” he asked.
“No,” said Jamie.
“Never,” said Ian.
So sad,so very sad. It was hard to read but only because this is a parents worst nightmare. I felt the emotion and that is so important.
Thank you so much. It was hard to write, too, so I’m relieved that the emotion was heard and not cheapened.
Very evocative writing. Is it the beginning of a novel? It should be!
Thank you so much! That’s so kind of you. I’m not sure I have the emotional energy to make an entire novel out of it … but maybe I will file it away for the future! 🙂 Thanks ever so much!
This is very beautiful written. There was just enough detail woven in to understand the depth of the story, but the pace could keep a person wrapped in it without feeling like the storytelling was being slowed down. Well done
Thank you so much for the encouragement!
I resonate with the comments here: sad, beautifully written! I loved the pacing and the sentiments of love for a child. Good stuff!
Thanks so much! I appreciate your input!
I have just left my fifth home in seven years. This home was incredible, full of life, full
of wonder, stuck behind concrete walls with guards protecting me throughout the
day and night. It was beautiful and scary at the same time. The history that was in that house, with over one hundred years from its core- oh, the stories I am sure that house could tell. The garden that grew all my vegetables, the pool that the children loved and splashed around in for hours, the beautiful birds chirping at my window, the hours I spent taking pictures of flowers and fauna, and…the spiders! Ergh! There was so much fun that happened in that yard, it was our favorite memory- that house, that yard. My husband and the kids would hit golf balls, careful not to hit the dog as she lay so quietly in the hot sun every day. And the many, many weekends of sipping coffee overlooking what was our little “paradise”, our home away from home for just a few years- trapped behind walls. My son learned to ride his bike at that house, my daughter had her first sleep over at that house and oh, the parties…there were so many parties! The strangers we inherited to “help” us there, and how strangers became our family might be the hardest. As with each move, having to say goodbye forever, having to leave our new family behind, this part is the one that hits you on the inside. The children ask daily when we are going back “there” and when we would see them again. It is all I can do to keep from exploding thinking of all the family and all the friends I wish I could see again. The home we left will be instilled in my memory forever, along with all the other homes. Each home has individual and special memories, first steps in this house, first words in that house, and way too many adventures to tell. This move was hard, really hard. We will never forget our home in Zimbabwe, but now I just wish I felt comfortable without those tall concrete walls in my now new home in the United States of America.
When it had all started Catherine never imagined it would end like this. They’d been warned, first by the agent and then by neighbors who, upon seeing them at the house, wandered over with stories of past tenants who cut their leases short and fled. But Catherine and Stewart, who saw themselves as reasonable, logical people with their feet on the ground, scoffed and brushed away the “ghost stories” they were told by, what they assumed to be, the superstitious and uneducated rural folk surrounding the old farm. Transplants from the city, they had fallen in love with the creaky, ancient house surrounded by acres of green pastures and decrepid outbuildings. They felt like they were moving back in time, complete with pastoral landmarks and local history. The Celts had been here: mounds abounded in nearby fields. And of course the Romans whose main north to south route was now the A-12. The city had been a sterile place of glass and concrete and sleek, arranged beauty. They had both agreed that a change was in order or they too were in danger of becoming sleek and sterile as well. Catherine had embraced the old kitchen and planted vegetables in the back, and at first, all had gone swimmingly as the two thrived on the fresh air and became tethered to the cycles of the natural landscape that surrounded them. Then, one day while moving some empty boxes out to one of the storage sheds near the barn, Catherine saw her. She was standing near the barn, and at first Catherine thought she was a neighbor dropping by for a chat or in need of some staple for her dinner. She set the boxes down and waved, shouting out a jovial “hullo.” The woman didn’t move but stood staring at Catherine, and as she drew closer to the figure, Catherine noticed she was holding something. As she approached the barn, she saw that in the figures arms was a child, limp. Lifeless and covered in blood. Thinking there’d been an accident of some sort on the road, Catherine reached into her pocket for her cell phone and began to dial 999. But when she looked up again, the woman was gone. Catherine ran past the barn thinking she had merely wandered behind the decaying structure but after a frantic search, she was unable to find the woman. As time went on, the sightings became more frequent and numerous: children lying and moaning in the pasture would appear for a moment and just as suddenly disappear. One morning Catherine, venturing into the vegetable garden was stopped in her tracks by row upon row of gravestones which eventually faded away. The longer they stayed, the more persistent the visions. The final straw occurred several months into their tenancy when Stewart arose for work, the bedroom still bathed in the blue-silver glow of moonlight. As his feet hit the floor, his eyes fell upon a tiny corpse, bloody and mutilated and wrapped in rags at his feet. His heart jumped out of his chest and as he inched away from the vision at his feet, his eyes, adjusting to the gloom took in an entire floor covered in little bundles. He screamed.
