Hi all. This is another story I wrote for character development. It might not do the job of describing either character very thoroughly, but I like the atmosphere. Also, I quite like it as it is, I don't mind seeing this as a whole story, but I am certain others would disagree. Please let me know what you think.
A great hulking blob appears on the floor, a shadow looming out of the entrance to the underpass. If you are lucky enough, you may witness this phenomenon every day at 7.30am on the Junction 3 roundabout underpass, right where the riverside path meanders through the concrete tunnels that reverberate with bike bells and smashing glass, and if you come back at 7.30pm, you will see it recede back towards the river.
So let us watch it emerge. The inky black grows and pools, a creak is heard. A rusted shopping trolley creeps out of the tunnel piled high. The main bulk of this is made up formless bundles hidden under a giant tarpaulin tethered down with bungee cords. There are various items, pans and plates, hanging outside of the bundle, that create the rhythm section to the squeaking melody of the rusty wheels. There will appear to be no-one steering this craft, and then as it floats by, you will see her. The trolley acts as her walking frame. The handle bar is at head height, her body is bent double, her neck higher than her head, her arms stretched up. She will move steadfastly, seemingly oblivious to the bells and breaking. She alters her speed for no-one.
Once through the tunnel, she fills her day by simply doing the rounds of the orbital path. We watch her pace the path one step at a time with the concentration of a Zen master. She will not stop and she will not talk. Her bright brown eyes will look right through you as if you were not there at all. She is walking her own labyrinth.
I decide to dedicate twelve hours to observing her. 7.30am-7.30pm in one go. There is no change, no difference. I try to get her attention, I try to talk, to stop her in her path, to wave and gesticulate. Every time she approaches, she slowly and methodically eases her trolley past me and pushes on by. Her hair is white and thin, wispy and fine, it hangs in hanks over her liver spotted scalp. She wears strange clothes; trainers and jeans, a Jimi Hendrix t-shirt and a scarf. But she will not tell me anything, physical appearance is all we have. I have mused upon who she might be many times, brought it up as chit-chat in the pub, but there is only so much to talk about given these limitations. I hope my vigil reveals something about her life, for someone who gives away so little, who does not seem to acknowledge any part of the here and now, gives rise to thoughts of the uncanny and supernatural. But then, my friends are quick to remind me, there is nothing more prosaic, more ordinary, more upsetting and real than a ninety-plus year old lady living homeless in an underpass.
The hour of her disappearance is drawing near. I decide to place myself next to the river, on the other side of the tunnel from the orbital and wait to see where she goes in the evening. My ears prick for the creak and strain, for the clatter that will announce her arrival. It is here! I see the penumbra of the blob like shadow edge forth, and soon she is birthed. She stops next to me. Slowly slowly she removes the tarpaulin from the trolley. With gnarled hands, she unclips a carefully orchestrated number of bungees, just enough for her to plunge her hand deep into the trolley, through the bars. Her scrawny arm feels around blindly, she seems stuck. I am so engrossed in my anthropological activity and so used to her total blank, that I do not move, I do not offer. I am almost rendered inhuman in the face of her commitment to ignoring any person. But she slowly begins to extract her arm. Her little lumpy fist is closed at the end of it. She slowly swivels to me, her arm outstretched and step by step moves at me. I am ashamed that I am so scared. The blood is thumping in my ears and I am sweating. The hand moves closer, and her face moves up, her eyes see me, drill into me. She stops, grabs my arm with amazing strength and opens her fist finger by finger to reveal a gold ingot the size of a toffee. She stands, again frozen, again looking through rather than at me. The only way to re-start the automaton will be to take the gold. I know this. I do not want it, for I cannot shake the feeling that a curse will fall upon me; that I might start to circumvent the orbital every day for twelve hours. But eventually, of course I take it. Predictably she moves. Swivels almost, arms outstretched, hands waiting to clutch the trolley handle, she blindly shuffles forwards. She pushes her trolley up the slope towards the road, full of beeping, fumes and power walking. There has been a white car idling, its exhaust rhythmically pumping out as I have been mesmerised. She abandons the trolley, opens the door with blackened windows and hops in, all at once in a smooth movement with no trouble, limbs greased and nimble. I am left. I close my fist on the gold and cry a bit. I make my way home to my tea and the pub and polite trivial existence.
