VOAT - July 2018 - "Extreme Weather" - Read and Vote Here!

Mr E

Hi all

2 stories for your consideration below. Many thanks to the writers for submitting them. (I had half of a story written, but work and family events conspired against me).

Vote for your favourite using the poll above and feel free to leave comments to say why you preferred one story over another. The poll will be open for 5 days from now.

Mr E

Story 2

Sheila stood in her underwear, under the large canvas canopy that had been their makeshift living room for the past three days, watching as the torrential rain careered off the rainforest floor, huge glass drops splashing into puddles, rivers of water running off the lush leaves making them bounce and move in the twilight. The constant trickling and the sound of the rain hammering against the tent drowned out all the other noise, and for the first time since they'd arrived in Bolivia, she couldn't hear the near-constant screeching and howling of macaws and monkeys, and all the other fascinating beasts she'd spent the last few days sharing a rainforest with.

"This is it honey. Are you ready?" she said, turning to her husband.

Bill, her husband of forty years, stood up carefully, slowly. He did everything slowly these days. Cancer will do that to you. Leaning against the back of the folding chair he replied with a smile, his voice gravelly. "I'm ready".

"Are you sure you're able for this?" she asked him.

"I've been waiting to do this again since our honeymoon. And I'll never get another chance. So you can bet I'm able for it. Let's go."

The two of them had always been adventurous, and it was their mutual wanderlust that first attracted them to one another. When they'd met in college all those years ago he had grand ideas of travelling to every country in the world, a feat she never believed he'd manage, but she was happy to go along for the ride. They fell in love hard and fast, and were married within a year. For their honeymoon, instead of a touristy beach holiday both of them would have hated, they went on a month-long trek to South America, travelling by bus and train, staying in hostels and cheap hotels when they were available, tents when they weren't. One of their stops was the small remote town of Rurrenabaque in northern Bolivia, on the edge of the Amazon rainforest, where they'd decided to brave a few nights in the rainforest alone; it was the most terrifying and yet exhilarating experience of Sheila's life. A local fisherman had taken them into the rainforest aboard his boat, down a wide river filled with crocodiles and piranhas, and after an hour or two he'd tied up the boat at a rickety jetty next to a clearing and let them ashore, agreeing to meet them in the same spot three days later. From there they'd hiked a few miles into the jungle, where they lived in utter seclusion for the next three days. They marvelled at the exotic animals and brightly-coloured birds, the alien fauna, the dense canopies that blocked out the sunlight almost entirely in places. The air felt thick and moist, like nothing they'd ever felt before, heavy with the mixed smell of vegetation and decay, and the sound of the jungle at night, insects chirping and monkeys howling, was as loud as any city. There were dangers everywhere, poisonous snakes, toxic plants, but they'd done their homework before they left America and they stayed safe (although the bug bites had been as unbearable then as they were now). On the last morning, just as the sun rose they'd been awoken by a spectacular tropical storm; lightning crashed above them and the forest floor became a maze of rivers, yet Bill hadn't been afraid in the slightest. He came alive like she'd never seen before. As she cowered in the tent, he ran outside with a huge grin on his face, and stood with his arms aloft, shirtless, laughing, letting the warm rain wash over him. She'd poked her head out of the tent, asking him if he'd lost his mind and telling him to get his butt back in the tent right now, but with a little cajoling she was persuaded to join him. As she crawled out of the tent and hid under the awning she wasn't in any way convinced this was a good idea, until Bill took her hand and pulled her out into the storm, encouraged her to stand up straight, embrace it, feel it. The rain hit her like a tidal wave and she was soaked in an instant, but the experience was both invigorating and humbling. They stood side-by-side in only their underwear, gazing up at the turbulent, dark sky as it convulsed and thrashed with thunder and lightning, rain battering off their skin and warm water running between their toes, the ground now a fast- moving stream. The storm was violent, but short; it died down after only a few minutes, and as it did, he turned to her, pulled her close, and they embraced, soaking, shivering, smiling. "You're crazy you know" she said, her head resting on his chest, her eyes closed. "Crazy. But I love you for it."