The moving van was loaded and Catherine and Stewart took one last look at the place before climbing into their car. Whatever terrifying event had taken place here was firmly imbedded in the surroundings. For the couple, glass and concrete and the newness of the city would be a welcome change.
This feels a bit rushed. I love the ideas. I live the imagery. I love the concept. But the pacing feels off. Try showing a bit more, rather than telling. Good work though!
Creepy! I would have left long before they did. I agree with Chase, though. Because you only had a few minutes to right, of necessity it felt rushed. This one begs to be stretched into a much longer story that takes that creepy factor and winds it tight with a slow hand 🙂
“Where do you want the glass junk?” I grunted.
“Next to the box of… other…glass junk,” said my wife of six years, with her hair a beautiful mess.
I tried to be gentle, but the box slipped. A giant clang of broken dishes filled the apartment.
She smiled, “That’s okay… I didn’t like those dishes anyway.”
I sighed, “Honey… do you ever just… wanna go?”
“Go where?” she flashed her serious smile. I loved that smile.
“I dunno… just go… yanno? Like, back when we were on the road together. No dishes. No house. No house cleaning. No insurance. No worries. None of…”
She put her arms around me the way only a woman can, “Oh that… we can’t do that anymore. You’ve changed. I’ve changed. We’ve CHANGED.”
“I know I know I know…” I looked at the ground, “I just… miss it… life being simpler. Not having a Nazi for a boss. Not having the need for you to wash dishes in some hellhole kitchen. Just me, you, the open road… and…”
Her smile faded, “…and what?”
“…Like… I dunno,” I shrugged, “…nothing else… yanno?”
She massaged my shoulders, “You know we can’t live like that anymore.”
I pulled away, “Why the hell not?”
She grabbed me back, “Because… we can’t… it’s just… it’s just not healthy.”
“Healthy? Like living in some god-awful cul-de-sac with married people pretending to love each other is HEALTHY?” I fumed.
“Honey…” she kissed the back of my neck, which always drove me crazy, “…You know not every neighborhood is like that… you can’t just run from every place because it feels weird… otherwise…”
“Otherwise what?”
“Otherwise… we’ll never…” she stammered.
“Never what?”
“Be… stable. For…”
“For what?” I said, scowling.
“Our… our..” she bit her lip, “Our family?”
I stared at her like she had just spoke Martian.
“What do you mean? You… you said you couldn’t.” I stammered.
“But I am.”
I paused and watched her grin. It was a smile I had never seen before, but I loved it.
I flew out of my seat and into her arms, “I can’t believe… I mean, I can believe it, but I can’t believe that we’re going to be… we’re going to…”
“Need a bigger apartment,” she said.
“Yes… A double,” I said, letting out all of my breath and lighting my last cigarette, “For us… for…”
“Our new life, together.”
This is really sweet. I love the chemistry between the couple. And the new addition. Yep, honey, we are so settling down. Like now.
Thank you Elise!
Yup, that man’s open road days are over. But he’ll figure out he doesn’t miss it much once he’s got that little one to cuddle! Very sweet scene.
Awww! This made me laugh and shed happy tears all at once! Good portrait of a transition into a new stage of life.
Thank you Lucy! 🙂 What specifically made you laugh/cry?
““Next to the box of… other…glass junk,” — that line made me like the wife a lot. She seemed like someone I’d be friends with! Cheerful, maybe a little absent-minded. Her announcement about the baby made me tear up. Because baaaaby! 🙂
“Babe, did you break the fireplace or something?”
I looked up from my growing pile of dirt and windex streaked paper towels. “Did I what?”
Hubby rolled his eyes. “What did you put in these boxes?” He gestured to the stack of cardboard neatly arranged underneath the kitchen window. He looked adorable, all steamy and strong, even with those ugly loafers that I’d buried in the trashcan three times already. Once we moved, they were going to be incinerated. I couldn’t take it anymore.
I brandished my squeegee at him. “You look like you dismantled the fireplace,” I said.
“I dis-what?” he said, eying my squeegee distrustfully. He massaged the bridge of his nose, leaving two black fingerprints behind.
I giggled and stepped up to him. “You look so cute when you’re befuddled,” I said.
He crossed his arms. Yeesh, no need to show off the muscles more! If he didn’t smell like a dog back from a run through the swamp….
He glared at me. And not a playful glare, either. He looked full on mad.
“Hello, Benedict Cumberbatch,” I said, batting my eyelashes at him. “Before you eat me alive, I have an observation to make.”
“Don’t you always,” he muttered.
“Naturally,” I said.
“Naturally,” he mimicked, adding an exaggerated toss of his head.
