Lost in my notebook

Three really short stories - Cleaners, The Scent of Rain & Stuck in the Garden

Every couple of weeks I host a writing night. These sessions bring together a handful of local writers to play around with random prompts with a ten-minute countdown. The three very short stories below are my efforts from last week. Sometimes these stories blossom into something bigger, some are forgotten in the pages of my notebook.

Cleaners

There’s a perception that anyone who employs a cleaner is rich, stuck-up, or disabled. And I would be lying if I claimed that’s not true at all. I’ve cleaned penthouses, been looked down upon, and had to administer emergency CPR. But they’re just freckles on the bridge of a nose; specks of dust on the bottom shelf. Today, for example, I cleaned a twenty-eight-square-metre apartment for a healthy woman who is neither rich nor stuck-up.

“I’m a little embarrassed,” she said.

“Don’t be,” I smiled back, looking over her apartment. It was tidy but covered in a film of dust and dirt.

I wasn’t really needed; the shelves needed a wipe, the floor a vacuum, and the pillows a plumping. But only a fool turns down an easy job.

“Mind if I stay?” she asked.

“Not at all.” It’s not an uncommon request on the first visit. People want to trust you, but they don’t. Even the nicer ones struggle to stay away for however long it takes to clean. They’re always popping back for something or coming home unexpectedly early.

“I love watching people clean,” she said, moving from one end of the room to the other.

“Why?”

“It’s soothing. I think it reminds me of my mother; she was a clean freak.”

“I hope I live up to her standards.” Mothers are always the most thorough cleaners, as they’re avoiding the scornful judgement of their mother-in-law.

“You have a rhythm to your cleaning,” she says, glancing at my feet.

“I always have the same songs in my head when I clean. They remind me of my mother.”

“Play them for me,” she says, passing me her wireless speakers. I do, and she nods along, not understanding the words but grasping the rhythm with both hands.

The Smell of Rain

Fourteen kilometres separate the sea and the city. Between breaking waves and cobblestone streets are rolling dunes and patches of tall, straw-like grass. There’s a regular bus, but I take my bike, building up a sweat before cooling off in the shallow surf. On the way back, I usually stop for an ice cream.

I doubt I’ll get that pleasure today, with the scent of rain drifting behind me, as if carried by the rising tide. Grey clouds consume the clear blue sky; families and couples are packing up around me, hurriedly filling tote bags with damp clothes and coolers with their half-finished lunch. Only the drinkers are unmoved, deciding to wait for evidence before sentencing themselves to a boring afternoon.

Stuck in the Garden 

"Green fingers" means something totally different to the ferns lining the fence or the roses climbing the lattice walls. Garden shears sound like death to the sweet pea and her lilac petals. The crunch of the spade sinking into rich soil feels like an earthquake to the worms tunnelling below the surface. Children climbing young trees send shivers down their roots.

We’re their ‘piece of paradise’, their ‘little oasis.’ But they are our captors, laughing in our faces in the summer, torturing us in autumn, and watching us from their windows during winter, wishing for snow to maintain our misery. That’s why we sour their fruit and discolour our flowers.

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Love, Luke

PS, my novel - Love, Loss & the View from my Window - is still available to purchase as a paperback and on Kindle.

Here’s what people are saying…

“What a great debut! A beautifully written, somewhat sad but yet heartwarming story of grieving loved ones, past lives and memories; finding joy after loss and peace in accepting the inevitable destiny of all living things. The thoughtful way this novel approaches nature reminded me a lot of Elif Shafak’s style. Can’t wait to read more from the author!”