Over the next forty years they'd travelled extensively, and although they never made it to every country in the world they'd visited much of the Americas, Asia and Europe. The last few years had been lean however; Bill had lost his job as a college professor, essentially forcing him in to early retirement. Sheila had kept working as a freelance journalist and photographer, and although she earned well, one wage between two people didn't allow much room for travelling. Things were going OK though, and they were coasting along until Bill went to see his doctor with a persistent cough, and everything changed in an instant. What savings they had were quickly used up on medical bills; the lung cancer was advanced and aggressive - doctors fought it hard, and Bill faced it all head-on, but the news got worse. Once the initial shock of his terminal diagnosis passed, he sat her down and told her there was no point wasting the last of their money on a battle they couldn't win. Instead, he wanted to go on one last trip together, enjoy what was left of his life while he was still able to. She'd agreed immediately - how could she not? - and she left the choice of destination completely up to him. When he decided on returning to Bolivia, the scene of their honeymoon, she was surprised, pleased, but not sure he would be able for such a physically demanding trip. He waved her concerns away. I'll be fine, he promised her.

The travelling had been exhausting. They had to take four flights to get to Rurrenabaque, which took a gruelling 30 hours; she was dead on her feet by the time they arrived so she could only imagine how he was feeling. They spent a couple of days letting Bill recover and quietly exploring Rurrenabaque, which had changed dramatically since 1975. Back then, Bill and Sheila had been the only foreigners in the whole town; now it felt like everyone was a foreigner. The streets were buzzing with English, Australian, and Canadian backpackers, arriving by the busload and being squeezed in to newly-built, air-conditioned backpacker hostels.

They found a local man, Miguel, who had a boat and was willing to take them into the rainforest, and on their fourth day in Bolivia, he drove them up to the river in his Jeep. They chugged their way up the river for a few hours in his little white boat while Miguel, stony-faced, dispensed rainforest survival advice. They passed the jetty where they'd got off in 1975, which was still standing, more rickety than ever, and they carried on, well out of reach of the swarm of tour boats that now buzzed up and down the river every day. Eventually they disembarked, and as Miguel bade them farewell, they rambled only a few hundred metres in to the rainforest and set up camp - the short walk was enough for Bill, especially in the heat of the Amazon.

The rainforest was just as spectacular and imposing as as Sheila remembered, although it seemed less exhilarating now and more downright frightening. She jumped every time she heard an animal close by; from the corner of her eye she saw anacondas, tarantulas, crocodiles that turned out to be nothing more than leaves or vines. Although she was still well versed in survival, she was a fish out of water here, a stranger in unfamiliar, unforgiving territory, and as she lay in her hammock at night under her bug net, she thought, did we make a mistake coming here? The travelling and the heat had really taken it out of Bill; he slept most of the time, and when he was awake all he could really do was sit in his chair. He was away from any sort of medical care and she could tell he was in constant pain. For two days, they sat side-by-side in their camping chairs and talked, played cards, read books, reminisced about old times. They talked about the storm they'd witnessed in 1975, and Bill, with a tear in his eye, said it was still the most incredible experience of his life and how he really wished he'd be able to experience it again before he died.

"I'm so sorry honey" she said, late on the afternoon of their third and final day in the rainforest, putting an arm around his shoulders and kissing the top of his head. The heat and humidity had been unrelenting, but there hadn't been even the hint of a storm. "I know how much you wanted this."

"That's alright," he sighed, putting his hand over hers. "I'm here with you. That's all that matters."

