Monday October 27th, 2014

The exercise:

Write something that takes place in: the parking lot.

Car repairs were completed without issue, errands were accomplished with minimal hiccups, and got home in time to shave before picture time.

Picture time?

Indeed. Some friends of ours here in town are photographers (mostly weddings) and we agreed to an exchange of babysitting (and produce) for some family pictures. The husband came over just before dinner and we did some shots around the walnut tree in our front yard before going out into the autumn colours of the apricot trees for the rest of the shoot.

I'm pretty excited to see how they turn out, as we've never done any professional photos with Max. I'll be sure to share a few once we get a hold of them.


I study the underside of the red sedan with little interest, despite the fact that I've never been beneath a car before now. It is kind of neat, I suppose, seeing how things connect. Where certain liquids are contained until they are used up or replaced. If I were to dredge up some imagination it wouldn't be difficult to picture how things would look if the vehicle was in motion.

But I can't be bothered with that right now. Sorry, I guess. I've got other things on my mind.

Like listening to voices drawing closer and then blessedly moving further away. Like watching running shoes of varying colour, boots of fixed colour (black, always and forever black), and heels in the genre of Too Tall To Be Practical crisscrossing the parking lot. Hidden at regular intervals by tires and lampposts while my heart pounds louder than all of their footsteps combined.

They are searching for me. They have been for quite some time. They must give up soon.

They must.


Greg said...

I'm impressed you shaved before picture time, but you realise that guests to your house who see these pictures will constantly be pointing at you and asking who it is, right? :) Still, I shall look forward to seeing what you choose to share with us!
Heh, nice touch with the story today; I wasn't expecting the ending, in fact I was expecting it to be slightly more autobiographical given that you'd taken the car in for repairs. It... it isn't autobiographical, right? I also really like the descriptions of the shoes; that's a great detail that lifts the story from the page.

The parking lot
"Your father says he's got Huntingdon's Chorea," said Winifred. She was sat in the driver's seat of a shiny, black Bentley poking at her phone with a manicured finger-nail. The engine was switched off while she and her son waited for her erstwhile spouse to return from the shops across the parking lot. Jeff, her son, leaned across the seat, the leather making a slightly rude noise as he did so, to look at the phone.
"Good grief but you're a dyslexic bint," he said mildly.
"That's very rude!" said his mother, her accent so refined and sculpted that it could carve diamonds. "Watch your language!"
"It's an Arabic word, mother," said Jeff. "It means woman. It's not rude."
"It may not be rude in Arabic," said Winifred, "but it is in English. Anyone who tries addressing me as their dear bint is leaving with a hard slap."
Jeff opened his mouth, and then thought better of it.
"Why am I dyslexic, though?" asked Winifred. Jeff squinted at her phone again.
"He says he's got a hunting chihuahua," he said. "Not Huntingdon's Chorea. Which is a disease, mother."
"Ah, I thought it was a type of Port," said his mother. "What's a hunting chihuahua then?"
"One of those little dogs with razor-sharp teeth, I think," said Jeff. "Fast, murderous little things. Bad with children, eats squirrels, that kind of thing."
"They sound adorable," said Winifred. She pointed out the window as a small black-and-tan blur rocketed towards a group of screaming school-children. "Look at that!"
"That'll be dad's dog then," said Jeff.

Anonymous said...

“I like your car.”
“Um thanks.”
“It’s a nice color. Good year.”
“Thank you.”
“Where are you going? Don’t you want to talk to me?”
“I’m sorry but I still have a lot of errands to run.”
“You stay and talk to me.”
“Stay away.”
“You hear what I have to say.”
“Get away. No.”
“There. Now you have to listen to me.”

morganna said...

"Want a ride?" The shuttle bus driver's voice startles me. I turn.

"Oh, no, thank you." I turn away and keep walking.

"You know you want a ride from me, lady. And he guns the little shuttle bus towards me.

I break into a run. The doors of my destination seem very far away as he comes closer and closer.

Just as I think the bus will strike me, he is distracted by another potential ride and whips the wheel to the side.

I dart in the doors of the building and I hear him say, "Want a ride?"

Marc said...

Greg - hah :P

Aside from pointing out the wonderful character work here, all I have to say is... hunting chihuahua?!

Ivybennet - jeez, that last line is chilling, the way it leaves so much to the imagination.

Morganna - that is a very dedicated and... overeager shuttle bus driver!