There’s not a cloud in the brilliant blue sky and the Harbour Bridge is stark, bold and black against the clear background. The blue is reflected in the sea, calm and smooth with just the wash of the ferries to break up the colour. Joanne drives across the Bridge, the windows are all down, and the warm breeze blows wisps of hair across her brown face. The music is loud and her long tanned fingers tap out the tune on the steering wheel. She’s been asked to choose between yesterday and tomorrow.
“What a weird theme for a story” she muses. And she turns the music up even louder and throws her shaggy blond mane back into the wind.
“Yesterday. I remember the weather was beautiful, it was hot, maybe a bit sticky but down at the beach it was perfect. I sat on the soft sand, nestling my bum into the dip and ran my fingers through the tiny soft grains. The sea gently rolled in. It was hypnotic really. The water rolled to the shore then returned to the sea to just repeat the pattern again.
Will it do that tomorrow?
Back on the beach, I waded aimlessly but also intentionally through the waves to the cafe. I’m a latte a day girl. That’s me.
Will there be coffee tomorrow?
After the beach I went back to my flat. My beautiful new apartment, slick and contemporary, minimalistic and easy to live in. But comfy with a little balcony and views to the sea. There I sat and just took in the view. I remember my book just slid off my lap and folded in a bit of a heap on the ground.
What will happen to my flat tomorrow?”
“Tomorrow. I”ll just make it up. Who’s to know what I say to the wind. She changes the CD to a loud thumping rock and her fingers jive around the gear stick and dance back and forwards to the steering wheel.”
“It’s going to piss with down with rain. It will deluge to such an extent that I won’t be able to get to the beach for weeks. I won’t be able to check on the waves as they pound and gallop furiously up the beach. The coffee shop will get washed away together with the coffee plantations. The cows will go on strike as they only give milk in the sun.
God what a life!
Six friends will knock on the door of the flat. All wanting to stay. They’ll blow up their airbeds and throws their sleeping bags onto the floor. Clothes will be everywhere.”
The music has stopped. Joanne’s breathing has stopped. Waves of panic rise like bile in her mouth. She chokes and splutters. Cars are speeding past her.
She’s sitting in the middle lane of the Bridge and the petrol gauge is furiously flashing.
“Who gives a shit. Yesterday or tomorrow will do. Anything but now”
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3 comments:
We travel with Joanne as she searches her imagination to see whether she prefers yesterday or tomorrow. She grapples with the certainty of the past, her many pleasures. What will tomorrow bring? Then reality strikes.
She goes from being in the moment of a beautiful Sydney day into the upset of stopping in the middle of the harbour bridge. Ugh. I'm present to how easy it is to have upset wipe out joy. I've been there too. I liked Joanne's introspection and her transformed outlook about tomorrow. Too bad it wasn't there when she needed it.
You might have left out that she was asked to think about yesterday vs tomorrow. I'm left with she would never have thought of that by herself, yet she's just the type who would. Perhaps we evesdrop on her simply asking herself whether she prefers yesterday or tomorrow.
You developed a portrait of a wonderful character – someone who lives fully in the present and for the pleasures of the present. She’s also blessed with a rich imagination, which allows her to mentally play with the dark side of life. And the cost of her inattention to the real future shows up in the fast lane on the Harbour Bridge!
Using the dialogue to capture her thoughts, when so much of the story was her thoughts, was tricky. Perhaps you could have just written it in the first person, which would have allowed us to get to know Joanne even better.
Your word pictures are beautiful! (Is it perhaps the car that chokes and splutters as well?)
I love the irony of the ending - a short piece can sometimes be unfocused because it doesn't have a narrative structure, but your ending ties it together really well.
I was distracted by the words "bum" and "piss" - for me, they were out of place with the rest of the writing somehow - they stood out instead of being part of the flow.
The opening creates an absolutely magnificent sense of place - a glorious Sydney day. I really felt the joy of riding across the Harbour Bridge with the windows down.
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