“You are adorable,” I squealed, dropping the squeegee and darting toward him.
He held me off, squinting at me. “Enough with the nicknames,” he said. “I’m not a baby animal or a pair of pink shoes.”
“I called you Benedict Cumberbatch,” I protested, trying to kiss him.
He held me off. “That doesn’t count,” he said. “Cumberbatch’s ugly.”
“No he is not,” I protested, stamping my foot. “He’s the hottest guy on planet earth, except for-”
“Channing Tatum?” Mmm. That growl when he was really mad. Why couldn’t he be happy and growl at the same time?
“No, silly,” I said. “You.”
“Sure,” he replied. But his arms relaxed a little. “So, what’d you do with the fireplace?”
“It’s right there,” I pointed, worming closer to him. I tucked myself under his arm.
“Then what’d you pack?”
“My books, of course,” I said.
“Can’t you get rid of them?”
I could feel my voice get all squeaky. “Get rid of them?”
“Yeah,” he continued. “You can only read one book at a time. Pick one book and get rid of the rest.”
I yanked at the front of his shirt. “No. Absolutely. Never.” I gave him my best puppy dog eyes. “They are my friends.”
“Am I your friend?” he asked testily.
“Of course,” I said. “You are my bestest friendest foreverest.”
“Then do me a favor and say goodbye,” he said.
I angled my body into a sort of model pose. “I’ll say goodbye to them if you promise to donate all your tools to the salvation army.”
He let go of me like a hot potato. “You are comparing your books to my tools?” he sounded injured. “They aren’t even from the same planet.”
“Yes dear, I know,” I said. “Your tools came from Mars and my books came from Venus.”
“Oh brother,” he said.
“In this case, I believe that the correct response would be ‘touche’,” I said.
“I don’t say things like that,” he grumbled. “That’s girly.”
“It is a fencing term,” I said. “You know, those long, sharp, pointy swords?”
“I know what fencing is,” he growled.
He trudged back and forth to the truck, hauling my books. When he stuffed the last box into the truck, he came back inside and pretended to fall down dead in the middle of the living room. His shirt clung to him. Channing Tatum? He wasn’t even in the same league as my hubby.
I lay down beside him, too tired to brush the dust bunnies off of the front of my shirt. “We should do this more often,” I said.
He looked at me like I was insane. I smiled into his look of disgust. “I bet your biceps are twice as big today than they were yesterday,” I said.
He twisted his mouth up, and I moved in for a kiss. Only I stopped to wipe the black off of his nose. He drew back. “What are you doing?”
“You had black on your nose,” I said. “I fixed it.”
He shoved his sweaty white shirt across my face and wiped. I pulled away and then stared in horror at the giant black smear across the front of his shirt. “We are never doing this again,” I whimpered.
I thoroughly enjoyed that interplay between the two. Men and women always seem to have different ideas about which items are more important to keep when the have to move them! I dread moving out of my house. it will take an entire van for the books…and another one for his tools!
We probably have 1,000+ books in my house, and my dad has probably that many tools, so when we moved, the moving guys kept complaining about the number of books and metal objects. Book Box 14! That’s probably the number of books I read in my life! one of them moaned.
There are plenty more where those came from.
I’m with you. I’ve lost track of how many books we’ve got squirreled away in bookcases all over the house!
So fun! And five gold stars for the Cumberbatch mention! 🙂 I liked the dialogue — I have yet to master that, so I really enjoyed studying that here. Well done!
I had fun with the dialogue. It took me a while to figure out how to write what a guy would say (and I’m still learning). Guys usually say less and are more direct. I don’t realize how subtle I can be because my brother is so used to picking up on my hints, but to other guys, I am speaking a foreign language. This dialogue kind of wrote itself although I forgot to say that Hubby thought that she had packed bricks in the boxes.
I loved it. You made me laugh out loud with the Cumberbatch part! very sweet.
I didn’t get the obsession with Cumberbatch because I only saw him as Khan in Star Trek, where he played a decidedly unlikable, stiff character, and then heard his voice as Smaug. Not exactly the stuff of a woman’s dreams. However, I randomly watched an interview with him, and, needless to say, I am now more than slightly intrigued with the man.
I don’t think that it is his face as much as that delicious voice and his compelling intellect (as Sherlock) that interests.
If only I could create a literary character as fascinating as Cumberbatch. Cue the Londoner accent development.
It was bittersweet.
Their first apartment, the apartment they both chose so they could live
together. Midway between their jobs,
around the corner from the quirkly neighborhood bar where they had first
met. One block over from where their
friends still lived in bachelorhood splendor.