They ate dinner as twilight fell around them, but as the light faded, Sheila sensed a change in the atmosphere. The wildlife seemed louder, restless, a cool wind picked up, and the air suddenly felt alive, like it was full of static electricity. Please God, Sheila thought, just give him this one goddamn thing. As she cleaned up and put away the dinner things, she noticed a flower had sprung up just a few yards from the front of the tent, a brilliant white flower with a yellow middle, like nothing she'd ever seen before. She wandered over to it, caressed the petals between her thumb and forefinger, feeling its softness and she leant in and inhaled its sickly, sweet aroma. As she did she felt the first plip as a raindrop exploded on her forehead. Looking up in the dying light she saw the clouds were much lower now, dark, angry. Thank you, God, she thought, as she darted back under the canopy.

Forty years ago it was Bill who had run out into the storm on that astonishing morning; this time Sheila took the lead. As sheets of rain crashed down, she took Bill's hand and led him out into it. The water was a lot colder than she remembered and she gasped, and screamed, before breaking into joyous laughter, the water plastering her grey hair to her face and coursing down her shivering body.

"Bill!", she laughed, "Oh my god! It wasn't this cold last time!", but he didn't reply. She looked round and he was just smiling, gazing up at the sky, bathing in the moment. In the dusk, the storm was even more intense than it had been the first time, each bolt of lightning a brilliant forked tongue across the sky, illuminating the whole rainforest for just a second - standing there looking up at it, Bill was absolutely mesmerised. She curled into him, put her head against his bare chest and wrapped her arms around his back, enjoying the warmth of him as goose-bumps stood up across her whole body. She could hear his heart beating, faster than normal with the cold and the excitement, and his laboured, crackling breathing as he struggled to get the air into his lungs.

"You're still crazy Bill", she said, her eyes closed, a contented smile on her face. "And I still love you for it."

Mr E

Story 2

Over the three days I had been without water my attitude had hardened from irritation to annoyance to anger. I couldn't understand how during the much harsher winters I'd spent in Boston the water had continued to flow. I rang my mother to complain but I should have known better than to expect sympathy.


"I haven't been out of the house for ten days with the snow. No water either this past week."


"Are you okay?" I asked, ashamed I hadn't been in touch. "How are you managing?"


"Of course I'm okay. I wasn't able to get to Mass on Sunday but I rang Fr Murphy says it's no sin in the circumstances. John next door is very good. He has one of them four wheel drive yokes and I just ring into the shop with my list and he picks it up for me. I don't know what I'd do without him when I have nobody of my own to see about me," she said, throwing in some self pity after claiming she didn't want any.


"But how are you managing for washing and flushing toilets?" I asked.


"I melt pots of snow on the range, use it to wash the dishes then use the dirty water to flush the toilet," she replied.



I was embarrassed but not surprised that an eighty year old was coping better than I was. She never tired of reminding us that she had carried water for years and was proud of the fact that, unlike the younger generation, she never wasted a drop. "I suppose you'll have to go to Mary's for a scrub," she said. "She still has water, or at least she did yesterday when she rang. She rings me every day you know."


I knew the conversation would soon come around to my perfect sister. The daughter who got married and produced grandchildren. I didn't react to her implied criticism of me for not calling so often. "You can ring me anytime," I told her.


"You always have that auld answering machine on and you know I hate those things."


Another criticism I ignored. "Well just ring me anyway if you need anything," I insisted.


"I told you that I don't need anything, I'm fine."


"Okay then. I'll ring you again soon," I promised, knowing that my idea of 'soon' was a lot longer than hers.


She was right about going to Mary's for a shower. I hadn't been this long with a proper wash since I was backpacking in Thailand. I couldn't go back to work tomorrow like this but still I hated having to ask anybody, especially my sister, for a favour. As it turned out I didn't have to ask. As soon as I rang and told Mary about my waterless state she offered. "Come over here for a shower if you like."


"Well, if it's no bother," I said, as if the idea had never crossed my mind until then.


"No bother at all. Bring over your washing and I can throw it in the machine for you."


