Short story: Possessions

We all have different relationships with material things, for very different reasons...

Everything has a role in his home. A decorative purpose is acceptable, but this decorative purpose must be clearly defined and distinctive - the same decorative purpose cannot be claimed again by another article. What the object could be serving is an unmatched visual aesthetic, or its value relies on its memory-bearing characteristic. Like the beaded bust of an African man’s head, snagged in the Marrakech markets for an accommodating price, the result of some impressive back and forth. It now announces his triumph every time he enters the room. The Japanese vase harbours some resentment, however. The seller was quite short with him, dismissive of his inquiries into the journey it had traversed to this makeshift antique stall erected in the park one December day. The brusque temperament of a man with such beautiful items in his possession made him concerned for the welfare of the intricately etched piece of pottery, and so he did the noble thing and took ownership. A few days later, though, he was persistently targeted with a truly unnerving number of ads for online marketplaces which sold his vase in countless other colours. Tied up in this was undoubtedly a sense of embarrassment, as he’d been telling just about everyone of his act of liberating this vase. Now his own phone and its clear alliance with the enemy’s invasive marketing tactics taunted his foolishness. So there’s a corner of his living room he can’t help recoil at. He committed that day to knowing the tell-tale signs, and to report any cryptic crooks for illegal trading. Being pithy has absolutely no place in the antiques world, as his unfortunate interaction had proven. He would be the first to explain that to you now.

He’s also been converted to the necessity of the key bowl which he’d once resisted as nothing but a usurper of prime real estate, a hollowed ceramic of pure rubbish. Yet, these portals, passages and lockable items have a habit of accumulating mysteriously, so dashing out at a whim was indeed made easier with such an access point. His keys do, however, sit alongside the supermarket reward card and a castaway euro that can be reemployed for the shopping trolley. So, in due course, the key bowl should be re-baptised to a more accurate moniker, while a stocktake is definitely overdue. He prides himself on knowing each nook of his home the way he does each cranny of his own body.

Sometimes, though, he laments how his partner lacks the same… eye. When they first started seeing each other, she carelessly failed to disclose her love of fiddly bits. He initially viewed this as an endearing offshoot of a similarly altruistic nature to his own; she fostered trinkets, knick-knacks and other abandoned members of the bric-a-brac family when no one else would. But after moving in together after a very short stint of dating, and the sheen of rose-tinted glasses got grittier, her inclinations struck him less like those which belong to the charming female romantic lead. They had met at a colleague’s wedding. Now there’s an event that seems to aspire to superfluous attainment, between meaningless party bags for adults and brand new flip-flops for women with tired feet. Surely they could anticipate this and bring back-up footwear. She was only invited to the after party, but she had certainly dressed like a guest from the main event. Well, this was a fact he was practically instructed to take heed of. Standing at the bar, this woman in her finery approached him with conviction and a cocktail. “Take a guess at how much I paid for this outfit.”

She wore a garish, blue-floralled dress with a matching full-length overcoat in the same print. A pale yellow satin belt made a three-piece of her two-piece, and he did notice, for himself, its ability to highlight the golden quality of her hair. Something he knew from his Mother’s complaints took a lot of money and effort to maintain. He prefers longer lasting investments.

“Hi there. I’d rather not. I’m a bit clueless when it comes to women’s fashions.” “Oh, go on. I’m not easily offended by handsome men!”

He supposed his Mother did have great taste and she maintained it until the end.

“Okay. 300 euro?” “You’re going to love me, so… I’m a cheap date!”

They started going out to places she’d heard recommended. He was surprised at how good he seemed to be in this game. The conversations he’d figured were reserved for workplace mundanity actually translated here too, and quite effectively. She held onto his every word, even about the new HR policies that were making entering and leaving the building a real pain. He wasn’t sure what exactly they had in common but he was happy she hadn’t left. She said meeting him was like uncovering a rare gem. He said she was like a trustworthy peacock, maybe one with their talons cut short. She smiled a sort of demented smile. Walking hand-in-hand with a living thing sure did feel priceless. Or at least worth 300 euro.

