three stories
Fiction
1. Knitting
It is supposed to be a sock. It would become a sock in time. It held the potential to be sock but at present it was a ball of wool. A single line which by adding in the right loops would become a sock. It could be a scarf or a jumper instead, but no, it would be a sock, she was determined. The first loop was simple, a slip stitch to begin casting on. Fifty-six stitches divided evenly over four double-pointed needles until the thing resembled an alien creature or a prehistoric tool, each needle jabbing at odd angles into the air, held together by the single thread that looped precariously around each thin slip of wood. She began the knits and the purls, fourteen on each side. A fifth needle was required for this task. The thing about knitting is that you have to go one stitch at a time.
It went well at the start. The sock grew. The beginning of a cuff formed. But then it grew too much. One side had sixteen stitches. An anomaly in its DNA, she certainly didn’t do it herself. But now the count would be off. She passed the not-yet-sock to her wife who bowed her head over it in confusion. Even I don’t know what you’ve done to it, she said. Impressed that she was capable of a mistake she’d never seen before. You have to undo it, her wife said, and start again. She swiftly removed the needles and pulled on the loose thread. It unraveled easily and without ceremony. The sock further away from being a sock than ever before. Her wife returned the ball of yarn to her.
This time she knitted slowly and carefully until she was past the point of her initial mistake. The wool scratched her hands and she worried that the finished sock would be itchy. She counted each stitch regularly: fourteen on each side. She carried on with confidence. Later there would be another mistake, another extra stitch but this time she did not tell her wife. There was an Irish superstition about always adding a mistake into your knitting so God wouldn’t be angry at you for making something so perfect. But she didn’t think it was that.
2. The aubergine
In the spring she planted the aubergine. It grew inside until it was ready to be transplanted to the garden. She put it in a tub because they rented their house and putting anything in the ground was not worth the trouble. She looked up online the best way to care for aubergines. She gave it the sunniest spot in the garden and fed it regularly with a special mixture high in potassium. On sunny days she watered the plant and on rainy days she made sure the tub was draining properly. She was vigilant for aphids, red spider mites and whitefly. She bought special secateurs, Japanese, imported and expensive, to trim the leaves to promote a bushier plant. She gave it a bamboo cane so it could support itself as it grew.
The summer was hot at first and then endlessly grey and wet. The aubergine plant did not flower. She misted it twice a day to stimulate growth and prevent red spider mites. The summer worn on and still it did not flower. She went away on holiday with her wife and despite her lack of care the aubergine plant was still there when they returned. A summer storm had tipped the tub on the side but other than that there was no damage. Her wife asked her when the feast would be. She did not reply. The aubergine plant refused to flower. She stopped looking for it when she went out in the garden and let the weeds sprout around instead. She stopped checking for aphids, red spider mites and whitefly.
Late in the season, too late to be of any use there was one final heatwave. The aubergine plant finally flowered, seemingly overnight and then, yes there, in amongst the weeds, tucked beneath the leaves, the start of an aubergine. A white round, not yet anything. She knew now that aubergines, like tomatoes, were typically classed as a fruit. She chose to ignore this information, the new budding aubergine fruit.
The rain and the sun continued as before until the air turned cool and then outright cold. In the morning her breath plumed in front of her in the damp garden. It was overrun with snails that were easily crushed underfoot if she didn’t take care. Their smashed shells and seeping bodies hung around as evidence of her clumsiness until the rain washed them away. The aubergine was now purple but so small. Like a model miniature of a real aubergine. It refused to grow any larger. She refused to look. Each day seemed to bring only rain. The aubergine rotted on the vine, a chunk now missing, a snack for a passing cat or squirrel. Eventually, it turned to slime. No longer aubergine shaped. Her wife had stopped asking about when their feast would be. When she could stand it no longer she buried the whole thing beneath the ground.
3. A walk
They decided to go for a walk. The weather outside was just as she liked, sunny and cold. Once she had thought liking such weather had made her unique until she learnt most other English people also preferred such weather. The best of both worlds she imagined people liked to say. The sun was low in the sky and so they walked hand in hand but a little bent to shield their eyes from the glare. Her wife wanted to stop by the little Italian deli on the corner. They were out of coffee filters. They walked to the deli and then to the park, carrying coffee filters and Italian ham that was really too expensive but which they agreed would be delicious on some bread that needed using up at home. The park was busy with dog walkers and children, a path running down the divide between the playground and the open fields. A dog broke rank and ran into the playground, one of those curly golden types, barking its hot happy breath into the air as the children cheered or screamed. It was hard to tell at a distance.
These short stories were inspired by Lizzy Stewart’s recent newsletter and doing ‘lots’ of things when feeling creatively stuck or as a warm-up.