This week consider the notion of what we see over our back fences. If you live in a apartment on the upper floors your back fence might be the boundary of your place.Write about your back fence or boundary.
It can be specific, it can be metaphorical, or you make up what you’d like to see over your back fence.
Thanks Michael for setting our challenge again this week.
At first we wondered what the intermittent illumination was. It would wake us at night, until we bought blinds for the back windows. Luckily no-one can see over the fence from the other side into our property unless they stand on a box or chair.
The light shines in the darkness, and we know now that she’s let her dog out in the yard.
It’s at such a height that it glows over the fence, lighting up the back garden but at least it’s not on all the time. We have blinds and curtains now.
The fence is a solid affair, reinforced by us after she rammed it with her mobility scooter.
Her friend came round to tell us. We checked her side and discovered a support post was rotten and another broken, so rather than have her come sailing into our space the next time she miscalculated her turn and stopping distance, we replaced the damaged feather boards and sank two posts in concrete on our side.
I’ve been round once, you know, just to tell her what we were doing about the fence that she damaged. It’s actually hers, but she’ll deny it. The door opened and a thick fug of acrid smoke made a bid for freedom, nearly choking me on the doorstep. She was unsteady on her feet, a large glass of wine in one hand and a cigarette in the other as she held onto the door for support.
When she goes out, she takes the dog. He is portly and ankle high, and frantically tries to keep up as she rides off to the bottle bank. Occasionally she might realise he’s pooped and will reverse to the drop off site. She’ll dismount her valiant steed to slide the offending substance into a bag, leaving half of it greasing the pavement. That’s when the neighbours pray for heavy rain to wash it away. If not, vehicles are cleaned and the pavement is hosed accordingly.
An hour or so later she will return, bells jangling from the jewellery on her wrists matched by the uprights on her scooter. You can hear fresh bottles clinking, her back basket and footwell now full of shopping and one tired dog.
We hear the jerk of stoppage, the shuffling of rearrangement of security, and the slamming of the door.
Other than that, you wouldn’t know she was there.