For Week Three’s assignment we were asked to write a story that included a description of something.

“At the beginning of the story, describe something (an object, a process) in detail. At the end of the story, describe something in detail again. It doesn’t matter what happens in between, but we are looking for an echo.”[Once again, thanks to Emma for recording this]

I moved into a new house last year. At the bottom of the garden is a ramshackle old shed and I decided to use that as the basis for my story. Having written the following, I’m a little bit apprehensive about going back in it……

The Shed

After a long day’s work clearing the wasteland of a back garden at the new house it was unfortunate that all those efforts had left us with an unobstructed view of our decrepit, failing shed.

Past the lawn and beyond the vegetable patch it faltered uncertainly before the back fence, where some long departed owner had fashioned it from assorted garden debris and the unwanted leftovers of various building projects.

There was nothing approaching a right angle in its whole construction, and for good measure it slumped into the mushy earth on its right hand side. The thick wooden beams that had been placed there for support were now rotted and had themselves sunk into the ground.

The corrugated-iron side wall that faced us contained a curious porthole of a window. Misted over with years of grime and dust it winked rheumily across the garden. At its bottom left, from just below the window, the wall bulged out towards us. If the porthole was its eye, this then was its cheek.

A mossy covering lapped down over the lip of the roof then thinned and faded out towards the back. This gave it the appearance of an ill fitting wig sat atop a ruddy face. Ivy grew around the open, empty doorway, framing the entrance.

The three of us sat on the patio surveying our handiwork, and the wreck that it had exposed.

“Well, I suppose it has character” my father offered. “I mean, it’s obviously seen better days, but it has a bit of a jaunty air about it, don’t you think?”

“It’s sinking into a swamp for crying out loud. And it isn’t jaunty, its menacing.” replied Judy.

“Menacing?” I asked.

“I looked in it earlier. I nearly stuck my face into a nest of spiders in the doorway. It’s full of rusting old forks and spades and it stinks of mildew. You know why it’s listing like that don’t you?” Judy finished her wine and reached across the table for a top-up. “there’s some great old steel trunk at the back. Gawd knows how much junk’s in it to make it sink like that. We need to get rid of it Dan” she said, looking across at me to inform me of a task she’d now assigned.

As he’s aged, and especially since retiring, my father has taken any suggestions of throwing things out as a personal affront. Any intimation that something is no longer useful he interprets as a threat, as though the accusation is being made that he too has lost his value.

So, not saying anything, he puffed out his paper-thin cheeks and blew gently, lifting himself out of his deckchair with just a little difficulty. Lighting his cigarette he walked slowly, slightly stooped, along the path down the centre of the lawn.

“John?” my wife called.

“Just having a nose, you never know what …?” my father’s answer tailed off as he walked away from us.

He reached the bottom of the garden, pulled apart the tendrils of ivy at the entrance and vanished. From our vantage point on the patio we saw his head go past the porthole as he negotiated his way cautiously towards the back of the shed.

While we waited I Looked down the garden and saw how a previous attempt at garden clearance must have removed some overgrowing branches from the shed, leaving a skein of spidering traces across the corrugated outside wall which had rusted unevenly in mottled yellows and reds across these veined ghosts of departed foliage.

All was silent for a while, then some semi-theatrical grunts emerged from within. A huff and a whuff sounded, as the trunk was opened. Nothing for a while, just the drifting down of a few leaves from above, and then a deep “Whooomf!” from within, the sound of a heavy lid closing.

The shed plumped itself a little further into the mud. Behind its rheumy eye I thought I glimpsed a feint trail of blue smoke. Then, slowly at first, there was a surging at the entrance that lifted the ivy creepers outwards and upwards, their tendrils stretching out until they were horizontal, fluttering in the draught. A thin cloud of dust puffed out from the doorway, then the creepers dropped back down and all was still.