The empty cottage

femur61

A short storyv - very short! Any opinions are welcome.

Huw stretched sat up and rubbed his eyes. He smacked his dry lips and ran his tongue against the roof of his mouth it tasted like dog breath. The empty mug rolled off his knees onto the stone floor he knew there was probably another chip on the old mug that would have once been his mother's pride and joy. He remembered the day his father had arrived home with a new set of delph. His mother had squealed in delight when she had opened the brown parcel to reveal the blue and white stripped delph to replace the chipped cups and cracked plates. She had hugged her husband quickly discarding him to the side as she took each plate out to examine them, even though they were identical. That was nearly forty years ago.

Grunting as he stood to kick the half-burnt turf into the long cold fire. He needed to open the window to let out the smell of turf trapped in the low ceiling of the stone cottage. As he leaned over the kitchen sink to open the window he knocked the previous evening's stack of dirty dishes which fell into the basin full of brown water. The bread crust, remnants of his tea, disintegrated in the water its crumbs floating like little islands on the lake at the bottom of the hill near his cottage.

‘365 islands,’ his grandad had told him, ‘That's an island for every day of the year Huw.’ His grandad liked to fill him with knowledge, not like his dad – who was drunk most of the time.

The first fingers of daylight meandered into through the kitchen through the small window. Huw formed a fist to with his left hand to thump the worped wooden window frame. He thumped it twice wincing in pain as a wood splinter broke his skin. He watched the drop of blood and he shook it off his hand, he has seen a lot worse. The open window sent a welcome gush of crisp morning air onto his face and he closed his eyes inhaling to fill his lungs in the hope his fuzzy head would clear. His nephew once said something about meditation. He had told his nephew to take his new age ****e from Derrylane and stuff it where the sun don’t shine. But he we wondered did naturally meditate as he spent hours staring at the lake every morning. He would watch the morning mist over the lake until it retreated to reveal a beauty that would calm even the hardest of men.

He lathered the carbolic soap in the basin. Suds on his hands fell into the basis and coagulated on the floating bread crust. He rubbed his hands together watching the bubbles cover his large hands. The smell of the soap transported him back to six years old. He can still hear the laughter. He had been sitting in the tin bath beside the fire in the kitchen watching his four older sisters dance till the bath went cold and his skin became pink and wrinkled. Their skirts ballooned as they grabbed each other by their arms twirling and throwing their heads back laughing. One of the sisters braided hair had come loose, he can’t remember one. Her hair fanned out as she twirled on her own. He had been dizzy with laughter unperturbed by the cold bath warmer. His mother said something to them as she threw more turf on the fire and he could still the warmth of the blast of turf or was its warmth from the memory. He sighed the happy memories are replaced by nothing.

He rubbed his hand across the coarse stubble on his chin, thinking he should not have left it so long since he last shaved. The blunt shaving knife scraped his skin and he winced in pain the water as lathered soap had not the desired effect. The cracked stained mirror offered him enough of a picture of his life. Drooping red eyes, hard grey stubble, and wisps of tobacco coloured hair. He finished shaving quickly, he doesn’t want to look at himself anymore. His mother had once said to him a girl could drown in his eyes, they were like bottomless blue lagoons of desire. And those eyes caused many a girl to get lost in them while he had his way with them at the local dance. But now he had gotten lost.

A neighbors cock crowed signaling his donkey to start baying. As expected the first bay of the donkey stirred his dogs. After shaving the kettle bubbled with the steam whistling out of the spout, he grabbed a clean mug to make his morning tea. Outside he sipped the hot tea in the front of the cottage on a stool to watch the morning mist rise as the day heated. The retreating mist revealed the promise of a warm summers day. A long-necked crane sat on a small tuft of grass on a stone near the lake shore. He looked out on the lake at the islands wondering do the village children still play hide and seek or even pirates on the lake. Happy days were long gone.

km85264

This is a lovely piece that paints a very acute picture of the protagonist's rough and lonely life juxtaposed with strong images of a happy past, his mother delighted with her crockery, his sisters dancing. I feel what you need to do is take the character forward and bring him to life for his own sake. As it is, he is the vehicle for these memories. I'd love to see what happens when he steps outside the house. What has been going through his mind all the lonely years? What does he see in his future? What relationships does he have?