A first effort.

RoundyMooney

I haven't done this before, but I started writing last night with one eye on the Arena thread, basing it on the topic of "New Beginnings".

Before I knew it, I'd over run the word limit by a factor of two and a bit! I've deliberately avoided reading through it again today, which probably isn't a good idea, as it is literally as I put it down, without any amendment. Anyway, see what you think, any and all comments are most welcome:)



The alarm went off at about half past seven. He couldn't remember the last time that he'd risen from that pillow that early, although he did recall a couple of "late ones", where he had pulled all nighters, collapsing on to the bed sometime before noon, the morning after, and eventually waking again sometime in the early hours of the morning, dazed and confused, as it were. Easy to break away from the conventions of Circadian rhythms when you don't have a job to go to in the morning, which was pretty much what his mother said. She didn't mention Circadian rhythms specifically, and peppered her appraisal with a few shorter, more concise phrases, but he got the gist.

The last time he had done that though, was before the well ran dry. He still had a few quid in the bank, and the credit card worked, giving him the illusion that he was treading water, and it was still well below the neckline. A few of the lads were still knocking around then, although they tended to head off home a bit earlier than he did. A couple of cans in the fridge when he landed, and a browse of the internet, just another five minutes, tended to kill a lot of time.

A couple of them had headed to Oz, of course. It was a bit of a cliche at this stage. When times were good, the Irish went out there to "find themselves" before knuckling down to college-what they hadn't earned to keep them going out there was usually made up by the folks back home, who wrote it off, however optimistically, as educational. Now they were going out there to find a living, and the parental lifeline wasn't always guaranteed.

That said, in those early hours, when the kitchen fire was dying off with the last of his cans, he was often confronted with freshly posted images of Johnny on a beach somewhere, or Richie in a jeep on some Antipodean farm, always complete with tans, smiles, and optimism. A world away from slippery roads, soft weather, and hard times. They'd pop up on chat too, and if they ever wondered to themselves why he was online at 4am in winter while they were sheltering from the summer sun, they never asked.

What he was asked, between the questions about how things were at home-ah same as when you left, how the weather was-still ****e, and if there was any pick up in the building-feck all, was when he was coming over.

It was a fair question. The mother and father would never ask it, of course, no one would want to hasten a family member, especially not the youngest, away into the great unknown. But he saw it in their faces. When his mother padded down to the kitchen in the early hours for an unwanted glass of water, to see him pecking at the laptop, or the father asked him would he come down for a pint, "Sure I'll stand a few, you know that", it pretty much hung in the air, unasked and unanswered. Not so much "When are you going?" as "What are you going to do?".

For the first year, it was grand. Not great, but manageable. He picked up a week here and there, and queued with the best of them when there was nothing on. He was lucky. He was at home, nothing wrong with that-he was only 25, hadn't any kids out there to mind, and no debt on his back, except for the card, but that was only for emergencies anyway. Not as if he was going to drink it or anything. The few quid in the bank-he had been saving that to buy a site with Susan-was dwindling, but still there to fall back on.

She'd come out of college towards the end of that first year, with a degree in sociology and an open mind. So open, in fact that before Christmas of that year, she had decided, seemingly on a whim, that she was heading to Vancouver. They had been together for about three years, if you can define a weekend oriented relationship and a fuzzy understanding that they'd cohabit, one day, as being "together". And she wanted him to go as well. There was plenty of work over there, according to the internet, although it didn't mention many openings for Sociology graduates. Or blocklayers.
By the time they actually discussed the matter properly, she had the flight booked from Shannon. He saw her off in the New Year, "And drove her to the airport as well!", as he said to the lads that evening, to an unusually respectful chorus of muted laughter.

During one of his more recent early morning catchup sessions with cyber-space, he noted, to little surprise, that she was "in a relationship with Brad Roberts". Good man Brad!, he thought. To Brad's credit, the relationship soon became an engagement. He doubted he'd get an invite, and by that stage, he'd no inclination or means to pay for a flight there and back anyway, not to mind pocket money, even if he did.

The trickle of work had dried up entirely. Bar a couple of bank of thanks jobs for relatives, he had nothing on. The van went that June. It had been paid for over three years, and was bought new at a time when he planned to buy another one after then, anyway. Maybe even a nice 4x4 with a crewcab. After five years of pulling and dragging, the Transit, which had been shiny, new, and always on the button, was now no longer in great shape. But the couple of grand was handy. Especially now that the ATM wasn't an option any more, a fact brought home to him with some initial awkwardness when he optimistically approached it one Saturday night in company, and had to tap one of the group for a few quid, when it didn't share his sense of optimism. Liam was sound about it though. He knew he'd get it back. Eventually.

So, that was that. The Vintners Association of Ireland were down yet another punter. No sense of finality about it. After that, the father started offering to bring him down of a Sunday afternoon when he surfaced and his sleeping rhythm fell into a brief synchronocity with theirs .It's on me, no pressure. He was going anyway, it was a ritual of his after the dinner. But they'd fall into company, rounds would be bought, and while nothing would be said, it wouldn't need to be. At home, the fridge was always stocked, and the presence of the few cans in the bottom drawer remained, even though his father never drank in the house, and even though the mother wasn't getting the few bob for the messages these days.

The early morning sojourns into cyberspace continued. If you can't sleep, you can't sleep. Whatever about Vancouver, Melbourne wasn't all wine and roses, but it was still sunny at times, even in June. Winter time. Richie had picked up work as a site foreman, and was looking for bodies. Lot of messers turning up, and he needed reliable workers, he'd already been stung a couple of times, and was slow in recommending anyone. But there was an opening. Six months work, and another project on the way. There could be three years in it, and the home fires might have been rekindled by then. He'd help out with the visa.

The alarm was still making a strident attempt to wake the house, and it seemed to be somewhat reduntant, judging by the sounds of conversation and the whistle of the kettle Dessie could hear below him. He silenced it, and sat upright. He had a long journey ahead of him.

PurpleBee

I think it could do with a second reading. Economy of language seems to be a problem, particularly apparent in the second sentence which is full of words that don't say very much. With a second reading the length of the piece would reduce considerably I suspect...

slavetothegrind

i agree with the above poster that a second revision would bring concision but hopefully not to much.

I actually was enjoying that and rather than feeling like a short story it felt like an introduction to a much longer story.

Sentences could be a bit shorter if i had to nit pick, looking forward to your arena story now!!

RoundyMooney

I was conscious of the windiness of the prose alright And it reads back like a first chapter, or the bones of one after I had it down, which highlights the lack of planning that I put in there. I had no idea what I was going to write at all!

Thanks guys, I am very grateful. I'll be making a stab at the Arena post later, so hopefully it will be a little better.