Thanks to an ever-expanding waistline, an increasingly appalling level of fitness and blinkered neglect of anything other than my computer, I decided I'd better have a break when I finished A Shaper's Birthright. It didn't stop me thinking about the follow up or the next book about Kat, but I was managing to stay away from the keyboard and was getting back into the gym - hurrah! Reassured that I appear to have a modicum of self-control, I decided to test the waters... I wasn't brave enough to plough on with a book, but my daughter gave me 'The Writers Toolbox' by Jamie Cat Callan as a gift last Christmas so I had a wee rummage and out popped a card saying 'mouldy oranges.' The topic decided, I gave myself one shot at writing something each morning, three mornings in a row. The following is what I came up with. I'd be fascinated to know what you think, so feel free to tell me here or on my Facebook page @strugglingauthor.
Mouldy Oranges I Her eyes are locked on the horror in the fruit bowl. Orange: the colour of sunshine, the colour of hope, smothered in blue. The pressure intensifies in her chest. A scream fighting to break free is building. It’s been building for years, on and off, making her catch her breath with its anguish, making her run towards another distraction to feed her denial. They’re gone now: the things she used to do. There’s nothing left for a gray-haired woman with legs that don’t work and a body that betrays her every command. She closes her eyes to dream of what used to be: memories of travel and study, of laughing and loving, of movement and beauty, of ambition and hope. The scream recoils momentarily from the fire of life, but, without anyone to share them with, her thoughts remind her merely of all that is lost. The reality of pain and loneliness defeats her. All that remains is the blue. Mouldy Oranges II It had been a good vacation by anyone’s standards. They’d gone back to France, where they’d first met. He’d been relaxed, charming, generous. It had reminded her of why she’d said yes. She’d seen him run his fingers over the hall table after chucking his keys in the dish, deliberately leaving an almost undetectable signature in the thin layer of dust. She’d made his tea as he’d walked the house, checking it was all as it should be. Her eyes had been almost closed when he’d returned. It had been a long journey. It was late. Her head ached. He’d pulled her to his bed anyway, the tea forgotten, her body's needs inconsequential. She’d spent the day plumping cushions that didn’t need plumped, polishing every inch of wood and glass, cleaning, cooking, getting everything back to just how he liked it. The house smelled of beeswax, warm bread and a rich, wine sauce when he got home. She’d been rewarded with a kiss. She’d checked again that the table was perfect and the coq au vin just right. She’d just started slicing the baguette when he'd surprised her by walking into the kitchen. He’d put his crystal glass on a coaster oh so carefully then come towards her. She’d seen that face a thousand times. She’d backed up from the scent of whisky and the look in his eyes. Stupid really, but human reflex after all. She'd tried to think what she’d forgotten, tried to think of a way to calm his fury, but her mind had frozen... The police officer stared at the ocean of blood slowly congealing around the body on the kitchen floor as he sealed the bread knife in the evidence bag. “Why?” he asked again. He saw the answer suddenly click into place on the blood-smeared face. “The oranges… I forgot to throw out the oranges.” Mouldy Oranges III The old truck rattled over the uneven surface, sending up a cloud of dust seen only by the creatures of the forest. Music covered the creaks and groans. The driver sang along, pleased to be getting away from the city. He nearly missed the bright plastic; he caught a glimpse in his peripheral vision just as he was going past and braked hard. Goddamn litter louts. If he could catch them, he’d string them up. It turned out to be a packet of crisps, a quarter full, as if someone had thrown it away in disappointment at the flavour or maybe kept some for later and lost the packet. Hikers, he supposed, shaking his head. He picked it up and chucked it in the back seat. He’d get rid of it responsibly when he got home. It must have been half a mile before he spotted the splash of silver foil reflecting the sunlight. He felt anger flush his cheeks. Disgusting, thoughtless tourists. No local would do such a thing, not that there were many. He picked up the ball. A sandwich wrapper? Curious, he opened the tiny parcel and sniffed. Marmite. The sort of sandwich a kid might like. It went in the back. The next mile brought him a small, squished up carton of juice. Fresh apple. He could do with some; his mouth had gotten dry. He reached into the cab for his water, the juice carton crushed in his fist. He sucked on the sports cap, his mind working hard, wondering what other crumbs he might find. He chose first gear and crawled along, looking for the rest of clever Hansel’s clues. There weren’t many: a shoelace, a school tie, a chocolate bar wrapper. He grew more anxious, thinking about what he might find at the end of the trail, but there was nothing. No one was hiding in the trees and the cabin was quiet, empty of all life. He opened the truck's rusty trunk, his nostrils flaring in anticipation at the lingering smell of sweet chloroform. He smiled as he lifted the pliant weight in his arms; he'd used more this time so it would be still for hours yet. It went on the sofa while he cleared its new home of the last toy, the clever one. He should have got rid of it last time, but he’d enjoyed himself so much, he’d decided to keep it for a while. It was a shame he'd not been able to get back until today: the smell was unpleasant. He threw open the windows then carried the broken toy to the cliff edge and chucked it over to join the others. Its backpack went second, careering off the side of the mountain, landing with a thud next to its owner. The Superman lunchbox was the last thing. Something moved inside as he picked it up... a mouldy orange, too big to fit through the hole in the trunk. Which reminded him: he best get that filled.
2 Comments
1/12/2018 03:18:11 am
I Yourself ?
Reply
Caryl Goldberg
3/12/2018 10:11:55 am
LOVE these mental meanderings, Karen! Rumblings of mini-stories. Clever, witty...maybe just a bit dark. I'm so impressed with your creative output. Keep it up!! Your readership will follow!
Reply
Leave a Reply. |