The Word Cloud - Writing Community - Help and advice for writers

This is an expanded and completed version of Ducks and Mushrooms ( posted below ), taking into account (sufficiently I hope) 7thSons excellent suggestions. Any comments or critisims encouraged and welcomed.

<!-- /* Font Definitions */ @font-face {font-family:"Cambria Math"; panose-1:2 4 5 3 5 4 6 3 2 4; mso-font-charset:0; mso-generic-font-family:roman; mso-font-pitch:variable; mso-font-signature:-1610611985 1107304683 0 0 159 0;} /* Style Definitions */ p.MsoNormal, li.MsoNormal, div.MsoNormal {mso-style-unhide:no; mso-style-qformat:yes; mso-style-parent:""; margin:0cm; margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:12.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman","serif"; mso-fareast-font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-ansi-language:EN-GB; mso-fareast-language:EN-GB;} .MsoChpDefault {mso-style-type:export-only; mso-default-props:yes; font-size:10.0pt; mso-ansi-font-size:10.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size:10.0pt;} @page Section1 {size:612.0pt 792.0pt; margin:72.0pt 72.0pt 72.0pt 72.0pt; mso-header-margin:36.0pt; mso-footer-margin:36.0pt; mso-paper-source:0;} div.Section1 {page:Section1;} -->

Ducks, Mushrooms and Warlocks

The duck pond is not far from the house. Three new ducks have taken up residence. This is something of an event because it’s not much of a duck pond really, small and choked with weeds but it boasts a few ducks willing to contend with its lingering air of decay. I can’t really help feeling they must be outcast ducks, banished to this miserable water by the king of ducks. Any self-respecting duck would otherwise have packed up and flown off to a decent pond with clean water. The new ducks cruise the middle of the pond line-astern like a flotilla of gunboats. The other ducks seem wary and keep their distance.

The ducks are never very keen on the bread I throw for them; often they just ignore it. Perhaps they are unwilling to swallow this unsavoury looking water along with it. I wouldn’t blame them. This pond is as murky as my life.

My life is about the fear of death. Not that anyone has actually died yet, nor does it seem likely to happen any time soon. Instead my father is there, inside the house, waiting for me to return while bravely fending off death. He has been fending it off for the last fifteen years. I expect he will continue to be successful for the foreseeable future. I’ve been his principle weapon in this ongoing war since my mother left. She retreated from the battlefield quite early, leaving father to stave off death’s clutching hand as best he could with only my help. She always maintained that she was much cleverer than me, it appears she was right. I stayed.

My mother and I were never close. She blamed me for the ruin of her life. I had ruined it by -without any consideration or regard for her needs- being born. I am fourteen years younger than my youngest sister and I was a mistake. Mother reminded me of that too; my sisters had been planned births but not me. The age gap was so great they never considered me one of them; I was just a nuisance they were required to babysit while my parents went out. They took turns of course but never without a great deal of acrimony over whose turn it was. They had all escaped the loathsome babysitting duty before I turned five by finding husbands. That left mother trapped. Instead of being free of her responsibilities she was snared at home by her mistake. She never let me forget that either.

The ducks had again scorned the bread and I had suffered their disdain long enough. Now I had to return to the house because of my own mistake.

“Coming father,” I said “Your rock, your treasure is returning.” The ducks ignore me as contemptuously as they ignored my bread.

The walk back to the house isn’t long. Not long enough, from my point of view but I didn’t dare go much farther. I hadn’t reported in first. If I was away too long without telling father I would get that injured look he had perfected. “But where did you go?” he would ask. “You have been away so long. I was worried.”

Not about me, about himself. If I wasn’t there he would have to do all his own fetching and carrying but today I had return soon enough to avoid that. I collect the mail from the box before I push open the front door.

“I called for you but you didn’t answer,” father’s voice is plaintive.

“I just went to the pond for a few minutes.” I reply.” I’ll make some tea.” “You’re a treasure, Mel. You read my mind.”

It’s an open book. I drop the mail on the kitchen table. Tea is a safe option, he always wants tea. It means I don’t have to go and face him while I make it but it is done all too soon. I put a couple of chocolate biscuits in my saucer; father’s only contains his cup. I leave mine in the kitchen; it will provide me an excuse to escape. Father is lying on his bed by the window when I enter his room, he looks flushed. He has been looking flushed for fifteen years.

