Every so often, I’ll stumble across a scene where …. Wait a minute, what’s with the stumbling? Why do writers tend to stumble across things? It conjures up visions of folk who aren’t very steady on their feet lumbering around the place, trying not to fall over, like babies taking their first steps. Let’s start again. Every so often, I’ll encounter something intriguing which lights a flame under my imagination – a scenario or item that is unnerving, and which makes me ponder the circumstances leading up to its existence. Those thoughts might morph into an idea for a short story. Here are five scenes of inspiration to illustrate what I mean.
The Abandoned Car
The most recent was last Friday. Andy and I were exploring a part of Somerset we hadn’t visited before, Steart Marshes. We followed a trail through the wetlands which led us along the slender finger of the peninsula separating the River Parrett from the Bristol Channel. Almost at its tip, we crossed a field, heading toward a strange-looking construction. From a distance, we thought it was a dovecot. The closer we got, we realised it was far too large for that purpose. What made the scene bizarre was that at its base was an ordinary, slightly beaten-up, silver car. Odd enough in itself in a remote spot. What sealed the intriguing deal was the driver’s door was wide open and there was nobody around. It looked abandoned. As we reached it, we heard voices from within the tower. I have to admit to feeling apprehensive as we spiralled up a steep wooden staircase to find out what, and who, lay at the top – a drug deal gone wrong? A gangland execution? The answer wasn’t as dramatic as that, but it was unexpected and remarkably interesting. But that’s another story.
Hat in the Desert
The malpaís in some areas of the Canary Islands can resemble those scrubby, Mexican desert scenes from series like Breaking Bad. In fact, we were working our way through that series when we were mapping walking routes across Fuerteventura. Even though the sun was shining and, in theory, warmish, we wore light jackets zipped up as far as they could go to protect us from a howling gale (there was a yellow weather alert for fierce winds). In the middle of nowhere, one of us spotted a straw hat lying on the ground to one side of the path. There were also some items of clothing scattered around. The detail which transformed the scene from . . . well, I’m not sure what. Losing a scarf or a hat is one thing, but who accidentally loses socks or a sweatshirt while out walking? The detail which unsettled us most was a hatpin stuck through the side of the straw boater, securing it to the ground. Immediately, and thanks to Breaking Bad, the first thing that went through my mind was, ‘There’s a head under there.’ It took us both a while to work up the nerve to unpin the hat and take a look at what lay underneath. Nothing. I’ve just noticed as I post this that the stones directly around the hat are different from the surrounding landscape. In fact, it looks as though there’s a vague grave shape.
Ghoulish Graffiti
I don’t have to say much about this example; the picture tells its own story. It was up an alley in Bologna. It’s quite a simple work of street art, yet there is something heart-wrenching about it. It’s darkly poetic as well as being seriously disturbing and extremely threatening. You could weave all manner of tales around this image. Is it just poetic licence, or is this the work of a dangerously troubled person? And it’s in English in an Italian city. What makes it particularly sinister to me is the use of ‘my dear.’ The work is contemporary, the language that of an old, troubled soul.
Bras and Boots
As I write this, I can see a connecting theme – the remoteness of most surroundings. That’s the key which makes something that might not seem unusual in one location stand out as being odd. Although, I’m not sure a collection of bras and hiking boots slung over the branches of a tree would seem normal in any location. Arrábida Natural Park in Portugal isn’t an easy place to navigate. Local taxi drivers warned us not to walk there without a guide. The tourist board tried their best to prevent us from hiking in the park, saying it was too dangerous. But it’s a beautiful area close to where we lived, and finding our way around the countryside is something we’re good at, so we got to know it extremely well. In the heart of Arrábida, we climbed a hillside to emerge on a ridge at the bra and boot tree. Apparently, throwing underwear over branches is a ski resort thing, and throwing anything into trees is popular in Australia. But in the Portuguese countryside? Was it some student ritual? There is another possibility. There’s a legend about an alien in Arrábida who emerges from the maze of tunnels below ground when it gets the urge to eat any humans who wander into its hunting ground.
Abandoned Mining Camp
I did use this one as part of a story in my book By the Time Dawn Breaks. The reality was pretty much how I described it in the tale of The Girl with the Pears:
“Jon got to his feet and approached the building, passing a table, bleached white by the sun, on which there were four rusty tin plates and a rusted frying pan. The door to the building lay open, revealing another table. This time, four enamel cups circled a dusty brown glass bottle with a cork in it. The bottle was half full of a clear liquid Jon assumed must be wine. Hanging on a peg behind the table was a heavy coat the colour of the scree slope Jon had just climbed. He doubted that was its originally colour as it looked coated in a film of grey dust.”
Andy and I had followed the wrong path into a ravine in the north east of Tenerife and found ourselves at the base of cliffs – maybe this time we did ‘stumble across’ as it was at the top of a slippery scree slope – in an abandoned mining camp where a table in a hut was laid as if for dinner. We did not hang around long.