A second sample of my work in progress


Thought I’d brave another sample share… It is very much a work in progress (So.. go easy on it.) It hasn’t seen an editor.

Carole and Paul approach the door with apprehension, afraid one of her teenage sons will answer it and chase them away like beggars. It has never happened, yet the fear is always present. As they creep along her gravel driveway they huddled together like worried primates. A debate as to whom should press the door-bell, initiates a Hokey Cokey dance. In, out, in, out they step about the front door porch.  Today it is Carole who is first to shake off her qualms and the inevitable happens. Ding-dong the doorbell song echoes it’s hollow tune. Waiting patiently for a moment they guess that perhaps she hasn’t heard it, so try again. Speculating that maybe Mrs McGaveridge is outside in the back garden hanging out her laundry. This convinces them to press a third and then a forth time. With no response the dejected pair decide to try again later. Paul suggests that they wait over the nearby Rec, a playground area beside the graveyard. The Rec is limited when it comes to entertaining children. It has no swings, no slide and no see-saw. It does have two concrete playground tunnels. One reeks of urine the other is strewn with fleshy pages of top-shelf magazines and glass from broken bottles. The jungle-gym climbing frame does manage to occupy the pair for almost ten minutes as they swing about apelike. Moving on, they look ridiculously awkward ambling about the play area. Both hoping their twisted gait of crossed fingers, arms, legs and eyes though not quite toes will bring them some good luck. It isn’t long before these monkeying antics lead them to a crumbling corner of the playground’s surrounding wall. With assistance from a sturdy branch, they hoist themselves up, over and into the graveyard.

Careful not to tread on anybody’s grave they weave around the enormous stone crosses and statues, peering up into the eyes of winged angels hoping to witness them blink. They read the headstones of beloved wives, fathers, daughters and sons. Discover tiny new-born graves and old moss covered relics. Some are so ancient it is difficult to decipher the faded markings.

“Arr… look, this one’s got no flowers” Carole gazes down to an empty vessel on a neglected grave.

“Yeah… and that one there’s got loads” Paul points to a well maintained plot with potted plants and green glass fragments. Sympathy strikes them both and they begin a redistribution of what Paul interprets as wealth.

“No… you must only share the plastic ones.” Paul informs his sister as she reaches out to a fresh bloom.

“Yeah, cause them ones last longer doe they?” Carole adds.

“No…It ay stealin’ cause them only plastic and we’m just moving um.”  This makes perfect sense to Paul who guesses that God would also agree that these faded flowers have long served their purpose and therefore it is all right to share. They continue the mission with a sense righteous holiness, selecting, thanking and placing the blooms with words of endearment upon lonely resting places. Carole spies a sunken grave, cracked open with a gaping hole. The broken headstone bearing their own family name. Freaked out they run from the graveyard with muted terror. Only when they are back beyond the broken wall do they release their gasps. Emitting something between a laugh and a scream they nervously hug one another. Carole suggests that perhaps it belongs to their real dad and at home sits an impostor. Properly spooked a seed of doubt takes root.


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