“You’re a brick, Mel always there when I need you.” Translation: I’m glad you don’t have a life, Mel. You can stay home to look after me.

“You’re welcome, father.” Liar.

“You’re so like your mother.” Liar, she was tall and sleek. Men, even ones much younger, watched when she walked past. Men did not notice me. I smile inanely.

“You always say that.”

“It’s true.” No it isn’t, Mother always made that quite clear, no boobs, mousy hair, large nose and larger mouth; no match for her cultivated perfection. You just want me to stay ‘daddy’s girl’.

“How are you feeling?” I spout the formula.

“Much better today.” Ah! He has decided to have a good day today.

“That’s good. I’m going to get my tea. What would you like for lunch?” Please don’t make me think up what to have, again! Make a suggestion for once.

“Whatever you decide.” Damn.

“I’ll think of something.”

“You’re my rock.” Yea, sure.

I rescued the chocolate biscuits from melting against my teacup and think about lunch.

“Bugger him if he can’t make a decision.” I fetch a tin of spaghetti and sausages from the pantry. I slop the contents into a glass bowl and shove it in the microwave. “That’ll do.” I make some toast and spread mine with avocado and slices of the last tomato in the house. His I plonk on a white plate and dump the spaghetti and sausages on top when they are done; more tea and his lunch is ready.

He looks disappointed when I carry it in on the tray.

“Lunch,” I say brightly. He doesn’t call me a treasure but I can cope, he will eat it anyway.

“Are you going to get up today?” He looks at me as if I have sprouted a tail. He never gets up.

“I don’t feel up to it. I’ll just watch a bit of telly.” Fine.

“You should try. I’m sure you would be better if you moved around more; got some exercise.” Fat chance.

“Maybe tomorrow, if I feel up to it.” Fat chance of that either.

“I’m going eat my lunch, call if you want something.” He doesn’t bother to reply or look at me as I turn to leave. He is shovelling a fork full of spaghetti into his mouth.

I open the mail, visa bill, power bill, bank statement –bugger all money in the account-, letter addressed to me. I blink in surprise. I can’t remember when I last received a letter. The postmark is unreadable. I tear open the envelope.

Dear Melinda,

Just a quick note to let you know your Aunt Hope and I will be coming to stay for a few days.

Hugs and kisses,

Aunt Mercy

I have never heard of them. Puzzled, I carry the letter upstairs to father.

“Do you know Aunt Mercy and Aunt Hope?”

“That interfering bitch, Mercy? What she done now?” Father’s face has

twisted into a snarl. His flush has bloomed to a vivid scarlet. His reaction scares me.

“She…with Aunt Hope. She says they are coming to stay.”

Father has both hands around my neck. I have fallen onto the bed across his knees and he is throttling me. It’s hard to believe that he can still be so strong after fifteen years in bed. I hadn’t even realised I was close enough for him to reach. I hadn’t even seen him move. “Those… bitches… will…not… stay… here.”

“Alright…I won’t…” I can barely rasp the words out. I claw at his fingers trying to prise them from my throat. I know he won’t kill me. He can’t. If he kills me there will be no one to look after him. He has been angry like this before. He keeps squeezing.

I’m sure he won’t kill me. I try telling that to the panic rising in my chest.

The door bell rings. Father releases me as if he just found out I have the plague. I slide to the floor gasping.

“I’m sorry, Mel, I didn’t mean …send them away. You’re my rock…we don’t need…send them away.” Father’s fury has vanished. He looks frightened; worse than frightened, he looks pathetic. I haul myself to my feet.

“Alright, Father.” The words come out somewhere between a gasp and a cough.

“I’m sorry, Mel. I didn’t mean to…you’re my treasure. I love you.”

I stare back at him, one had on my bruised throat. There is something stony inside me. “I’ll get the door.”

***

“You must be Melinda,” says the woman on the doorstep. She is about my height – average- but much rounder and with a large bust. Not fat, curvaceous, radiating sensuality. I feel even more flat- chested than usual. She looks at the bruising on my neck. “I should have warned you about your father. That’s why your mother left.”

“You know my mother?” I manage. This woman has thrown me further off balance. Father’s attack has shaken me badly.

“Of course, I’m your aunt Mercy, your mother’s brother’s wife.”

I work that through in my head. “I only just got your letter today.”