He’d never shared his space before with anyone other than his Mother, but she was mighty insistent on their need to bring things to the next level romantically. The next level seemed funny: she commandeered the remote control, cackling at questionably-principled television shows, while he tried to drown out the noise of women fighting and read his papers. She exhausted the kitchenware before it would have needed replacing. She never tired of the seeming comicality around how badly his place needed “a woman’s touch!” She sometimes asked him for money to fund her interest in uninteresting things. He didn’t mind except that her blonde hair deceived her taste, and she really did love cheap. The more money he gave her, the more she’d just come home with. Gradually, she appeared to resemble the long-rumoured witch he grew up beside, whose sinister garden gnomes multiplied almost daily, despite her reclusive condition. He didn’t want his home to become more gnome than garden. For it to wield that same intimidation as his neighbour’s lawn. How had his girlfriend, this frivolous banshee woman, even known the bride or groom? He’d promised himself before to do better background checks after the fraudulent antique dealer, and he'd failed again. She’d curiosly started littering their coffee table with piles of library magazines about motherhood recently too, and he found some internet tabs left carelessly open. He’d heard about women synchronising their menstrual cycles with the phases of the moon, but she wasn’t the source, nor was he aware of her budding interest in lunar activity. He supposed he didn’t know much about her interests beyond collecting the miserable souvenirs of other people. Perhaps these recent searches could explain the influx of crystals and gemstones that lined the bed frame above their heads, which she ritualistically felt up after lights out, mumbling under her breath while looking at the lantern of the sky beginning its night shift. He loved having a girlfriend at first. A home, a girlfriend and a job – a trifecta whose honing brought with it undeniable social capital. Her purpose had been more than acceptable. A pleasing appearance and an ability to conjure in him fond memories of the successful first impression he must have made at the bar. It would be hard to replicate, not to mention a lot of wasted effort down the drain. But after making the witch connection, he felt on the cusp of gagging in each of the sparing moments he had to run into her. On an afternoon when she returned from her weekly visit to the vintage outlets and charity shops, and during their debrief of what she referred to as her “spoils”, there was a much more stifled air than usual. And she finally felt it too. He normally feigned awe, while justifying the “perfect” locations for her foundlings to live (covert positions which would not offend those things of his that served much clearer purposes.) Today, however, he refused to allow the conspiring gnomes to win. He would assert himself and in doing so, hopefully, he could extract and kill the witch inside.

“Honey, do you not feel like our home is becoming a bit… Shop of Curiosities?”

“Well, if it weren’t for me, this home would be soulless.”

“I’m not saying we need complete minimalism in here. I’d just like things to make sense. I mean, I’m not sure you even drink Hendrick’s, do you? But you’re using an empty bottle for dried plants. I don’t get it.”

“It’s stylish, where your approach is more… serial killer.” She passes him the plastic wrapping from her new 50-pack of wedding cards. “You can start with this to prep the murder site.”

“Okay, then. Style aside... What about this shelf of arts and crafts paraphernalia – I’m not sure they are activities that you partake in? There’s this Russian doll set of unused painting canvases and an old sewing machine that I’ve never heard running. And in fact, an actual Russian doll set over there too. Unopened.”

“You’re always diminishing my passions.”

“It seems like your passion is for hoarding.” And he’ll be damned if she gets on to gnomes next. “How can you call me a hoarder? You don’t buy anything new! You’ve had that bike of yours for 10 years and it’s falling apart!”

