Write a story fragment with ‘home’ at the centre of it – it could be full of positive images or negative – think about being trapped within a home. What does the word home mean for your characters. Write with your heart and don’t edit. 150 words max. and add it to this post.
It’s not everyone’s idea of home. A falling down mill in the middle of nowhere, but James and I have loved it since time began.
It’s pretty much a shell really, with decrepit outhouses dotted about the ‘garden’ like heaps of dinosaur bones, waiting to be reassembled into their former glory. That small one by the trees will make a brilliant pigsty (but I haven’t mentioned that to James yet).
If I stand here by the apple trees I can look straight up into our bedroom window, at least, it will be a bedroom when it has a floor. And then, in the spring, I will fling the window open and listen to the stream chuckling down by the back door, and see James, wellies on, tramping around the hen enclosure, being the veritable country squire he was born to be.
It’s amazing what dreams can achieve.
Daisy sits back to gaze at the array of threads, bright blocks of colour laid out on the table.
Lulled by the gentle sounds and the tweedy scent of apple-smoke hanging in the air, she’s mesmerised by the canvas before her, all conscious thought suspended. The lustrous pigments dazzle her as her fingers play idly over the skeins, drawn to them in a way she had not anticipated.
A log settles in the Rayburn, crackles loudly; jolts Daisy out of her reverie. She settles on three toning shades of crimson, tucks them swiftly up her sleeve, tiptoes across the floor and up the stairs to her bedroom.
It’s not really her room, has never been her room, but the room where she has always stayed, here, at her mother’s house. Now, because it alone feels unchanged in her life, it seems more familiar to her than any other room, anywhere
Catherine stood at the doorway, her heart stopped. Laughter was coming from somewhere in the room, she couldn’t see where but it was a little girl’s laugh, high-pitched and full of life. Not spooky, but somehow that childish laughter made the hairs on the back of her neck stand on end. She leaned on the chair for support; she was shrinking,like Alice in Wonderland,her conscious mind slipping away. When she opened her eyes the room felt alive! Roaring heat from the fire made her arms burn and cast hot orange shadows on the walls. The house hummed with the clatter of feet and plates. Someone was shouting instructions. “Is the dining room ready, Spencer?” “Yes sir, just need to get madam’s birthday cake! “Catherine, darling!” it was a woman’s voice, my mother!”Come and let me brush your hair; it’s almost time for your party to begin!”
Pam felt a familiar surge of pride as she wandered around the garden which they had designed to flow like an extension of their home. She stopped to smell the peach coloured rose blossoms that bobbed in a gentle rhythm as the bees crawled busily around the pollen laden centres before bending to pat the clay curls on the sugar ‘plump’ fairy nestled under the cherry tree. The fairy looked alluringly feminine with her curvy hips and rounded thighs encased in fish net stockings, her ample bosom spilling out of her corset. The wand held aloft only served to display the extravagant downward curve of her upper arm. Her wings were disproportionally tiny, a perfect compliment to her voluptuousness. The garden perfectly reflected the theme throughout their home which offered numerous places to relax with an indulgence chosen from the shelves of books, games and photo albums nearby.
I wonder if they really realise that for me, home is when they return. Whenever they do, whichever of them that does. That is what makes home, home for me. They all have a place where I am. A lot goes on here. Making a living is not easy as elsewhere. This isn’t city life, I tell them, with takeaways on every corner, cinemas on every street, and food stores on every block. My skyscraper is the goat shed, and my kitchen is the palace. We grow our own food. The maze is our maize, our bread and butter. When my children come home, I want for nothing. When they leave, they’re refreshed – filled up like tanks of fuel, with food, fresh air, and the love to last till next time. Always enough to last till next time.
Thanks so much to everyone for joining in this writing exercise and being BOLD about putting your words out there.
Kirsty
London Writers’ Club