Memories of a headless man – a collector or a hoarder?

Gill @ Write on Wednesdays has given us the task of writing on collections, or collectors this week. Pop by and look at other people's offerings!

He had lived in the neat house on the inner suburban street for well over 60 years. He moved in with his wife, then brought up his sons and as they moved on, one by one, he lived alone. He had a cat for company from time to time.

He was the ideal quiet neighbour, his loss of hearing a comfort to us on our sleepless nights with crying babies. Sociable when engaged, but innately insular, he kept to his home. He never had visitors, apart from the home care lady and his sons. As he became older and needed more help, we were invited by necessity into his home to help him in the aftermath of falls and leg injuries.  Terrible osteoporosis had rendered him bent at the waist, his head invisible from behind.

He had a secret life, collecting, well, everything! Jars of screws, nails, bolts, cottonballs, washed margarine containers, icecream tubs, cotton spools, used matches, newspapers, and magazines – all were neatly labelled and collated. He knew exactly where everything was. Anything with a purpose was put away in case it was needed.

His house was jammed with collections of all descriptions, mainly household hardware and haberdashery. And data…weather data. Millions of pieces of plain paper, with sunrise and sunset, minimum and maximum temperature and rainfall documented for every day of the previous 60 years. All in tiny writing, never a day missed.

I always wondered if the house had been like this when his wife was alive, whether she tolerated (or encouraged?) his obsessiveness. Was he always like this or had he learnt it through hard times – he had seen 2 wars and The Great Depression.  What had his children thought of it? Did he find it a satisfying comfort or a distressing compulsion?

Thinking back, I never asked him why. I guess it was none of my business, it was just what he did.

Yamba

This piece is loosely using the prompts of "sit under a tree" and "in my neighbourhood", and inspired by my love of voyeurism.

They’d come a long way for this, seduced by the promised bliss of sun and surf and not a bit deterred by the alarm of shark attacks or backpacker murderers. Two years of thrift and now they were here, the land theirs to explore for six long months.

Sydney had been fun, though the drinking and anger on the streets had daunted them and so they headed north.

Today, their playground was Yamba, a surfer’s mecca, a sun-kissed place of blue and gold. They’d swum till their legs ached and their skin hummed from the salt and sun.

Together they lay their towels on the scrubby grass and set up the camp stove. Water to boil, he pours in the pasta and waits. ‘One last swim!” – she kisses him lightly then darts down the path and out of sight.

He gazes at the outline of the trees above, perhaps dreaming , perhaps pummelled by the waves he is now devoid of thought?

Pouring water off into the scrub he shakes the pasta dry and sits to add the jar of red sauce. Poking idly at the meal, he glances down the sand path. He flicks an ant from the leghairs above his ankle and waits. And waits.

Minutes lengthen, forehead creased in concern, he stands to walk to the scrubby rise, shaking the sand from his shorts. He vanishes around the bend and all is quiet. A kookaburra swoops to investigate the meal, but decides against plundering.

He returns and sits again, hand tapping thigh, on alert, agitation spreading through him like caffeine. The food in front of him cools and gels. The light softening, the shadows lengthening as his panic heightens.

He stands yet again, distress screaming from every part of him. He looks around, wishing her back, not sure what to do, how to get help.

A flick of blonde hair catches the corner of his vision, his head snaps to focus. She calls his name and runs to him as his body slumps in relief. They embrace, his face wetly pressed to her salted neck. 

http://i218.photobucket.com/albums/cc255/wphenco/Trips/Canada/Okanagan/Waterfront-Couple.jpg

WoW - in my neighbourhood

I'm in another city at a conference this week which has been crazy busy, but stimulating and interesting. But I HAD to make time to do my writing!

Her mind was a jungle, a jumble of past and present, of real and imagined.  Living as she did, in her tiny unit on a busy street, life was confusing, to say the least.

She thought of herself as a queen, her throne the bus seat on the main road, her crown a faded carroty halo, roots all grey. People either ignored her, eyed her suspiciously and took wide berth, or (only the very brave ones) said hello.

Some days were orange and filled with irritability, others were blue and quieter. On these days, when the voices were just mumbles, she would sit by the water and keep the seagulls company, smoke in hand.

On orange days, all sorts of chaos could ensue. One day, when the cacophony in her head was all too much, the men in blue had taken her to hospital. Whilst the food was good, it was a bad mad place to be and she had promised to behave if she could just go home.

Now that the nice girl comes and gives her a monthly jab, the noises are mere murmurs, and she can get on with chatting to friendly voices. She may not fit in, but this is her home.

Five Sentence Fiction - Delectable!

Go to Lillie's blog to participate FSF delectable
As a cat-lover, this one came to mind this week - light and fluffy !!

Fred had been looking forward to it since breakfast – a day spent lolling around had only added to his feline gustatory expectations.  His Mum had taken to buying him treats since Fluff had gone to the scratching post in the sky, and he guessed she was feeling sad and maybe a little guilty.