Three years together in a one bedroom walkup. How closed in it could feel during an
argument over who remembers what. How
wide the apartment could be after an argument when neither one would give
in. How intimate a space it could be
when their passion ignited and they could not keep their hands off each other.
He liked to nest, she liked open space, the first six
months, no, year, had been hell. The
compromises had been huge for both of them.
It was never easy to share space with someone else. Yet, they had made it work through the sheer
will of wanting to be together. They
would always remember this first apartment where they learned compromise, where
they learned the give and take of daily life wasn’t always easy, where they
became grown ups, and how it led them onto the next path of their journey
together into their future.
“It won’t fit.”
I looked up to see him leaning against the dining room table, arms crossed, that stubborn look on his face that I’ve grown so used to over the past 30 years.
“Of course it will fit.” He was not the only stubborn one in this relationship.
“No, it won’t. Why do you want that old thing, anyway?”
I sighed. Even after 30 years, there were still plenty of arguments about how furniture fit in a room. Apparently my mental “layout” map and his were clashing again. “That sideboard was your grandmother’s. I know you want to set it out on the curb, but trust me, it will fit in the new house.”
“It’s been in the garage for years. The curb is a good spot for it.” Even as he stood his ground, his gray-blue eyes crinkled just a little. He had enjoyed harassing me since we were teenagers. The sparks were part of what kept our relationship going.
“Old man, you are not leaving your grandmother’s sideboard out on the curb. I’ve already got a spot picked out for it.”
“I still say it won’t fit. Husband is right. Husband is always right.”
“Husband needs to go move a sideboard and load it up on the truck before you end up on the curb.” I gave him my best serious face, even while I kept wrapping glasses and putting them in a box.
He shook his head and wandered out to move the sideboard, leaving me to finish up the dining room. I forced myself to focus on the glasses in my hands, the tasks waiting to be done. It kept me from thinking about what I was leaving behind. We had fifteen years in this house, and so many memories. It was a new chapter in our lives, but closing the old was difficult.
This had been our first house, a 1930s cottage. I fell in love with it the minute I walked in so long ago. Leaving its quirky doors that stuck, warm wood trim, and scuffed pine floors was hard enough. Leaving the stories behind was even harder. Too many teenagers to count had stayed within these walls. Both my grandsons took their first steps in it. We had made a home here, the first real one that I had ever known in a lifetime of moving from place to place.
I really liked this. The chemistry and history between the couple is evident without being forced. Their banter made me laugh, like how she called him an old man. Sounds like something my parents would say!
Thank you, Lucy! I’m glad you enjoyed it.
I agree. Every time we’ve moved there’s some discussion about the furniture. As it’s my wife’s furniture, I don’t get much of a say. After my boy’s story, many cabinets have been farmed out or taken down the tip or put out on the verandah at the back.
Husband is always right?! Apparently they haven’t been married long enough for him to say the opposite. Haha.
I loved the dialogue over the sideboard. It’s funny that she adopted his grandmother’s sideboard. I wonder if, had it been a hated relic from her grandmother, he would have forced her to take it to the new house too.
I stare out the window rain fall down the glass the relaxing pit pit pit noise echoing though the rooms. The house was filled with boxes of stuff. I touched the wall of peeling wall paper. It felt so familer but so sad. I stare at the black stain on the carpet that I could never get out. It was the first day we moved in. We sat on the floor Becuse we didn’t unpack yet sun shine leaked though the bare windows shining on my red hair. You look so beautiful with the sun on you. He said. I smiled. He kissed me on top of my head his hand knocked over his coffe for some reason I laughed like it was the funniest thing in the world. I snapped out of dream world and leaned my head against the wall. Tears of joy, saddens, anxiously slid down my face. Thoughts of worry filled my head. The house that kept us dry when it rained, the house that kept us warm when it was cold, the house that kept me are when I slept I was leaving it I don’t know how to explain the feeling of it nothing. I felt a arm wrap around my shoulder it’s gonna be fine. He said. I wiped the tear’s from my face. I think so too but how can we be sure. I said were writing a new story honey this house was a just a stop it isn’t over. He held me for awhile. Look. He said. He Grabed his pocket knife and walked outside he craved something into the huge oak tree in our back yard. What did you do sweetie. I said. Look at it okay baby. I walked outside rain splashing down the sound of mud squishing between my boot’s the leaves rustling. I looked at what he had craved Alex And Isa December 10 2001 to September 11 2008. I looked at him a smile tugged at my lip’s and threw my arm’s around him. It’s what I needed.
It is raw and vivid. I loved it.
Thanks. 🙂
Glad you liked it.
