Tuesday, 2 July 2013

This place is a pigsty.

Writer’s Block

In one sentence is the spark of a story. Ignite.

Mission: Write a story, a description, a poem, a metaphor, a commentary, or a memory about this sentence. Write something about this sentence.

Be sure to tag writeworld in your block!

“This place is a pigsty.” She lifted a small and as yet unidentified article of clothing. “What is this... or should I say ‘was’.” Her face was screwed up. It could have been the smell of the offending item.
“I like it this way,” her friend said.
“HOW?” she said it with the horror of someone who clearly liked their world neat and well-ordered.
“I can’t find anything if someone tidies up.”
“Well, that doesn’t stop you doing it. Then you would know where everything was because you put it there.”
He frowned at her.
“A place for everything and everything in its place,” she parroted.
“Right.” He gave her a look. “I suppose your place is immaculate.”
“It... ah... might be.”
He snorted as he threw some things aside. “Wouldn’t know. I’ve never been to your place.” He said it without thinking about it.
No, he hadn’t. Nobody ever went to her house. She didn’t encourage visitors. It seemed odd that she kept it so neat and nobody ever saw it. But she didn’t like visitors. They messed things up; touched things they shouldn’t.
He paused.
She glanced at him.
He straightened up. “Yeah... that’s a point.” He pointed at her. “I’ve never been to your house. Not ever.”
She didn’t answer him. She was holding a book she had been about to place back on the shelves. Concentrating on that, rather than him, she turned it over in her hand.
“Hey?” he asked.
She shoved the volume into place and then looked at it. She pulled it out again and slid it in a spot where it was the same height as the volumes around it.
He watched her do it. “Damn. You have got it bad.”
That, she could not deny, so she chose to ignore him. She picked up another volume, dusted it off with her hand and slotted it into the perfect place.
He didn’t say anything for a while. He just passed her books and she put them away where she thought they fitted best. She made a little humph noise of pleasure when they had finished an entire shelf. Some small adjustments got all the edges lined up as well as she could manage.
Then she started on the next shelf. He continued to pass her books. She noticed that he had started to sort them himself, putting the smaller ones aside.
“What next?” he asked her when they had finished.
“The desk?” she asked hopefully. It was a disaster area.
“Not today.”
“Oh.” She paused. “Okay.”
“Give me a chance,” he suggested.
She looked confused.
“I’m your friend,” he said quietly. “I’d like to be invited to your place... one day.”
She looked down at the carpet. “I’d like that, too,” she confessed.
He squeezed her hand.
They went back to tidying up; it felt like a joint effort, now.

© AM Gray 2013

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