As he stretched his paws  in an impressive yoga move he rewound the memory – the bang of the front door, the Lexus flying out of the driveway backwards, the screech and ominous crunch.

Here she comes, he thought, as he leapt up expectantly to see her lay the bowl gently at his feet.  He inhaled the aroma briefly, before tucking in blissfully, savouring the jellied fish mousse and licking his chops  - “Thanks Mum, that was delectable”!

Rewrite..

I haven’t been with WoW for long, and as writing is a recently revisited challenge for me, I don’t have much work to analyse, nor time to do it this week – so here’s a quick rewrite.

I have gone with the “in my neighbourhood” piece, the first one I did as your helpful comments made me realise I had confused some of you. Being too close to the story can be blinding, can’t it? I don’t want to change the style as I like the way the writing reflects his brisk anxiety. So my aim is to make the story clearer.

Here goes…

Original

His eyes snap open. The hydraulic hum, the distant smash of glass a far away call to duty. Feet to floor, he dresses quickly, buttons one two three four five, a compulsory sixth tightens his neck. High waisted jeans, longitudinal creases precisely pressed. Hair parted and combed slickly.

His pulse quickens as the noises come closer, anxiety presses in as he anticipates the disruption ahead. Socks, then shoes, laces left over right, under, looped then tightly snapped. Sugared tea stirred, exactly thrice.

He stands outside tense and waiting.  His block runs from Shipley St to Windy Parade and he must keep it right.

‘G’day, mate!!” shouts the garbo over the cacophony of rubbish and recycling. An annoyed dismissal – how dare this troublesome invader expect response?

Machines lift and lower, coloured-lidded bins crash landing spreadeagled in gutters and grass. As the truck moves off, he scuttles into action, dragging them back into place, perfectly lined.

Down the street, house after house, (the units are the biggest anxiety), order is regained. Sweaty palms pocketed, his breathing slows as he surveys his morning’s work.

Another Tuesday morning.

Rewrite

His eyes snap open. The hydraulic hum of the truck, the distant smash of glass a far away call to duty. Garbage day has always unsettled him. Feet to floor, he dresses quickly, buttons one two three four five, a compulsory sixth tightens his neck. High waisted jeans, longitudinal creases precisely pressed. Hair parted and combed slickly.

His pulse quickens as the noises come closer, anxiety presses in as he anticipates the disruption ahead. Socks, then shoes, laces left over right, under, looped then tightly snapped. Sugared tea stirred, exactly thrice.

He stands outside tense and waiting.  200 metres of street is his self-enforced job to protect.

‘G’day, mate!!” shouts the approaching careless garbo over the cacophony of rubbish and recycling. An annoyed dismissal – how dare this troublesome invader expect response?

Machines lift and lower, coloured-lidded bins crash landing in gutters and on grass. As the truck moves off, he scuttles into action, dragging them back into place, perfectly lined, as they should be.

Down the street, house after house, (the units are the biggest anxiety), order is regained. Sweaty palms pocketed, his breathing slows as he surveys his morning’s work.

Another Tuesday morning.

Thankyou for commenting!

WoW - the problem

The brief

Write On Wednesdays Exercise 15 - Give yourself some time to notice the people around you. The people who may cross your path each day. The lady in front of you at the supermarket, the man who helps the school kids cross the road, a neighbour, a waitress in a cafe, a librarian, anyone at all. Choose one person, someone you don't know, and this person will become the basis of the week's writing exercise. Describe this person as you see them, describe their surroundings. Then imagine a problem, create conflict for this person. Describe the conflict. Describe how your character deals with the problem. The conflict might resolve itself, it might not. It is up to you. Perhaps, the lady in the supermarket has forgotten her wallet. Does she bursts into tears? Maybe the librarian finds a lost child. The aim is to show how your character responds to conflict and in the process, reveal something about that character. Tell us their story.


Let's aim for around 200 words, keeping with the theme of the last few weeks (to make each word count).

This was fun! I had a few characters in mind, but this guy intrigues me every time I see him.

His eyes snap open. The hydraulic hum, the distant smash of glass a far away call to duty. Feet to floor, he dresses quickly, buttons one two three four five, a compulsory sixth tightens his neck. High waisted jeans, longitudinal creases precisely pressed. Hair parted and combed slickly.

His pulse quickens as the noises come closer, anxiety presses in as he anticipates the disruption ahead. Socks, then shoes, laces left over right, under, looped then tightly snapped. Sugared tea stirred, exactly thrice.

He stands outside tense and waiting.  His block runs from Shipley St to Windy Parade and he must keep it right.

‘G’day, mate!!” shouts the garbo over the cacophony of rubbish and recycling. An annoyed dismissal – how dare this troublesome invader expect response?

Machines lift and lower, coloured-lidded bins crash landing spreadeagled in gutters and grass. As the truck moves off, he scuttles into action, dragging them back into place, perfectly lined.

Down the street, house after house, (the units are the biggest anxiety), order is regained. Sweaty palms pocketed, his breathing slows as he surveys his morning’s work.

Another Tuesday morning.

Would love your feedback, positive or negative!