He was quite incensed by her harsh words – he regretted bringing anything up. That bike still more than aptly serves its purpose, getting him from A to B, and even if it wasn’t the newest model, it was beautiful. Why replace something that still works perfectly? The difference with her is that she wants 100 gnomes in their home. She stomped demonstrably into another room and began blasting that music he loathes. That which sounds like the soundtrack to a midwifery college; a chorus of newborns, each competing with their unique call that summons the milk carrier. A perpetual whine that someone voluntarily invites into their life? Along with the abundance of miscellaneous infant clutter, and the self-reproducing pile of dirty laundry, he couldn’t understand the draw. The potential for property damage alone had him break out in a cold sweat. He didn’t know if he’d ever be willing to relocate his glass coffee table, but a toddler and all its implications would be too much of a liability. Add to that the shared custody with a witch. His request for her “music” to be lowered produced the opposite effect, so he went to grab the keys for his reliable bike, from the reliable key bowl. But they weren't among the host of the other (ridiculous number of) keys. Perhaps he’d find them with a deep thrust into his jacket pocket, that of the one timeless jacket that seamlessly transports him from the duration of Autumn to the beginning of Winter, at which point he unseals the vac-pack for his one puffer coat. He rushed to it and rifled through, but as he’d already guessed, it wasn’t in the company of his unused tissue, ink pen and ID card, which were a permanent trio and not looking for new members. He was about to burst in through their bedroom door in serious inquiry, but she had locked it. That’s how much she adores keys. He couldn’t believe the thought would ever cross his mind, but there was nowhere else the keys could be; he must have left them in the lock. He ran to the front window, violently near-pulling the curtain off its tracks, only to have an unfamiliar fear confirmed. Confirmed with an empty space in front of the bush. The thing that got him from A to B was gone. His precious, most loyal possession was gone. But in its designated place was some other piece of crap, not his accused-crap. He knew his bike wasn’t useless, as the preference of the bicycle thief indicated. But then again, the criminals in this lawless town just get a kick out of this kind of thing too. Keys hanging on like that from the lock, he may as well have wrapped a bow around it too. His collection of what he needed in life had been so nearly complete, and within one night he had assessed that two potential things needed replacing. This is her fault too, he raged, knowing he hasn’t got the capacity for neglecting to take the utmost care of anything he owns. The stress induced by her witchlike disposition of late was to blame. Her propensity for burdening his home and head is why he left his keys in his bike. It wasn't just about her, though – he could pinpoint the moment he realised that children were out of the question. Once sitting on a park bench, he watched the parents of a young child follow its breadcrumb trail of destruction. The child had no respect for his belongings and treated them as wholly dispensable. His rattle, rattled once, then dropped. A few overexcited steps taken. The bottle, begged for. Shook manically, then dropped. A few more steps taken in the direction of the ducks. The goose teddy, presented to placate the baby’s ego after the ducks’ rejection, thrown forcefully in the duck’s path. These parents were chasing after him, picking up what he recklessly left in his wake. They should’ve been teaching him a lesson, but he also appreciated the futility of negotiating with a terrorist.

He felt the same way towards his girlfriend at home on the night of the bike robbery, so he wasn’t sticking around. He reluctantly sat atop this new saddled vehicle that had been offered either for the robber’s convenience, or as some sort of penance. This saddle was black – compared to what he had owned, the less common brown leather which made his bike easy to identify in a sea of saddles. Even if the sponge absorbed rainwater through the cracked plastic, which his bottom later reabsorbed. He cycled aimlessly, trying to get accustomed with the unrecognisable habits and quirks of this alien transportation. What pained him most was that it was a lookalike, but just a blue version of his original white. And it worked really well. Much better, in fact. His own bike was disgracefully stubborn. His mudguard constantly shifted in place, sometimes pressing on the wheel, making the cycle tough work. This one pushed him along with the lightest breeze, he barely had to do anything before he was overtaking multiple cycling peers. He and this replacement bike were working as a team, almost immediately. He had nowhere to go but didn’t care, because he felt so free. Before long, he was thinking about how he was going to get the best lock for this bike. He caught himself and an enormous guilt washed over him. How could he move on so quickly? And what would his bike think of this indiscretion? Yes, his mudguard was fussy, but the sound of copulating metal and rubber while shuffling up and down the wheel substituted for the bell he was missing, to alert other cyclists ahead of him. That was teamwork. He failed to protect her, and this is how he repaid her? He’d ring the police tomorrow and not rest until he knew she wasn’t lost in vain. Insurance was a scam, and something he believed merely a way to circumvent responsibility. He flung the seductress on the ground.

