Backhand Stories: The Creative Writing Blog

I sit in my small, one bed roomed flat above Sebastian’s Nightclub. Below, music throbs. Outside, drunks shout and brawl. Nightly, police sirens wail, disturbing my sleep, disturbing my peace. Daily, shoppers and office workers dash to and fro unaware of the constant disturbance that occurs well after the stores have closed.

On a sofa, in front of the window, two dummies sit erect. One dummy, a male, wears a fair wig. The other, a female, has brown hair, fibrous to touch. Outside, down in the puke stained street, if someone cares to look up, they will see two dummies heads through flimsy curtains and, hopefully, presume I have company.

Though my companions are mute, I can tell my their sour expressions that they too dislike the noise and stench of take away food that seeps through a hole in the rotten window frame, permeating the air like stale sweat. Tonight, a bitter finger of wind streams through that hole, ruffling my dummy’s frilly dress as if she trembles with shock or maybe fear.

But this has been my home since I fled the country of my birth and I describe to my silent friends, stretches of lush fields of my youth. I tell them about my mother, stout and comfortable, keeping our sturdy farm house spotless. I weep, even now in my dotage, as I recall her delicious Goulash, her rough, gentle fingers wiping dirt from my face. I speak of my father, broad in shoulder, short in stature, whose lips, when smiling, cracked wide open like a brown nut in autumn.

And, as I reminisce, my companions nod their heads as if my language is their own and I promise that, when I pass through this lonely mortal life, I will soar like a bird over seas and countries until I reach my beloved homeland.