A great hulking blob appears on the floor, a shadow looming out of the entrance to the underpass. If you are lucky enough, you may witness this phenomenon every day at 7.30am on the Junction 3 roundabout underpass, right where the riverside path meanders through the concrete tunnels that reverberate with bike bells and smashing glass, and if you come back at 7.30pm, you will see it recede back towards the river.
So let us watch it emerge. The inky black grows and pools, a creak is heard. A rusted shopping trolley creeps out of the tunnel piled high. The main bulk of this is made up formless bundles hidden under a giant tarpaulin tethered down with bungee cords. There are various items, pans and plates, hanging outside of the bundle, that create the rhythm section to the squeaking melody of the rusty wheels. There will appear to be no-one steering this craft, and then as it floats by, you will see her. The trolley acts as her walking frame. The handle bar is at head height, her body is bent double, her neck higher than her head, her arms stretched up. She will move steadfastly, seemingly oblivious to the bells and breaking. She alters her speed for no-one.
Once through the tunnel, she fills her day by simply doing the rounds of the orbital path. We watch her pace the path one step at a time with the concentration of a Zen master. She will not stop and she will not talk. Her bright brown eyes will look right through you as if you were not there at all. She is walking her own labyrinth.
I decide to dedicate twelve hours to observing her. 7.30am-7.30pm in one go. There is no change, no difference. I try to get her attention, I try to talk, to stop her in her path, to wave and gesticulate. Every time she approaches, she slowly and methodically eases her trolley past me and pushes on by. Her hair is white and thin, wispy and fine, it hangs in hanks over her liver spotted scalp. She wears strange clothes; trainers and jeans, a Jimi Hendrix t-shirt and a scarf. But she will not tell me anything, physical appearance is all we have. I have mused upon who she might be many times, brought it up as chit-chat in the pub, but there is only so much to talk about given these limitations. I hope my vigil reveals something about her life, for someone who gives away so little, who does not seem to acknowledge any part of the here and now, gives rise to thoughts of the uncanny and supernatural. But then, my friends are quick to remind me, there is nothing more prosaic, more ordinary, more upsetting and real than a ninety-plus year old lady living homeless in an underpass.
The hour of her disappearance is drawing near. I decide to place myself next to the river, on the other side of the tunnel from the orbital and wait to see where she goes in the evening. My ears prick for the creak and strain, for the clatter that will announce her arrival. It is here! I see the penumbra of the blob like shadow edge forth, and soon she is birthed. She stops next to me. Slowly slowly she removes the tarpaulin from the trolley. With gnarled hands, she unclips a carefully orchestrated number of bungees, just enough for her to plunge her hand deep into the trolley, through the bars. Her scrawny arm feels around blindly, she seems stuck. I am so engrossed in my anthropological activity and so used to her total blank, that I do not move, I do not offer. I am almost rendered inhuman in the face of her commitment to ignoring any person. But she slowly begins to extract her arm. Her little lumpy fist is closed at the end of it. She slowly swivels to me, her arm outstretched and step by step moves at me. I am ashamed that I am so scared. The blood is thumping in my ears and I am sweating. The hand moves closer, and her face moves up, her eyes see me, drill into me. She stops, grabs my arm with amazing strength and opens her fist finger by finger to reveal a gold ingot the size of a toffee. She stands, again frozen, again looking through rather than at me. The only way to re-start the automaton will be to take the gold. I know this. I do not want it, for I cannot shake the feeling that a curse will fall upon me; that I might start to circumvent the orbital every day for twelve hours. But eventually, of course I take it. Predictably she moves. Swivels almost, arms outstretched, hands waiting to clutch the trolley handle, she blindly shuffles forwards. She pushes her trolley up the slope towards the road, full of beeping, fumes and power walking. There has been a white car idling, its exhaust rhythmically pumping out as I have been mesmerised. She abandons the trolley, opens the door with blackened windows and hops in, all at once in a smooth movement with no trouble, limbs greased and nimble. I am left. I close my fist on the gold and cry a bit. I make my way home to my tea and the pub and polite trivial existence.