"No, I have enough clean clothes to last me for weeks but a shower would be great."
Fortunately it isn't too far to Mary's house because I would have to walk it. There was no hope of getting a car out of our estate even if I could have got it out of the garage. Before venturing out, I put on the ski gear I had from my last holiday. When I bought it I never thought I would wear it in Ireland but I was glad of it now.


When Mary opened the door she looked at the large bag I was carrying and exclaimed "I thought you were coming for a shower, not for a week's holiday."


"I just brought a couple of towels and some fresh clothes," I replied.


"We do have towels here," she said, trying not to sound offended that I had brought my own. "Have a bath or a shower, whatever you like," she added.


"A shower will be lovely," I said.


The bathroom had been cleaned, scrubbed and polished. There was none of the odd socks, discarded football kit or smudged mirrors that I usually encountered on an unannounced visit. A matching set of new, or nearly new, towels had been laid out together with a selection of shower gels, shampoos and conditioners. Although I had brought my own toiletries I decided it would be more diplomatic to use hers.



When I emerged, clean again, I went into the kitchen where I knew I would find Mary. "Thanks a million for that. I feel like a new woman."


"You're welcome anytime. I'll put on the kettle," she said.


I looked on with envy as she ran the tap. "You never miss the water 'til the well runs dry," I commented.


"Well sis," she replied, "you should have done like me and married a plumber."

Mr E

Story 2

Two very different stories, but the first tugged on my heartstrings. Good job to both writers!

Rubecula

both excellent but I dunno which I like best

Mr E

Story 2

The poll is now closed - congrats to the author of Story 1!

Well done to both writers for putting up a story.

SlicedBread19

That was a lot of fun. Thanks to everyone who voted for my story (story 1), I wrote and edited the whole thing in 2 days, I'll be doing another draft (less text, more dialogue) but it turned out OK. If anyone has anyone constructive criticism I'd welcome it.

I thought story 2 was really good, could have gone either way.

Das Kitty

Story 2

Hi Sliced Bread.

I loved your story. The description was beautiful.

If you're looking for feedback as to improve it, my main take away was that I'd wished the part about standing in the storm years ago was held back. It had lost the initial impact when it was repeated.

If it were me, I would build mystery around what it was they were going to re-live. Not show it until it's happening in the "now" and then intersperse it with flash back to the first time.

I would also hold off the diagnosis until the end. Allude to it but not state it until the end, maybe even to the very last line.

That's all structural stuff though. Your writing style is lush.

SlicedBread19

Das Kitty wrote: »

Hi Sliced Bread.

I loved your story. The description was beautiful.

If you're looking for feedback as to improve it, my main take away was that I'd wished the part about standing in the storm years ago was held back. It had lost the initial impact when it was repeated.

If it were me, I would build mystery around what it was they were going to re-live. Not show it until it's happening in the "now" and then intersperse it with flash back to the first time.

I would also hold off the diagnosis until the end. Allude to it but not state it until the end, maybe even to the very last line.

That's all structural stuff though. Your writing style is lush.

That's some really good advice (and quite the compliment, thank you). I tend to just write the story as it comes and not really think about structure but I'll take that on board. Hopefully it's something that will come with a bit of practice. I'm still very much a beginner.

Mr E

Story 2

Beginner my arse.
You have a natural way with words.

km85264

Story 2

A good story, SlicedBread, I love the image of the couple dancing in the rain, a little celebration of their lives as they approach the end. Also thought the jungle descriptions were effective, believable. The little detail of the flower was perfectly placed.
Well worth another draft. You should try to reduce or even remove the exposition, the telling of the backstory. It breaks the pace of the story. Try to bring the focus back to the action and dialog.
Also be careful of cancer/constant pain. These are big things and worthy of a story in themselves. Your reader probably doesn’t need to know exactly what’s wrong, just that it’s terminal. You could probably draw more pathos from the pain, so what if the husband isn’t taking his pain meds because he wants to fully experience the rain...