“Of course you did. Today is when you needed to have it. It would have been useless tomorrow.” She continues, “This is Hope.” She indicates the slim woman behind her. She is your mother’s brother’s wife’s sister. And this is Cook.” I studied the other two women. Hope was a little taller than Mercy and less curvaceous, she was also darker, amber to Mercy’s blond. The cook, she did not seem to have a name, was shorter than me by about three inches and wider by about a foot. She wasn’t curvaceous either; she was round, a plump ball. She smiled at me in a friendly but no nonsense way, her strong arms folded under a massive bosom.

“She is your sister, you mean.” Working out Hope’s relationship had been more complicated.

“What? Who?” said Mercy obviously confused.

‘Hope is your sister.”

“I know that,” Mercy gives me a strange look. “I know how she is related to me. I was explaining how she is related to you.”

“Oh,” I say. There doesn’t seem much else to say.

“God, I fancy a cup of tea,” said Cook.

“Indeed! Tea,” said Mercy surging forward with the others close behind. They sweep me along with them as they surge into the house.

“Father said I… wasn’t” I can feel father’s fingers chocking me. “I’m sorry but…”

Hope has my arm. “Come and sit down dear. Cook will take care of lunch and we shall talk to your father presently.”

“But…” My protest is brushed aside.

“Now Melinda, my dear,” says Hope firmly. “You really must learn about control. Right now, you don’t have any. There is three of us and only one of you and we don’t have the slightest intention of letting you take charge. Trying to take charge when you can’t get control only leads to feelings of helplessness and impotence. Better to just go with the flow and let Cook do lunch.”

But father…” I protest.

“We shall deal with him presently. He has been hanging about in that bed far too long.” That was Mercy; she stopped smiling as she spoke.

“I made my lunch.” I try a desperate flanking manoeuvre, seeking to recover my position.

“Don’t be silly, that’s nothing like a proper lunch. Cook is a trained professional. She knows what you need.” Mercy is smiling again.

“I…” I have no idea what I started to say.

“Low blood sugar, I expect.” Cook has arrived with a huge plate of bacon and eggs with fried mushrooms and tomatoes. She has produced my lunch with impossible speed.

“You’re low on eggs,” She adds

Low on eggs and completely devoid of mushrooms and tomatoes. Where had they come from?

“You’re not eating?’ I ask. The aroma of the bacon is tantalising. I’m suddenly ravenous.

“Oh we ate on the way, don’t worry about us. Dig in while it’s hot,” Hope smiles encouragingly.

I find the invitation impossible to resist. My mouth began watering the moment the food was placed in front of me. I feel compelled to devour the mushrooms first. I am aware of pleased and knowing glances being exchanged between Mercy and Hope but the significance of it escapes me. I demolish rashers of bacon and slices of tomato, egg slides down my throat barely noticed.

“Good,” says Mercy with satisfaction. “You need fattening up. I bet you never eat properly.”

“Always running after him,” adds Hope. “Never looking after you.”

“I’m his treasure. I’m his rock.” I’m not sure why I need to say it.

“His rock! You are much more than that to him.” Mercy snorts; a sound close to contempt.

“More?” I regard my empty plate with regret.

“I have more mushrooms, if you want them,” Cook snatches away my plate without waiting for an answer.

“No, I meant what did you mean that I’m more than his rock?”

“Something for another time,” Hope looks pleased as Cook slides my plate, now covered in mushrooms glistening with melted butter, back onto the table.

I am already full after the bacon and eggs but the mushrooms look good. I stab one with my fork and bite into it. “Is it hot in here or is it just me?” I ask. I want to take my baggy sweatshirt off but somehow I feel I shouldn’t.

“You’re hot.” Mercy’s smile is lascivious. I don’t think she has actually answered my question.

“I feel funny. I’m going to get some fresh air.” I do feel hot in a way that taking off my sweatshirt won’t fix. Not unless I take off everything else as well...and I’m not alone.

G'day Malcolm,

At this stage, this has improved on the original. I love the quirky idea/theme. The characters of the women are still a little underdone, although as there is more to come, I suspect more will show there. Their appearance is perhaps a bit more concrete than the first version.

With no description of home or location, the story seems to be happening 'nowhere', not grounded, except when the duck pond is described. That is easily sorted.

Apart from editing, this is looking good. I am intrigued at the prospect of the next bit.

Greyowl59 (Charles)