While I'm busy not writing and falling steadily behind in my NaNoWriMo word count as I kind of lose interest in the tale I set out to tell (which means I'm going to have to do something to change that, and soon), here's a quick story I wrote and submitted to a writing contest a couple of months ago. Aside from some papers for my classes, it was my first attempt at really writing something for the purpose of someone else reading and judging. Suffice to say, my story did not make the cut, ultimately, so the rights are solely mine. Since I don't expect to ever submit this one elsewhere, or do anything with it again other than some tweaks for my own edification, I figure there's no harm in posting it here.
******
I had wanted to tear out that built-in since the day we’d done the walk-through. I’d loved just about everything else about this house, immediately. It was a little run-down, and kind of shabby from what looked like many years of neglect, but I could see it for the architectural gem that it was: the floor plan was typically Victorian, and it still had the original woodwork trim in beautiful condition. Even the squeaky floor boards and noisy plumbing were charming. I was willing to overlook the “city lot”, which meant a next-to-nothing back yard (“Just think…very minimal yard work, honey!” I’d said to Dan, in the sunny, upbeat way I unconsciously used when I was trying to sell him on an idea), and close proximity to the newer homes on either side. But that out of place shelf in the middle of the second bedroom just had to go.
Over the course of that first year we worked on projects throughout our “dollhouse” as Dan’s little niece called it. We stripped and refinished original pine floors, gave the main rooms and the exterior shingle siding new coats of paint, and slowly brought the old girl back to her former glory. I grew to absolutely love the house, as we made it our home. We’d been using the spare bedroom for storage space, cluttering it up with boxes, bric-a-brac and home improvement supplies. We hadn’t even bothered to paint it, since we always kept the door closed. I went in every once in a while and moved things around as I searched boxes for something we’d never unpacked or to get a book that wouldn’t fit on the bookcases downstairs. And every time, my eyes would drift over to the odd-ball shelf, I would insist to myself that this Saturday would be the day we’d finally dismantle it…and I would walk out with whatever I’d originally gone in to collect, all thoughts of demolition forgotten with the click of the door latch.
The day we finally set about to take down the built-in, everything that could possibly go wrong, did. A storm built in the morning, and by the afternoon the sky was a mass of roiling clouds the color of soot. The saw was plugged in and Dan was just turning the switch when a boom of thunder rattled the house, a bright streak of lightning briefly bathed everything in blinding white, and we lost power. Determined to finish the project, he put the useless saw aside and we set about getting flashlights and a sledgehammer and pry bar. Working by candlelight in the gathering darkness, occasionally backlit by flashes of lightning, Dan attempted to wedge the bar behind the shelves with no success.
This continued for some time, the swearing growing from a mutter to shouted epithets. I offered whatever help or advice I could at first, and then just stood by lamely. The sudden unexpected clang of metal on the floor made me jump, and I was asked to hand over the sledgehammer.Wiping dripping sweat from his face with his shirt with his free hand, Dan sighed, hefted the sledgehammer, swung back and made contact with the edge of the built-in bookshelf. The wood split with a crack. Dan, encouraged, struck and struck. In no time, the shelving was lying in broken piles littering the floor, and what was left was a dark rectangle of ancient looking wood. It was incongruous compared to the neat plasterwork of the surrounding walls and we both stood looking at it for several minutes.
Then Dan leaned down, picked up the discarded pry bar, and began to remove a series of heavy nails holding the slab of wood in place. When the last nail was finally shimmied out, Dan beckoned me over to help shift the wood enough to allow him to shine a flashlight beam behind it. Just as his thumb flicked the switch, the lights came back on, and I found myself squinting into the space behind where the old shelf had been. Instead of wood framing for the wall or even a little hidden cubby, there was a room. Just like the one we were standing in, down to the drop cloth on the floor and our moving boxes with my handwriting scrawled all over them. Except in this room beyond the wall, the built-in shelves were still standing.
******
There may be a continuation of this story some time later on, which will be posted here if I write it. If you'd like to read about what happens next, tell me in the comments, along with any other feedback you feel like offering. Thanks so much for taking the time! Now to get my coffee and cream-puffs and get to writing.
No comments:
Post a Comment