Bikes had always been a thing of power. It was the first representation of his independence during his childhood. The bike gang he travelled with in his housing estate assured him belonging. His Mother always knew where he and his little brother were by looking out the front window and seeing all the bikes thrown down on a patch of grass in front of a house. Although those curtains were practically sewn shut after his brother was gone. She took it as hard as any Mother would when he got sick. At nine years old, he couldn’t understand what was so unfixable about his seven year old brother’s health. He’d been to the doctor many times himself and always bounced back. His brother eventually became so weak that joining the bike gang around the estate wasn’t feasible anymore, and so they stayed in the back garden. The only energy his brother could muster was to catch the ball he threw to him, seated. It’s the sole thing that made him smile during that period. Even if a faint smile, it had the most likeness to joy than any expression he’d seen from his brother in weeks. They spent hours playing catch in the run up to his death, maybe even three days before. He decided thereafter that the back garden and the ball was his happy place too. The bike gang rang his doorbell on multiple occasions before understanding that he wasn’t going to ever answer. No longer having someone at the receiving end of the ball, he diversified his skillset slightly. He began kicking. Really hard. And really high. He broke shed windows with the force. Until one day a boot into the sky saw the ball land in his neighbour’s garden. She, who had not been seen in months, appeared suddenly at the crumbling wall which divided their gardens. He never heard her door open. He’d forgotten what she looked like and it was more grim than the sight from his nightmares. Hues of purple and green were punctuated by glassy white marbles in hollowed sockets, like a moon in an ink puddle, and skin as weathered as their shared wall. She lifted the ball above her head of wiry hair that could be confused for the overgrown vines and branches in her possession. With the other hand, she uncovered a double-edged dagger while introducing a smile as faint as his lost brother’s. She pierced the ball and they both watched the air go out of it. She cackled, floated back inside and he never saw her again.

A few days later, as he and his Mother sat watching TV, he burst into tears. “I just wish I could’ve done something to help him, Mum.” His Mother didn’t turn her face from the TV but said both quietly and sharply, “You couldn’t take care of a ball, let alone your brother.”

After walking the distance he had earlier cycled, he arrived home, where his girlfriend had finally ceased torturing her eardrums. He stepped inside where she was waiting in their doorway, much softer.

“Do you like your new bike?” A genuine smile. “What?” “Well, it’s not new exactly. I know you don’t like replacing stuff. But I got your bike repaired – your mudguard’s fixed, he added a bell and he put on a new lick of paint too. He didn’t have any white, sorry.”

He stayed silent.

“I’m sorry too that I’ve been a bit… hormonal, lately. But there’s a reason for that.”

He didn’t know how much more he could handle.

“We’re pregnant.”

He ran back to the place he earlier flung his bike, but it was gone.

Post-writing reflection:

• I would like to write this again from his perspective, which would better integrate his own authentic voice and easier serve a deep dive into his emotional conflict. I opted for a biased narrator that appears to share humorously in some of his bizarre ideals. But it may have been restrictive.

• His own narration might also have made the way for more action, and I'd play with the tenses – much of this story is unfortunately background and exposition. Which can take away from a sense of suspense or high stakes.

• This structural setup wasn't the most conducive to show, don't tell.

• I would vary sentence lengths and experiment more with concise prose for clarity's sake. It's a bit dense in parts, because of the quirkiness of the protagonist. I am still learning to be economical in creative writing, which is something I'm stronger at in my day-to-day job.