a draft of the start of a short story
Hello,
I haven’t had chance to write much outside of the short story that I’m working on, so thought I’d share the (still rough) beginning of that here. Any feedback/critique/suggestions welcomed because I’m hoping to submit it to a literary thing if I can get it finished to a standard I’m happy with by the end of the month. But I don’t feel confident writing in this form and don’t really know what I’m doing or trying to do.
Whilst waiting for the kettle to boil
Here’s my issue, he said. You keep blocking the part of the TV that the remote needs to point to. Every night I have to move them before I can even consider trying to relax. And every morning I have to move them back to keep you from twining. It’s shaving hours off my life. It’s doing my fucking head in. It really is.
Fine, she said. Put them wherever you want. Throw them on the floor or shove them up your arse for all I care. I don’t care.
He stared violently at the kettle. She had filled it almost to its max capacity, which was enough water for ten cups of coffee. It was completely unnecessary. And it was wasting electricity. If it had been filled sensibly, with just enough water for the two cups of coffee they’d be drinking that morning, the kettle would boil faster. But she didn’t care about that. She only cared about insane things. She kept talking.
You know, I didn’t realise it was a crime to try and keep things looking nice. I just thought they looked nice lined up the way they were. There’s only so many places they can go. I just wanted your bedroom to look nice.
He considered the possibility that maybe he was in the wrong here. Maybe he could just be nice. But he decided that it wasn’t a simple case of right and wrong. It was a complicated case. There were complications everywhere. Everything was wrong. The kettle was taking so fucking long to boil. He moved his gaze slightly higher to stare out of the window.
It was a Sunday morning, and birdless. He wished there were some birds, or anything really - a reversing bin lorry, a neglected and chained-up dog desperately barking, a domestic argument spilling out into next door’s garden - anything noisy to take over or at least contribute to their conversation.
If he let himself, he’d be able to remember a time when talking to her was the best part of his day. He’d remember when there were still so many things to say. When the stories they told one another weren’t always so short and angry. But he didn’t let himself. He couldn’t.
I’ll build a shelf for them, he said.
He pictured himself lining up the deodorants and aftershaves on a shelf above his single bed. All thirty six of them. He wanted to blow his brains out.
(end - except this isn’t actually where the story will end)
Byeeeeeeee