Moving
Gary had been carrying heavy and
heavier boxes for what had seemed like hours. Kathryn, on the other
hand, was upstairs in the townhouse they had been renting cleaning
the bathroom they had just cleaned a few days ago. “Christ, she’s
gonna scrub the tile off the floor,” he grumbled to himself as he
manhandled another box into the moving truck. When he thought about
Gary really didn’t mind that Kathy was doing the cleaning and the
nit-noid parts of the clearing out. She was, after all, better at it
than he was and he was much stronger than she so he could carry the
larger boxes and stack them all higher in the truck.
After he fit this box into position
Gary paused a moment to look at the great wall of stuff; large,
formidable, foreboding even, it was nothing less than a great wall.
Empty space in the truck was becoming scarce. The smaller items would
get packed into the old blazer with Kathy, the three kids, two cats,
two dogs, rabbit, and the iguana. The driver’s seat in the moving
truck would be occupied by him. “Damn it, I wish we could afford to
have someone do this for us.”
“Yeah, that would be nice, honey.”
Kathy was obviously taking a break from the sweaty jobs inside to
catch her breath in the sweltering Texas summer day. “How’s it
going, baby?”
Gary answered almost solemnly, “It’s
going,” he hung his head and shook it slightly. “I need a cold
drink.”
“Great!” Kathy tried to be perky
and annoyingly perky, but she was too hot and tired to pull it off,
“There’s bottled water in the fridge.” Gary didn’t hear her as he
was already shoulders deep in the fridge getting two bottles of
water.
When he got back to the truck and
handed Kathy an opened bottle she thanked him. Then said, “Youn
know, I think we have plenty of room to get everything in there
easily.”
Gary was dumbstruck. The thought of not
getting everything into the two vehicles had not come anywhere near
to his mind yet alone crossed it. “Whatever,” he shook his head
and smiled.
“I just hope that the start date for
your position with Homeland gets set.” Now that was the fear. That
was what was keeping Gary up at night. Why hadn’t the department come
back yet with a start date? Was it a wise gamble to move the entire
family on the promise of a job without a start date? Sitting there,
in the sweltering heat and humidity again Gary heard the voice of
Kathy’s old world intelligence operative uncle that night on the
phone years ago. “I would stay the hell away from Homeland
Security. They are about as inbred and inept as a government
organization can get.”
Still, it was more than he had in Texas
right now. He went back to packing the can. “Gotta keep moving,”
he mumbled to himself.
I like the hints towards the job, and the uncertainty there. I wanna know more.
Judy Wise was aghast. Her husband, Jerome, told her it was time for them to vacate their home; the house they’d been in for over twenty years; the house they’d made a home for their two sons, along with five different dogs in their time there.
“Where are we going to go?” That was her first question. “Why?,” she asked. “We have so much stuff, it’ll be awful tough to just pick up and move all of a sudden. Jerome, I just don’t get you sometimes.”
Her husband had his doubts as well, but he’d come to the conclusion that leaving Connecticut for a warmer clime was the only solution. His comfort had decreased in the recent couple of years. Snow, sleet, frigid temperatures; these had sapped him of his joy. He remembered and savored each of their trips to the south – Florida, Georgia, The Carolinas – there had been incessant sunshine, comfort, friendly neighbors.
All these had failed him in his current environment. The neighborhood had changed, and the new neighbors had utterly different attitudes about how they kept their homes, how they drove, and worst of all, who they spoke to.
Finding a neighbor to have a neighborly chat had become almost impossible. He didn’t even know the names of the three or four closest neighbors, all of whom had moved in over the last 3 years. He missed David and Judi (they divorced and sold); Tommie and Annie (even though he despised their “little boy” and “little girl” names; Bob and Judy (he was always amused that there were two Judys and a Judi all on the same street; and even the two gay guys, Pat and Greg.
He said, once, “you know, those two queers are the best neighbors we’ve ever had. They share all the gardening, lawn work, whatever, and they’re always the only ones to invite us over for the Oscars, the Tony’s, and all the other good tv shows.”
I can’t stand it any more! We need to get out of here too!
I really feel like I am getting a feel for these people threw their relationship with this neighborhood. Very quickly do your characters come alive.
Thank you Ashley! I think Jerome needs a new name but it’s okay. Your comments are much appreciated.
g.
Out of curiosity, are you planning on writing in a sort of narrative perspective? You offered a lot of backstory in this piece, and although it was interesting, I am wondering whose perspective you will use for this book. Will you have a sort of invisible narrator interjecting the thoughts of others into the script? I find that I am not capable of writing in this POV for long because I always forget that I am the narrator and delve too deep midway through the scene into the mind of different characters:)
Truly, Elise, I’m not too sure. Judy, who is based on one of my neighbors, has been on my mind for 2-3 years. The writing prompt gave me impetus to put down on “paper” some of the things I’ve had rattling around in my head since I decided she’d become fictional. I guess at this point it is conjecture and somewhat experimental in scope. The real life “Judy” is a widow and she and I are merely “hi there” kind of acquaintances. I have a lot of raw material about her but it’s not been written down yet.
