Writing in Public: Story 2, Scene 1

[image error]Writer’s Note: This story was inspired by a street sign, Graham’s Road.  I see it coming back from writing group every week.  Yup, the inspiration really came from that little.

Though inspiration wasn’t always like that.  For years, I waited for something to excite me, and that didn’t come very often, so I didn’t write often.  I languished on my first novel for many years, partially because I couldn’t come up with any other ideas.  But a workshop I took, now about 4 years ago, was a big help in demystifying the scariness of coming up with ideas.

Onto the story …

Nothing Town

There’s a nothing town called Graham that stops at the river. It was named after the biggest land owner, Elias Graham, ‘most two hundred years ago. He’d been pretty important then and everyone thought the town was going to be a major port long into the future. Everything shipped out on the river: tobacco, dry goods, food. Then the world shifted away and we shivered into unimportance.

That’s when everyone started calling it Graham’s Folly.

And the people who grew up in Graham were stuck here. Like me.

Michelle Graham. That’s me. Elias Graham’s great-great-great granddaughter…think I got enough greats in there. Sometimes people look at me when the world’s not good and I can see the blame set in their faces and I wonder how being Elias’ descendant makes it my fault.

Today I came out of the restaurant with pity tips in the pocket of my waitressing uniform. Maybe, I think, not for the first time, it’s time to pack up my ten year old car and go somewhere, anywhere, a place where no one judges me by my ancestors.

The humidity hits me and my glasses instantly fog up. Three o’clock. Worse time of the day to come outside. The air is so hot it feels like it’s about to boil. But it’s the sound of horses’ hooves clopping on the street that makes me stop. Makes me stare. Makes my heart pound.

It’s not supposed to be there.

There are two horses, brown and big shouldered, pulling a wooden wagon piled high with burlap sacks of flour. The man at the reins is dressed in a homespun shirt, trousers, and suspenders. He tips his broad-brimmed hat at me with a cursory smile.

Is my mind broken? But then I catch a scent that is decidedly horse.

A rusting Toyota belching smoke crowds in behind the the wagon. The driver jams his fist on the horn in one long, angry note.

“Move your damn horses!” he bellows.

The ears on the horse nearest me twitch, like a knowing smile.

Now I look around the street, at the familiar narrow houses jammed in together like stakes in the ground. They’re all brick, brought in as ballast on sailing ships, and it’s the real stuff, not the facades that go on buildings now. But some of the houses are newer, rough hewn with the mortar still lighter, and others are older, worn down by time.

Fear pounds at me. I want to run with it, run as fast as I can, as if that will leave the fear behind. Instead, I force myself to walk down the hill, toward the harbor.

I need to be sure.

People pass me. The ones in t-shirts and shorts are indifferent to me, as expected. The ones in bustle dresses and waistcoats are mannerly, greeting me with smiles and pleasant voices. They don’t think there’s anything odd about my sky blue waitressing uniform and sensible shoes. It’s like we’re all wearing the same thing and we’re not.

“Good day, madam,” a portly fellow carrying an elegant cane says, giving me a bow. “Can you tell me where the tavern is?”

I give him directions, because the damn place is still there. Only it’s not a place to drink and socialize any more. It’s a museum. What will happen when he goes inside?

My stomach flutters. I quicken my pace.

Clouds press against the sky, thickening into blackness. The wind is up and water rides it. Storm is coming soon.

The street dead ends with a guide rail separating the road from the river. To the left are the docks where the ships are moored, a ferry, sailboats, and power boats. Now though, my bones turn to ice when I see the tall ships coming in, their sails flapping in the wind.

Until I saw those ships, I’d been pretending that it was a big joke someone was playing on me. That they’d gotten reenactors in period costumes and found horses and a wagon. But those ships…they couldn’t be faked. Something terrible had happened.

And Elias Graham predicted it.

Filed under: Thoughts Tagged: science fiction, Science Fiction Short Story, Writing in Public