Story in progress: 1

So, I wanted to get a story going, and I thought a good mode of encouragement might be to post it in serial fashion on here, as a work in progress. Comments are welcome, but be aware that this is only a draft.

Love,

Wit

Story in progress: 1

I’m driving home, a strange route along A-roads, cross-country, through the hills. “Home” now being a relative word: I leave home to go home – it no longer denotes the anchor-point it once was. Or perhaps I’m wrong. Leaving the University town, travelling toward the flatlands of my youth, there’s a definite sense of return.

The beat up car only has a tape-deck, but it’s playing a slightly tinny recording of “Pale Blue Eyes” from a compilation I made myself in preparation, and it makes me happy. The summer has bloomed, and with the windows wound down the only thing in my mind is the song, the road, the pollen smell of the fields. But together this forms a feeling that gets stronger with every mile closer I get and so, stupid as it is, I put on my sun glasses and start singing.

Pulling up on to the drive no one comes out and so I lug my bags to the door and ring the bell. Nobody answers, so I search my pockets for my keys but they must be inside my rucksack somewhere. I ring the bell again and scramble around, and then my Ma opens the door up.

Haven’t you got your keys? she says.

I give her a hug and so on, and she goes to tell my stepfather that I’m home and he looks up and smiles and so on.

I make everyone a cup of tea, snaffling a few biscuits.

Coming into the kitchen, my Ma says: Your brother’s off with Joe, he just went out but he said he’d be back soon.

Thanks Ma, I say.

Which is my tea? she asks.





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~ by Wit on January 28, 2010.

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