The sound of pounding on the front door
woke her up with a start. This was the morning. She held her breath, listening.
“Bang bang bang” there it was again. Unmistakable
this time. Panic hit her like cold water in the face. She was fully awake now.
She looked at him lying in the bed next
to her. He hadn’t heard yet. His eyes still calm as stagnant water. His chest
rose and fell slowly.
She sunk down deeper into the bed. She
closed her eyes and buried her head in the blankets. She preyed that she would
disappear into the mattress and would leave this whole world behind. She preyed
that if she shut her eyes tight enough, all of it would just fade away. She hoped
since he hadn’t woken up yet; all of this was just a dream. It wasn’t really
happening.
And then her world shattered with the
sound of breaking glass. That woke him up. His eyes popped open and he shot up
in bed, “what are you doing?!?”
“It wasn’t me, I think they are coming
in,” she stammered.
“ Shit fuck, shit fuck. What’s going
on?!?”
“Wait, just wait,” She could fix this
somehow yet. This wasn’t how it was going to go down, she wasn’t going to fail
him and they weren’t screwed. She could fix this, she had to fix this.
She leaped up, and sprinted to the
living room where the sound was coming from.
As soon as she passed through the
hallway she knew, without a doubt, she was wrong.
There was no miracle that could save them;
a huge black boot was already inside the house. It poked through the cheep
white panel blinds. They cracked and splinterd against the weight of his leg.
Attached to the boot was the blue of a police uniform. She stopped right in her
tracks.
“Stop” she choked as her throat
closed tight with fear.
An immense voice was suddenly booming all
around her. It seemed to becoming from everywhere, the whole house shook, “this
is the Los Angeles Police Department and we are coming in.”
Nice. I liked this. I liked how you made the reader think one thing when it was actually something else. For a moment I thought ‘what does this story have to do with moving,’ but I get it now. It is a whole different kind of moving. 🙂
Bang! Action! Dropped the reader straight into the speed and anxiety of the scene. Well done.
(Pray or prey…;-) )
Thank you so much.
We have known yet never admitted that we had to choose a home, one over the other, for years and since the beginning of our relationship. I had a house, he had a house: two homes with memories and decades of documents attesting separate lives lived, each place lovely in its own right, indeed grand. Relationships ended and the weightiness of memory thick with the humidity in this place. Don’t ask, don’t tell sneezes: I was allergic to something in this place and haunted in my dreams by those whom he knew before.
Sleepless nights, tossing and turning, this became home and we resisted choosing the other place.
I leave her placenta planted in the garden under the papyrus pond amidst variegated ginger, asperagus sprengeri and wandering Jew. The cold snap killed the ficus, or so it seems. We will await the spring.
The empty home stood lonely, always loved loyal and waiting for my return, with new floors, new walls, new wiring, paint matching the color chips in the old yellow and white cloth journal, which held my dreams unrealized. The apron sink and pot rack, washer and dryer, better off not stacked after all, opposite the rainfall that washes away cares and concerns, bestowing blessings for a charmed day.
Old houses cradle us gently in time as we layer our experiences over the weft of dreams laid before and after our passing. Three bathrooms are better than one in a household with women.
A great reflective piece of writing. So many layers of other stories, other times. And yet arriving so precisely in the current moment. Thanks for sharing.
Hi Dawn, thanks for your response. I struggle working across time in my writing and communicating in a way that the reader is clear about where I am and where to focus.
Boxes everywhere. They were piled in the corner, tottering near the front door, blocking the door to the back bedroom and even sitting out on the small window terrace.
The radio blared from some hidden corner, rocking Saturday morning tunes and keeping them updated about storms brewing up north.
“Hey Josh have ya seen my phone?” Stacey called buried in a pile of towels and sheets, ” I’m sure I just had it.”
Josh peeped his smiling two day stubbled face around the laundry door and winked.
“It’ll turn up, probably buried in that pile of clothes next to the old mattress we used last night.”
Stacey laughed remembering the antics of trying to get somewhere to sleep organised the night before. She carried on sorting the linen. One pile for keep the other for charity.
Most of the big furniture had already gone by truck to their new home up in the northern suburbs. Their very first ‘own home’. Today they’d move the rest of the boxes and tonight they’d sleep in their mortgage belt dream home.
She looked out of the small laundry window to the big blue sky. The beautiful day beckoned.
Stacey was feeling impatient, she hadn’t heard from the furniture removalists this morning. They were already late. Perhaps they’d left a message on her phone.
