Librarians believe in Ranganathan’s five rules which include for every book its reader and for every reader his or her book. I don’t know if there’s a similar rule for real estate agents and houses, but one thing is for sure – it’d be very hard to write the sale blurbs for some properties.
With that in mind, here’s my 500 word story for the AWC’s Furious Fiction challenge for August. This month the requirement was to include the following adjectives: “shiny, silver”, “cold and greasy”, “scratched and weather-worn”, “sweet and pungent”, “ink-stained” and “shrill, piercing” and one of them had to be in the first line.
Fixer-upper
Screwed to the gate post are three shiny, silver numbers which make everything behind them look shabby. Unfortunately, behind them is the house I’m supposed to sell.
I hope the owner’s niece doesn’t expect a miracle.
I cram the hatchback between the lilac bush busily devouring the driveway and the scratched and weather-worn fence. The old house crouches beside a main road and its blistered, sun-ravaged face stares down the barrel of another busy street.
Bad Feng Shui.
I sigh and write off eighty-six percent of potential Asian investors right there.
Two steps from the gate and I’m nosing the warped front door.
No yard, no privacy.
Inside, the sullen curtains in the front windows cast the bedrooms into gloom. I write off ninety percent of young families, too.
Street noise, stranger danger and random, passing perverts peering through your bedroom windows.
I cross to the side window and eyeball the house next door. It’s so close you could lean out and shake hands with the neighbours. I wonder if they know what happened, if the owner’s niece contacted them, like she contacted the realty, gushing words down the phone: ‘Aunt Winnie broke her hip. She can’t live there alone. Good thing she was here when she had her fall. She’ll have to sell.’
I touch the windowsill and my fingers find scratched letters where a blister of paint has peeled back to reveal childhood’s vandalism. Winnie Warden. Miss Winifred Jane Warden. Winnie Andino. Mrs G. Andino.
Suddenly, it’s not the shrill, piercing voice of Miss Warden’s niece in my head, but Lissa’s smoky, whiskey brogue. She lounges on tangled sheets, twisting her dark hair around ink-stained fingers, telling me about Cathy and Heathcliff and doomed love.
I snatch my hand away. I don’t believe in ghosts. Or love.
I stride down the linoleum-slick hall, glancing into small, grim rooms. Bathroom. Lounge. Dining. The kitchen cabinets cluster together as if they don’t trust the Formica table or the lace-shrouded windows.
No benches, no dishwasher, no bloody hope.
I drag open the cold and greasy bolt on the back door and fight the fly-screen to get outside as fast as I can. I’m three steps down the path before the sweet and pungent scent hits me and I stop and stare at a garden paradise.
Forget the house. This I can sell.
Can I help you, love?” a voice asks.
I spin around. There’s a man standing in the rose arch between this garden and the equally gorgeous one next door. He’s old and flamboyantly camp, but he’s quick. He sees the realty logo on my shirt and asks sharply, “Is Winnie alright?”
“Who are you?” I blurt out.
“Her neighbour.” He puts out his hand. “George Andino. Tell me she’s alright.”
“She broke her hip and can’t live here alone.” I echo Miss Warden’s niece.
“She won’t be alone,” he says. “I’ve been her best friend for sixty-two years.”
Lissa was right. It’s doomed love, no sale, and a miracle.
