Emma+Shi

Australian Representations Creative Writing - 'The Flow' Macbeth

Short story - first draft

Sunlight was blinding as it shone down into the street. Houses shown bright. Their white washed walls gleaming. The glass on windows flashed under the sun's scrutiny. Curtains were drawn. Faces peered out from under curtains, eyes wide. Every flower seemed to be in full bloom in gardens surrounded by white picket fences and neat hedges. Roses, daisies, daffodils, lilies. All blazing and blooming, luminous. They matched the houses perfectly. The air was warm but not hot. A cool breeze descended ruffling leaves on trees. It was not buffeting, it was just right.

Near the end of this faultless street, the last house in the street was tucked carefully behind a wisteria arbour. This house had gleaming white washed walls where not even a fleck of dust could be seen under the scrutiny of the sun. The white picket fence glittered from its fresh coat of paint. The hedges were trimmed the neatest, not a leave out of place. All the flowers in the yard bloomed its brightest. This house was, without a doubt, the brightest of the entire street.

This was the house of Mary Smith.

Mary who loved to dress in bright purple spent most of her time outdoors with her beadle, indulging the pleasure of her garden. She took pleasure in the flowers and the hedges. They were the neatest, brightest and healthiest on the entire street, but no one seemed to notice. Mary could not have cared less.

As she clipped and pruned her hedges, a pair was chatting animatedly just before her gate. Or so it would seem. Mary paused in her clipping, suddenly intrigued by the shrill voice of one of the pair that seemed to be the only voice emitted from the pair. The owner of the voice, a small plump woman stood almost right before her.

The woman did not see. She did not see the purple clad women standing a mere few feats before behind the fence. She continued to talk. Little known to her, but noticed by Mary, was that her companion had begun to fidget. The other woman plucked at a loose string on her coat, her eyes staring into a point behind her.

“My garden is blooming so well, I daresay the roses would be the brightest in town!” the woman continued to speak, waving her hands dramatically.

“Oh, yes, yes, I say it is the brightest in the whole street…” her companion answered. The string finally came loose.

They walked on.

Mary felt her heart constrict. She wiped away sweat that had gathered on her forehead. I must be getting old she thought. I should rest. Walking in slightly lopsided manner, she limped into the house. For Mary Smith, she would never take that path again standing up.

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“Poor lady, if it wasn’t for that beadle of hers, she would have never been found!”

“Poor dear!”

“She used to be such the sweetest schoolteacher.”

Quiet murmurs erupted around the room. A modest parlour was brimming with guests, clumped in little groups around the side. White flowers were strewn across the room, occupying every surface and orifice. Outside, the sun shone brightly, just like always, gleaming off the whitewashed walls and gardens.

Mary Smith lay in her coffin at the centre of the parlour. Her small and fragile figure clothed in green and swathed in white cloth. Around the coffin were placed white roses, but guests had long moved away after disposing of their bouquets. It was quite as she rested.

Mary had never been a loud person, she had long stopped to attend missionary circles and social events. Civilities seemed rather trivial to her. She chose to retire into her own garden with her beloved beadle. Earlier, she had been a nurse. She remembered once she had fallen off her roof clearly her gutters. She had lain there, on the ground for quite some time before she finally found her breath and sat up. No one came. And that was where her limp came from.

Once again, Mary found herself laying down. But this time, she was being carried on final time. Carried away into true peace, past her garden, down the street where the sun shone mockingly down on white washed walls, to the church graveyard. This would be her last time.

Sunlight was blinding as it shone down into the street. Houses shown bright. Their white washed walls gleaming. The glass on windows flashed under the sun's scrutiny. Curtains were drawn. Faces peered out from under curtains, eyes wide. Every flower seemed to be in full bloom in gardens surrounded by white picket fences and neat hedges. Roses, daisies, daffodils, lilies. All blazing and blooming, luminous. They matched the houses perfectly. The air was warm but not hot. A cool breeze descended ruffling leaves on trees. It was not buffeting, it was just right.

Stones and statues stood crooked under the sunlight. Moss and ivy had long overgrown some, obscuring their inscription. A bouquet had begun to rot, its petals blowing forlornly across long weeds. There was a new addition to their ranks. It read simply:

Mary Smith

Not even a date.

She had been a nurse and she had the brightest and neatest garden in the street.