She’d been anxious all week. So much furniture to move. So many things to sort out, throw away, give away. So many decisions to make. Josh was taking it all in good stride. He seemed impossibly relaxed and at ease.
“Found it” he called.
“Any messages.”
“Nuh.”
Stacey sighed. Where were they she wondered?
“Stace’ if you’re worried about the truck stop it. They’ll get here. Well get it all done today. Chill out.” Josh called from the bedroom.
He was right of course. She knew that. Still she was nervous. The cost of the move had sent them broke. Mortgage down payments, lawyer and settlement fees, extra rent because the settlement had been delayed, truck and labour hire. The list taunted her. She was the money handler. Stacey bit her lip, stretched her legs out and flicked the last of the old sheets on to the give-away pile. Her phone rang.
“I’ll get it.”
“Thanks Hun'”
Stacey pulled herself up to her feet and walked toward the lounge room. Josh was standing in the middle of the floor staring at the phone in his palm, his face was ghostly white.
He didn’t move. He didn’t say a word.
An interesting set up. The relationship between the couple is good, and the ending does make me wonder what happened. There are a few things which could be improved grammatically.
Thanks for reading it Isaac. Yes I agree grammar needs some work. It was just a a quick 10 minute Freefall and share exercise. I do tend to just let the words pour a story of their own accord in the fist instance. If I’m being more serious I’ll return to the work after a while and start to edit.
It’s great having a space to play and share.
🙂
“Why do we have to leave!?” asked Ciel
“Why not? We can go wherever and whenever we want? Trevor replied
Living with Trevor had been a very interesting experience indeed, but a huge setback was the fact that travel was a habit with him. But not always, for he always seemed to enjoy settling down if possible. They’d lived in Montreal for a few weeks at one time, and then in a secret cave in Antarctica–wait, no, it wasn’t a secret, it wasn’t even real.
“It would mean the world to me if–”
“Which world? After all, some are better than others,” Replied Trevor
“It would mean THIS world to me, if you would sacrifice even one year to be with me in ONE place. Have you any idea as to how difficult it is to get heat stroke in the Sahara on Saturday and then Frostbite on Sunday? It’s killing me!”
“Actually, there was only one time when the weather was killing you, and it was because of a tornado, not heat stroke,” Trevor said while stuffing his bag with pajamas, “Besides. I thought you enjoyed traveling?”
“Not every day! because of you I missed my dads funeral!”
“No you didn’t. I specifically remember taking you there. You’re talking about you’re brother, whom you never mentioned any care for anyways.”
Ciel grabbed her sleeping bag out of the closet, “But what about this house? What’ll happen to it after the years we’ve been gone?
“Why do we have to leave!?” asked Ciel.
“Why not? We can go wherever and whenever we want? Trevor replied.
Living with Trevor had been a very interesting experience indeed, but a huge setback was the fact that travel was a habit with him. But not always, for he seemed to enjoy settling down if possible. They’d lived in Montreal for a few weeks at one time, and then in a secret cave in Antarctica–wait, no, it wasn’t a secret, it wasn’t even real.
“It would mean the world to me if–”
“Which world? After all, some are better than others,” Replied Trevor
“It would mean THIS world to me, if you would sacrifice even one year to be with me in ONE place. Have you any idea as to how difficult it is to get heat stroke in the Sahara on Saturday and then Frostbite on Sunday? It’s killing me!”
“Actually, there was only one time when the weather was killing you, and it was because of a tornado, not heat stroke,” Trevor said while stuffing his bag with pajamas, “Besides. I thought you enjoyed traveling?”
“Not every day! because of you I missed my dads funeral!”
“No you didn’t. I specifically remember taking you there. You’re talking about you’re brother, whom you never mentioned any care for anyways.”
Ciel grabbed her sleeping bag out of the closet, “But what about this house? What’ll happen to it after the years we’ve been gone?”
“It’ll be the same as it’s ever been when we return. Why so much worry?”
“I don’t know, I just…” she placed her hand and gently felt the subtle lump in her tummy,”What if something happens?”
Trevor put down his bag and held Ciel’s hands, “Nothing will happen. I promise.”
The look on his face said everything. It was time to go hunting for boxes again. She thought that maybe this time things would be different. Where would they go? She knew they didn’t have enough money for another apartment and deposit.
Then there were the dogs. They were family, no way they weren’t going with them. Oh God, it was always so hard to find a place to rent with the two dogs. Panic began to sink in. That dreadful feeling of the unknown. What if they couldn’t find a place? What if they had to live in their car?
