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WRITERS EYES / ASCRIBER Uniting Writers Around The World Online Writing Group
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Ascriber / Writers Eyes Workshop - 1 Submission
Short Story
by Ciaran Murtagh
It was the dog that scared him. A woman with a dog is a pretty scary prospect. In his mind women with dogs were really women that wanted cats but needed an excuse to get out more. Women have cats for two reasons: as a substitute for a child or as a substitute for a boyfriend, it was the latter possibility that scared him. As long as they stuck to cats, they were generally fine; that kept them indoors and stopped them from bothering him. It gave them no excuse to casually strike up conversations with likely spouses in the park about when Fido did this or Rover did that. Laughing and apologising all the while as the dumb animal slobbered and jumped all over you, whilst secretly wishing they could do the same. A woman with a dog is a woman on the prowl, she watched '101 Dalmatians' not for the cartoons but for the dating tips. A woman with a dog is a pretty scary prospect, especially when they're looking straight at you.
She lived for these balmy summer evenings. The lake was her favourite spot for daydreams. Foxy preferred the park; there were other dogs to play with and swans to chase. But here by the lake she could sit and think, watch the butterflies dance among the reeds, enjoy the scent of the lavender floating on the breeze and flex her bare feet in the plush green grass. As the silhouette drifted closer she began to think of the conversation they were about to have. About the way the sunshine dappled on the water, about the intrinsic beauty and pleasure to be derived from a world we generally take for granted, about lots of things they would no doubt have in common. She smiled as he made his way towards her. She thought about the romantic evenings she and her soon to be beau would spend together sipping crisp white wine and devouring chocolate before making love on the hearthrug. She didn't own a hearthrug, mainly because she didn't own a hearth. But in her dreams that didn't matter and she felt sure that he did.
Normally he wouldn't have come past the lake but he was in a rush. He didn't like it down here. It stank. There was dog shit all over the footpath and rusting coke cans bobbed on the surface. He remembered pushing shopping trolleys down the embankment as a child. Sometimes he and his friend Geoff would get inside them and jump clear as they splashed into the water, whooping and cheering as the trolleys disappeared from view. It was deeper than people thought, even near the edge, and every summer there was a story on the news about someone drowning or being rescued, it didn't matter which. Another reason to steer clear. You also got the nutters down here. Not just the lonely hearts with their shaggy dogs and shag expectant smiles, but the real nutters. He'd been down here once as a kid, nine or maybe ten, just skimming stones and throwing sticks, when this old bloke had come up to him and asked him to show him his willy. Bold as brass, hands deep in his pockets, shuffling. He kneed the guy in the groin and legged it. He'd also been up here with Sharon, years later, fumbling on the grass. He smiled as he remembered this. There was something about the lake that made people dirty. Rules didn't apply and people indulged their fantasies, hidden from the world by bull rushes and darkness. He gazed up towards the girl with the dog. She wasn't bad looking. Maybe he would speak to her after all.
She never knew what to say in these moments. By the time the person had come close enough to talk, so much expectation had been placed onto the opening gambit that it never came out right. Foxy had stopped playing and was looking over, one ear pricked, tongue lolling. She could hear the gravel path crunching under his feet as he closed in. His pace was slowing. When she first noticed him he had been walking with a definite purpose, but not now. He smiled as she looked into his eyes, gulping down the wrong words and struggling for the right ones. She didn't want to be the first to speak, it should be the man that does that. It always was in the films she loved to watch. She smiled back at him and tried to breathe more slowly, encouraging him with her eyes and with her soul.
He could see that she was terrified. There was a look of panic in her eyes and she clutched the dog's lead a little tighter the closer he walked. He would have liked to say hello, ask her name, chat a bit and then move on. She seemed like a nice girl, lonely maybe, but well meaning and kind looking. He had no interest in her in that way, but a chat would have been nice, a moment of contact, a shared smile, he liked that. But you couldn't get away with it these days. He'd be seen as cracking onto her, making advances. What if she took it the wrong way? What if she thought he was up to something and screamed and yelled or set the dog on him? This world had become too risky all of a sudden. Too risky to talk. How tragic was that? He remembered seeing pictures of this place at school, before they'd built the factories on the other side and before it had become surrounded by the town. The lake was beautiful then, alone in itself, with nothing but the wild flowers and hedgerows to keep it company. He'd liked to have sat down in those pictures, looked out towards the horizon and dream a little. Maybe if it had still been that lake he'd have said hello to the girl in front of him, but that lake had gone. This lake attracted the wrong sort of person; it attracted the wrong sort of thoughts. Then he thought again, maybe it wasn't the lake that made people dirty, perhaps the water just reflected the world back to those that sat beside it. Somewhere there might be someone who still saw it as beautiful and full of life, like in the old pictures, but not him. He put his smile away and continued towards the town.
She watched as he walked away from her. He had been cute, she should have told him. One day she would know what to say. She loved the lake, with its butterflies and its colour. She called Foxy to her, put his lead back on and began the walk home. Alone again.
Comments Received
This story really kept my attention though I found it a little confusing as I've always believed you shouldn't change point of view in such a short story and I wasn't sure till the end if we were reading the thoughts of two people or a series of different people. The idea of the lake reflecting back the real world to the people sitting beside it was excellent and there was a real poignancy in the reality of two people not being able to strike up a casual conversation because of the state of the world.
Eleanor Dixon
Ciaran, this vignette impressed me because the opposite point of view of each character was shown without dialogue and that is no mean feat. I want to know more. What if they met again and some conflict in her life had spoiled the girl`s rosy prospect of life. Did the boy`s gloomy outlook become rosier for coming closer to her and was he able to help her through the trauma?
Dorothy Spry
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