Posted in Creative Writing.
This extract was written in 2004 and has been taken from a bigger project. I have decided to put it on-line instead of having it ‘locked up’ out of the way.
As the days grew shorter, the luscious tree lined streets of leafy suburbia slowly transformed into a glorious and rich display of gold, amber and ruby; with each new day the eminence of Summer gradually slipped into distant memories, and that was none more evident than on this misty late-September morning.
Inside, Dionaea sat perched on an upstairs bedroom window ledge; the delicate and weak appearance of her body a stark contrast to her sinister intent. Completely still, rooted firmly in her resting-place, she waited for an unwitting passer-by to be lured into her trap.
All was quiet, except for the soft faint ticking of a porcelain clock situated to the far right of the window ledge. A thoughtful looking Winnie the Pooh figurine crowned it’s colourful cubed body; the clock’s balled-feet in danger of being engulfed by a small pool of water formed from the condensation running down off of the window pane.
On the wall, to the left of the window, three shelves supported a magnificent display of trophies and awards. Every piece of silver and glassware carefully positioned in a sparkling cityscape of achievement and success; every engraving and inscription revealing the highlight of intriguing stories vying to be told.
Along the adjacent wall stood an untidy wardrobe, dressed with many clothes; in fact, there were probably as many hanging on the outside as there likely were within; bricked up around its feet were piles of shoes together with the odd boot. Nestling in its shadow, a dressing table; its surface littered with the contents of a once-bulging makeup bag.
Reflected in the dressing table mirror, an unmade bed protruded from the opposite side of the room. A circular helium balloon floated above the foot of the bed, suspended on a ribbon, weighted to the floor; swaying and twisting as it boldly shouted ‘18 today!’ Although the foil-balloon’s slightly deflated state suggested that this message was, maybe, a little out of date.
Neighbouring the dressing table, the bedroom door was closed. A large poster of a race-liveried sports car, signed in the bottom right-hand corner with a black marker, covered entire the top third of the door.
The sounds of a busy hectic family home, on a weekday morning, began to seep up through the floor. Piece was disturbed; the tranquil calm finally shattered by the sound of creaking floorboards as a pair of feet briskly crossed the upstairs landing.
The bedroom door was flung open: in walked a tired, bleary-eyed and nighty-clad, teenage girl, peering through rogue strands of her long brown hair which dangled in front of her face. She held the door ready to close it behind her, but, upon seeing the mess on her dressing table, stopped in her tracks and let off a disappointed sigh. “Emily!” She yelled, leaning against the edge of the open door.
And as if by magic, bright eyed and rosy-cheeked, Emily soon appeared.
Almost unnatural for that time of the morning Emily looked, and sounded, far too happy for her own good. “Yes Clare?” she enquired cheerfully, striding into the room. Emily’s enthusiasm for the day confirmed by the fact that she was already dressed for school.
Clare stood looking at the state of destruction that had befallen her makeup. Emily was her younger sister, by two and a half years, and the usual culprit when such raids took place.
“Have you been at my stuff again?” asked Clare rhetorically, as if to suggest that she might be willing to accept it was not her only sister’s doing.
But of course: it was; “Just borrowing something,” said Emily, beaming all over her face, as she made her way to the exact scene of the crime, “Don’t fret, I’ll put it all back,” and with that she commenced sweeping the items back into the makeup bag.
Clare wandered over to the window. She spoke quietly to Dionaea, the feeble weed of a plant sitting on the ledge, “Come on girl, grow”, hoping that by speaking the word ‘grow’ through gritted teeth, her shear determination would help make up for the plant’s apparent lack of will-power and encourage it to develop.
“Oh, what’s that?” enquired Emily, joining her sister at the window.
“That’s Dionaea, it’s a Dionaea muscipula to be exact,” answered Clare.
“You’ve got a pet Venus flytrap in your window?” asked Emily cheekily, “Do you get many flies then?”
Clare grabbed the plant from the ledge, “a few,” she said, and jokingly offered it to Emily’s face, “but when the flies run out, I can always feed it nosy sisters!”
“I’d let it grow a bit first Clare,” replied Emily, unmoved and unimpressed.
Clare returned the plant to its home on the ledge. “Anyway, what are you so happy about?” she asked.