What about her job? Where would she take a shower? She needed clean clothes for work. All these questions kept whirling around in her head. It was just too much. She looked at him, hoping he would have an idea. For the first time, she saw in his eyes a blankness. He didn’t have an answer. He could always talk his way around something. She had always been able to count on that. She was so sure he would figure it out. She looked at him again. It was gone. There were no answers. There hadn’t been for quite awhile and it was time she faced up to it.
She looked all around the counter for her keys. Raley’s always had boxes. She’d go there first. They could sell a few things.
Maybe have enough to put the larger items in storage. She wasn’t going to lose that piano. It was the one thing that was all hers.
There’s something that needs developing. People need to be somewhere before beginning. Careful consideration, mise en scène and black on white the details emerge – a room, and Carmel with it.
Obscured by three stacked boxes she isn’t clear to us until she delivers her first line. We can tell she is moving so she could say today is a hard day, but that doesn’t feel right. She needs to deliver dialogue appropriate line of her journey that’s also symbolic of her future. Perhaps another should be first in the dialogue, to introduce a conflict into which she can enter. Okay. Enter Cybill, on the other side of the stage busy underneath the sink.
Carm, she begins, the nickname indicative of their intimate relationship, what do you reckon, chuck it or keep it? Carmel steps into view. The audience sees she is wearing dusty socks and worn cargo shorts. Her baggy purple t-shirt is immaterial to the plot, but we see it is emblazoned with a cartoon dog wearing sunglasses and the word ‘relax’
Hmm? She walks over and puts her hands on Cybill’s shoulders. What is it?
This bottle. It was under the sink, must have come from the last place. Chuck it or keep it? She’s holding the bottle up for Carmel to see. Carmel takes it from her and walks close to the edge of the stage into a spotlight to inspect it. Cybill stands and walks to stand behind Carmel.
Cyb, she reproaches, turning the squat green bottle over in her hands. You don’t remember? This was here when we moved in. First thing, you went and fetched a basil sprig from the garden and put it in the kitchen window.
Where basil grows, no evil goes they say together and laugh. Cybill embraces Carmel from behind.
Let’s leave it.
There’s something developing. Places need to be set though, before we can begin. Careful consideration, mise en scène, black on white and pen on paper. The details then emerge – a room, and Carmel within it.
Obscured by piles of open packing boxes, where she is isn’t clear to us until she delivers her first line. We are aware she is moving house so she could say that today, of all days is a hard day, but that doesn’t feel right. She needs to deliver dialogue appropriate of her journey to this point and of her connectedness to this place.
Perhaps another should speak first and introduce a conflict into which she can enter and define herself as a character.
Okay.
See Cybil, away from Carmel, busy underneath a sink, also surrounded by open packing boxes.
‘Carm,’ she calls out, the nickname indicative of their intimate relationship, ‘what do you reckon, chuck it or keep it?’ Carmel steps into view. We see she is wearing dusty socks, worn cargo shorts and a baggy purple t-shirt. This is immaterial to the plot but we like the sunglass-wearing cartoon dog with the word relax emblazoned on the front.
‘Hmm? What is it?’ She says, walking over. She squats down next to Cybil and leaves her hand on Cybil’s upper back. This simple supportive movement has a profound effect on us, and deepens our understanding of their relationship.
‘This.’ Cybil reveals a miniature bulb-shaped green bottle on the palm of her hand. To us it looks like a tiny but transparent genie bottle, and a metaphor for hopes and dreams bubbles up us. ‘It was under the sink,’ she continues, ‘must have come with the junk from the last place. Chuck it or keep it?’
Carmel takes the proffered bottle, stands, and walks to the front of the stage. A spotlight opens upon her and she inspects the bottle. She turns it over in her hands, feeling the smooth texture on her palms and tracing the rim detailing with her fingertips. Experiencing the contours as though for the first time. Colour and light refract through the bottle and leave a green mirage on the ground behind her. We know it’s not the object she is scrutinising but an echo of herself, some previous Carmel that first encountered the bottle and understands it’s relevance.
Cybil stands – she’s barefoot, ripped jeans and her baggy packing day shirt is of the band, The Clash. She joins her partner, standing behind her. They’re the same height and as she threads her arms around her partner she rests her chin on her shoulder. We all consider Carmel’s pensive stance and wait.
‘Cyb,’ Carmel reproaches, ‘this was here when we moved in. You don’t remember?’ Cybil lets her eyes float from the bottle to Carmel, within her periphery. ‘First thing you did,’ Carmel continues, ‘was went and pinched a basil sprig from the neighbour’s garden put it in this vase and in on kitchen window.’
‘Where basil goes, no evil grows,’ Cybil says by way of explanation and Carmel laughs, nodding her head. Carmel draws the bottle and her arms to her bosom and warmly embraces Cybil.
‘Let’s leave it,’ she says.
The spotlight fades.