Little Green Door

n.b. For this Fiction Challenge we had to write anything fictional in any form, including the words vessel, extinguish and market.

It's very interesting for me, who usually only writes when the universe moves me, to write fiction to a deadline. In fact, I questioned my ability to do it at all. I looked at the clock tonight once the children were in bed and I had spoken to a friend on the phone and saw that it was 9.30pm. I nearly didn't write this piece. I thought that I wouldn't have anywhere near enough time to throw anything together. But for a first draft I am over the moon with it. In fact, I think that I like it so much that I might keep working on it.
Yay for our blog and it pushing my boundaries!

Little Green Door

The terraces in Abercrombie Street sat back from the tree lined road upright and statuesque. Gabled windows like hooded eyes, glaring in judgement at the little wooden workman's cottages that dotted the street amongst them. The cottages sprawled, some of them shedding their splintered timbers into unkempt yards that were framed by small rusted cyclone-wired fences. Their size and disarray gave them the kind of hang-dog look of a condemned man. It was only a matter of time until they too would be transformed. They were vessels waiting to be filled with modular leather lounges, flat screen TV's and Laura Ashley linens. But only once they had been squared off, set right, extended, and painted from the same palettes as their superiors, in their pretty uniform party dresses.

Oh the new Newtown gentry knew how to extinguish character from a perfectly friendly little street, Bob thought, as he sat on his front verandah watching the women with prams parade up and down the footpath. He watched the sunlight play through the trees onto the path and spat a piece of orange pith into the long grass beside him, wiping the juice from his chin with his sleeve, swearing silently as it made its way into a shaving cut and stang smartly. That bloke from the real estate had come by again, said he had buyers for the house, a likely story! He wouldn't bloody sell it to them anyway, if that was what they were going to do with it. He stared at the house opposite,that no longer resembled the house it had once been. And if he sold more of them would move in too. No, he couldn't be responsible for more of those people in the street, or in the suburb for that matter. He didn't freakin care if the market was “red hot.” He thought of the real estate fella again and snorted audibly, though there was no one to hear him.

The woman across the road was coming out of the house with the florescent yellow door. The door had always been a bit of a mystery to Bob. He hated the poofy muted colours that “those people” in the street had painted their houses. But he hated that florescent door more. It just illustrated his point, weirdos...the lot of them.

Sara was in a hurry. She ushered the kids out the door and over to the car “chop chop”. The truth was that she was always in a hurry. From this to that, no time to think. Yet what did she really do? She wondered as she strapped Henry into his car seat. Crap....the registration papers, she thought, and told the boys that she just had to pop back into the house to grab something. She wasn't really thinking of anything other than retrieving the papers when she put the key in the lock and started to turn it. Then, as if she had not noticed it for the last 8 years, she suddenly realised that the door was still that disgusting, god-awful yellowy/green colour. She stopped, mid-turn with the key. It wasn't the colour so much that offended her, though that was what had annoyed her initially. No, what bothered her was that it was still that colour 8 years later, and all that that represented.