Storyclash

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Opening Chapter of “Hopper” – Debut Novel

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Friday, July 22nd – 6:06am – 17ºC/63ºF

Hopper stood alone in his vest, ironing. In a cheap rented room lit by a thick black wire slung out from the window and loosely connected to the street lighting outside, he smoothed out the creases of each note, a couple of fives, a ten maybe but nothing larger. Straightening out the folds, carefully smoothing out each corner before slipping them back into his wallet, an old fold of leather with the stitch of someone else’s name half plucked from the corner seam. A line of floss still hung from his teeth and if you looked over his shoulder, you could just make out the small shrine he’d built for her; photos, old champagne corks, restaurant receipts and ticket stubs – an old drawing of her while she slept. Friday, July 22nd, a little after 6am on what would be the hottest day of the year.

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First published in the literary anthology:
What Happened to Us These Last Couple Years? – An Anthology of the Bush Years, 2000 to 2008
Contains essays, fiction, correspondence, art, photography, humor, and poetry.
Edited by David Barringer

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Holding his breath now in the damp single room of a side-street hotel only a hundred yards or so from the mortar fire, he locked himself in concentration. His mind on single track, focussed, sidelining the blasts outside as he sat poised, holding the bartered scalpel blade over the steam of a kettle boiling over. Ready now. Trembling slightly. His nerves, his fingers like fuses ready to trip, poised to any sudden movement, ready to pull back from any sudden sound. In a dim lit room without heating, in one of the few buildings left standing he folded himself up under the bare 40watt lamp, leaning over the small token table and with the small sterile blade he carefully cut her out of the last photograph. With a little glue and a sterile pair of tweezers he teased her sun-drenched image in amongst the others. Delicately positioning her into the final space right on the edge of the frame as a blast rocked the sidewall, another claiming the street below. Lamps shaking, cries heard, plaster cracking and dust everywhere. Each flake spinning in the half-light like tinsel, falling over the work he wiped preciously clean with his sleeve. The bare white groove on his wedding finger now collecting dust.

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From “Snapshots”, a book of monologues currently being written

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His face was like a national anthem. Always had that pride thing going on. Especially when he reached his late thirties but he’d still spit down the centre of stairwells just to watch that little line of silver pirouette to the ground. He loved it. That satisfying pancake sound as it slapped the tiles three or four floors below. He could spit through the gap in his teeth, even though he spent thousands trying to get them sorted. I never even imagined that he could get upset. That he could be sat in tears. Didn’t even think he worried about things. He always seemed so confident. Always had that sales thing running through him, even after work. That competitive streak. Like he was born with it. Like it was concentrated in his blood. Always seemed so sure of himself . . .

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