Domestic Brave pre-draft 1
[TWO years ago, can’t believe it was two years ago!]
draft this up, remove double ‘yet’ add a couple of apostrophes, improve ‘sense’ 🙂 x
Normally on a Saturday morning his elderly wife is able to enjoy her 10am episode of ‘Murder She Wrote’ whilst the husband strains upon the laptop perusing snowboards, glamour models, i-gadgets. But not today. Twenty yards across the street the criminal parents and students of the Primary School begin their drum samba rehearsal.
‘Shut up you fuckers,’ shouts the man from their window, the infants totally oblivious to his [something something] abuse. The house shakes. A teacher with the whistle in his mouth, wiggles his hips, leads the students who are thumping their dustbin lids, their triangles. A small crowd of parent spectators has gathered, dungarees and men with weezil voices if they could be heard. Men with the sunglasses, narrow ankles in long shorts, shades and mobile telephone types married to women with pink hair.
Only the old couple’s room remains as a sanctuary of calm, as if to reinforce the fact a king wasp flies past their eyes. A huge wasp with a hostage clasped in his back legs, perhaps his lunch – or a very small child maybe?
‘We should free the tiny prisoner,’ say the man to his wife.
‘It is impossible,’ says the wife, ‘king wasp might sting your eye ball.’
Eventually wasp leaves their room, and they continue watching the Murder she wrote with the subtitles. The musicians Samba classics moving through the repertoire mmm mm.
‘These people just do not realise the consequences of their anti-social behaviour,’ says the man.
‘I hate children,’ says his wife.
‘I hate our children,’ says the man.
”Yes actually so do I ,’ says the woman. Yet she sees another tiny refugee at the window sill. He flutters through the bedroom, more beautiful than any child could ever be, flies to the ensuite and chirrups song.
The man tries to respond but his own song is but a dribble.
‘Where is my whistle darling? he says. ‘Find me the whistle, we can hear the birdies message, we can communicate.’
Suddenly the wasp reappears in the bedroom, and the tit, for it is a tit, chases the tasty wasp past the curtains and like 1940 the bedroom sky is dominated by the terrifying life or death struggle more intriguing and compulsive than any episode of Murder She Wrote ever written.
From corner to corner the plucky wasp is chased by those vicious nips of the tit until he is speared through the thorax. He is slain and he is swallowed, yet in the moment of swallow a tiny, almost invisible creature drops from the wasp’s legs.
‘Look’ says the man, ‘we saw it before.’
The prisoner drops through the air from high under the ceiling,
‘Save him,’ cries the wife
the man scoops air with his hands, but but he misses and the tiny fellow’s landing is lost in the thick lush carpet of their rug.
Now there is only the sound of Samba and a tit.
The old man and the old woman are driven insane. They chase the yellow tit into the bathroom, pounce upon the bird’s head and in a savage display of feathers tear the bird apart. MMm mmmmm