#coffeebreak: strawberries
Given it’s a Monday, perhaps something a little less subdued than the last couple of challenges. So how about some food? 10 minutes of writing on the photo below. Post an excerpt of what you come up with in the comments section.
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They were packed into the carriage like strawberries at a grocer’s. The wooden walls of the enclosure were sodden and but somehow still managed to hold the teeming mass in, molding around their shivering forms. As the carriage rattled along the tracks flakes of paint floated down until the air was thick and choking. Mothers huddled children against their naked skin, bruises flowing from parent to child as though they were living organisms.
Those unlucky enough to be on the edges were speared by splinters from the walls, think slivers of pain that stole purposefully beneath the skin of their arms, legs, back or buttocks. They were crying less than the others though; their pain was immediate and physical and much easier to steal yourself against.
In the precise centre of this punnet of human misery stood a fifteen year old boy. He was tall for his age though, so that he stood over everyone else in the carriage. He was looking upwards, his eyes immune to the flaking paint, the tears that he had been crying for days now serving him well. He was looking at the vague split that ran along the centre of the roof; the rusted hinges that adorned each side.
He imagined the claw that would come down through the roof; saw it’s rusted metal edges, the unyielding steel that would scrape at the tender flesh of its target, opening up angry red cuts. And he knew that, inevitably, he would be the first one chosen. He wished he could crouch down, wished he was as bruised and beat up as some of the others. But he was not. He was, in fact, almost perfect, at least to look at. He could have just walked out of his shower back at his grandmother’s house. His sweat sodden head shimmered as though he had just shampooed and conditioned it; his emaciated body looked toned and fit.
He wasn’t afraid of dying. He doubted anyone here was; those tears lives had dried long ago. The tears that he couldn’t stop from running in fat rivulets down his cheeks were not for himself, but for the vacuum in his life where his notion of humanity once had nestled.
It is always cringe worthy to re-read these and see the errors and general bad writing you have just participated in!
Gees Dan, take it easy mate.
There’s something brilliant about the innocence of wonder that childhood brings. Something so flawless and unburdened. Something light in the nature, as if the sun is actually shining through, not simply reflecting off distorted or even burnished surfaces. Those strawberries in the store held a memory of my youth when I went to the country, not far from my hometown, where I grew up. Jumping into the old Holden, cruising off to the country to pick strawberry’s under the driving rays of the sun. Sunscreen was an optional extra and we remembered that trip for reasons apart from the rich pickings of summer fruit. The prickly itch of sunburn worn as a angry reminder of the fury of the unheeded sun.
Thinking back on that moment, I wondered how much I had really changed from that innocence, how far I had travelled. Somehow, it is never movement upwards from there, somehow that feeling of freedom and youth is the pinnacle, somehow life finds a way to leave its tarnish deep within the folds of your skin. Looking upon her in that moment, it was like looking through the glass to that moment of youth, she was the radiance, she was the glory of unspoilt wonder, she was the picture of innocence. I wondered why she appeared out of place here, and realised quickly what it was. She was unmarked by her past, demonic though it may have been, and somehow it was a conscious choice she made every moment, to not be claimed by it, to shrug off the challenge, to not be devoured. I felt weak and cold in comparison, and the fear shone in my eyes. I looked away quickly, but she had been witness to that moment too, those thoughts buried behind my eyes…
Story follows some quick thought sketches. I figured I might as well include them as they’re a part of the 10 minutes.
Cheers for the prompt Mark.
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sketchin’ :
strawberries, eh? taking this one literally.
big ol’ bowl of strawberries. why would anyoene bbe taking a photo os this rather than eating them. why is it still full? perhaps someone elft it there for someone else.
why leave it there? why out in the open? could go the romantic route. girl leaves boy, or boy leaves girl and therefore the act of leaving strawberries is a fond reminder of their time together, in those fields all that time ago when they were carefree. or perhaps the exact opposite. he is allergic to strawberries, or strawberries signify an illicit relationship he/she has had with another woman/man. hrm. but I fucking hate romance.
how to make strawberries sinister? strawberries as an object left behind after some catastrophe? it would be an indicator of exactly how quickly the event has occured, that ehse strawberries are tsill fresh and gorgeous. or perhaps they are a beautifully grim reminder of a bomb that stopped time.
scale it backa little bit. perhaps not a world-catastrophe, but a man has died. a distant-enough-not-to-know-him-very-well relative inspects the remainders of his unit.
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writin’:
The one-by-one apartment is sparse and barely larger than the office he’s driven from after receiving the call. Positioned in front of the ancient television set are two armchairs that looked like they belonged on a verge side collection. That’s probably where they would end up now. He sits down in one of them, feeling the threadbare material underneath his forearm and noting the slight tilt the chairs have towards each other. He imagines his estranged uncle-in-law roaring at the rugby while an ‘old boy’ mate looked on with him. The coffee table has last week’s newspaper pulled apart and folded back together on top of it, with the coming week’s racing times taking pride of place; gambling was what led him to divorce out of the family.
The combination bathroom, shower, and laundry is equally minimalist. A bar of soap, a toothbrush, some toilet paper. A small rack on the back of the door holds what was probably a week’s worth of undies in the form of two faded pairs. On impulse he takes them down and walks into the bedroom to place them in the open top drawer. The bed is still rumpled, a single thin sheet stretched from corner to corner. Being this high up in the apartment block means the space is uncomfortably warm, even now in the midst of Autumn. His uncle must have had a bugger of a time sleeping, though the warmth must have suited his love of beer to a tee.
He gathers up the personal effects that he knows his Mum would probably want him to pick up. He’ll mail them East at the post office tomorrow and then e-mail her to let her know they’re on their way. Everything else will be up to the landlord to decide. On his way out he notices a shine of red in the corner of the kitchen. A punnet of strawberries squats there, half-covered by a sheet of plastic wrap. They were to be a treat, something his uncle wouldn’t normally buy for himself unless they were on special. Standing on the balcony, his uncle would have bitten into the flesh and perved on the runners, maybe shouted something in good humour. For a second he considers taking the strawberries with him, but eventually decides against it. They will remain a still life of the man who used to live here.
Incredible amount of detail in these writings gentlemen. Dan, where has your optimism gone? A fricken human lucky dip? You need some therapy. I think this is probably the best use of the word ‘punnet’ in literary history: “In the precise centre of this punnet of human misery…” That will be your catch cry from here on.
And nice ending too: “…but for the vacuum in his life where his notion of humanity once had nestled.”
Ben yours was refreshingly upbeat. I loved this bit in particular. “Looking upon her in that moment, it was like looking through the glass to that moment of youth, she was the radiance, she was the glory of unspoilt wonder, she was the picture of innocence.”
And Phil, I really loved your little thought sketches. It’s rare that somebody sets down the creative process, and what you wrote is so scarily familiar to my own mental ramblings – I’ve just never bothered to write them down.
Your closer is my favourite: “They will remain a still life of the man who used to live here.”
I sincerely hope some of this finds its way to a competition, journal, or at least onto a printed page someday. We are creating! I guess I should write something now…tonight!
I left strawberries on the counter and three days later, there they were. The glaucomic light from the window had turned them and they had reached that stage of ripe where the skin just barely held back an ooze of scarlet flesh. I took them from the sill and found her lazing in a chair. I threw them at her, one by one. And as each hit her, each a new bloom of red on her cold white skin, I realised she was dead, and had been for some time.
Thanks Mark, it’s nice to know that you care…
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