Short Story from the October Waste Stories Workshop
This fictional story was written as part of a Waste Stories writing workshop. The aim was to write a story in 30 minutes based on found objects and waste. Waste Stories is a project that uses the affective power of story-telling to try to change people’s relationships with waste and the resources that end up in the waste stream.
That’s a bit odd, by Heloisa Fyfe
Sometime after my mum passed away we decided to clear the garden of
what my dad would call ‘unacceptable kitsch and bad taste’. A bit harsh, but
he’s got a point. My mum had all these animal sculptures and a garden
gnome placed neatly around the garden. You wouldn’t think much of these
things but they meant a lot to her. She purposefully used them as a symbolic
rejection of her past. You see, my mum didn’t like her life growing up, whether
it was her two parents, the six girls who bullied her at school, or the twelve
mean chickens on her grandma’s farm that would chase her and peck her
legs. It wasn’t just that. When she turned eighteen she accidentally dropped a
knife and lost a toe, only leaving her with four on one foot. Of the eight
boyfriends she’d had, six broke up with her, one died and with the last one
she got married. So how is this related to the garden kitsch? Well, once my
mum turned twenty-three and had moved out of her family home she made a
decision to live her life in complete opposition to when she was younger.
According to her, there was a recurrent pattern in her unhappiness, everything
bad that ever happened to her came in even numbers. Whether it was the
chickens, the boyfriends, or the toes. So she made a point of imposing only
odd numbers to the rest of her life. That, she knew, would make her happy
because at least it was her choice. This is why I’m an only child. My parents
married in 1993, they had me in 1999 and our house is number 27. When we
went to the supermarket we would buy an odd number of products. If we went
to the doctor we had to only have one issue or three, but you could never
have an even number of ailments. It was bad luck, she said. You may call this
superstition but life really had become wonderful for her once she had
banished the even numbers from her past. She was finally free. The garden
was where she spent most of her last days, and all the animal statues had
odd numbers associated with them. She broke the ear off one of the rabbits,
the bird had thirty-one ceramic feathers. There was also a little solar-powered
Ikea fountain, the user manual had this metal binder with twenty-four spirals
so she ripped it out. No need for such a thing in the house, she said. I miss
my mum, now it’s just the two of us, me and my dad. Bad luck.