Johnny and the pram
Someone leaves the pram here, in the alley at the side of the house. It is old, with huge iron wheels and a big black hood. I wheel it into the kitchen, and all morning I step around it, putting away the dishes, folding the washing.
After a while I realise it would be easier to put the dishes and the washing into the pram. I start in the darkest corner and stack everything carefully. I take the cutlery from the drawers, and napkins, and saucepans. I cover everything with a blanket and wheel it out of the house, and into the road.
I push the pram for hours until it gets dark, then I come home and put everything away again, and put the pram in the little room with the washing machine and the freezer. When Johnny comes home, I don’t mention anything about it. He is hungry, and I haven’t cooked anything, so he goes out again, slamming the door behind him.
The next day I do the same thing, but this time I fill the pram with clothes and books, and I wheel it to the park. There are other women with prams and pushchairs, who smile at me, and try to peep, but I walk quickly past them, until I come to the big duck pond. Then I empty everything from my pram into the water. There is a splash, and soon after, fabric and paper swirl up to the top of the pond, drifting apart in strands.
Every day I take something else from the house, put it into the pram, and throw it away somewhere. At the weekend, when Johnny is home, I feel anxious that I cannot fill the pram. Johnny is hunting through the wardrobe.
‘Where’s my blue t-shirt?’ he asks.
I shrug, and he slams the wardrobe door shut.
‘What’s wrong with you?’ he says.
On Monday, I take the stereo and ditch it in the canal, then I go back again for the computer. Ornaments, photographs, records, jewellery, telephones, clocks: they all go into the pram. The house is becoming quieter, bigger.
When Johnny comes home on Friday night, he thinks we have been burgled. I tell him yes. They even took the carpets. There is nothing left. He runs around the house, up and down stairs, opening all the doors and drawers, searching, while I stand in the kitchen, with my hand on the empty black pram, and wait.
Petra said,
March 10, 2009 at 1:01 pm
I’m loving this! So many interpretations!
mand said,
March 10, 2009 at 1:06 pm
Made me sad.
That’s a good thing. ‘Made me’ is of course always a good thing in a story.
thebeardedlady said,
March 10, 2009 at 1:20 pm
Thank you both
I hope I’ll have some more stories up this week…………
benchic said,
March 25, 2009 at 9:35 am
Superb as always: subtle, complex, distinctly readable.
mand said,
March 25, 2009 at 3:00 pm
@3 Hope so! I’ve been missing you. 80)
thebeardedlady said,
March 25, 2009 at 6:05 pm
Thanks benchic. Nice comment.
Mand, honestly, I am being a bit rubbish at putting stuff up at the moment, I know. My stories keep getting longer and longer and turning into these great big 4000 word marathons. But I will keep flashing! The stories are coming…
mand said,
March 25, 2009 at 6:19 pm
Fair enough – i haven’t been keeping up brilliantly with my own stuff and it seems a lot of other people are in the same state for one reason or another. Must be the weather! (It wasn’t a complaint, just encouragement.)
emma said,
October 25, 2009 at 8:09 pm
Another fantastic story!
Your stuff is so provocative.
thebeardedlady said,
October 25, 2009 at 10:43 pm
Thanks emma.
Sometimes I am accused of ‘going too far’ and being extreme.
emma said,
October 26, 2009 at 9:15 am
Don’t you feel, when you receive that kind of criticism, that you’re doing something right? Artists are the edge-explorers.
thebeardedlady said,
October 26, 2009 at 11:25 am
I am always surprised to get that particular criticism, because I always feel that the extremes in my stories are justified!
I never think of myself as an artist; merely a writer. Are you an artist/writer, emma? I find that many, if not most, of my regular readers are writers themselves.
mand said,
October 26, 2009 at 1:20 pm
It occurs to me to wonder if you’ve ever contributed (or submitted) to GUD Magazine.
thebeardedlady said,
October 26, 2009 at 2:33 pm
I haven’t mand. But I will check them out. Thanks for the heads up.
emma said,
October 26, 2009 at 2:34 pm
But anyone who shares glimpses into other probabilities is an artist. And you certainly do do that.
I used to write, yes. Used to sing as well. Now I paint and study/practice astrology.
thebeardedlady said,
October 26, 2009 at 2:40 pm
I like your definition of ‘artist’.
(I’m an aries, emma, with gemini rising and a scorpio moon.)
emma, mand, and anyone else reading: you are more than welcome to send me links or email me about your work. Am happy to support others’ creative endeavours any way I can.
mand said,
October 26, 2009 at 3:17 pm
Leo with Moon in Gemini and Mercury in my Moon… hm… methinx Saggy rising (never can remember) and Venus in Virgo, woohoo.
I thought all writers were artists – even copywriters.
And since you ask ;0) i’ve just been on Tweet the Meat bit.ly/2rJyqa and less recently on Nanoism http://twitter.com/nanoism/status/3823787272 – more ‘properly’ in Ouroboros Review #3 http://www.ouroborosreview.com/ (page 42 iirc), and nowhere else except my blog. Oh, i write as mmSeason by the way.
Self-publicity? Moi?
mand said,
October 26, 2009 at 3:18 pm
That link didn’t show up – this will: http://twitter.com/tweetthemeat/status/5135974901
thebeardedlady said,
October 26, 2009 at 3:26 pm
Thanks mand, I’ll check it out!