WoW - The Conflict

Write On Wednesdays Exercise 15 - Give yourself some time to notice the people around you. The people who may cross your path each day. The lady in front of you at the supermarket, the man who helps the school kids cross the road, a neighbour, a waitress in a cafe, a librarian, anyone at all. Choose one person, someone you don't know, and this person will become the basis of the week's writing exercise. Describe this person as you see them, describe their surroundings. Then imagine a problem, create conflict for this person. Describe the conflict. Describe how your character deals with the problem. The conflict might resolve itself, it might not. It is up to you. Perhaps, the lady in the supermarket has forgotten her wallet. Does she bursts into tears? Maybe the librarian finds a lost child. The aim is to show how your character responds to conflict and in the process, reveal something about that character. Tell us their story.

I decided to use this weeks prompt to describe the internal conflict of  Rock Chick.  My dilemma this week was that I had two partly written posts about her based on the events of the past week.  I decided to use both.  Two different stories with an element of conflict both internal and with others.  Two very different conclusions, one positive the other, well, the other not so much.

Bangles and Blackberries

Leaning back on the sun warmed metal of the car door she surveyed the slightly rickety table in front of her.

Covered with a dark blue chenille cloth it held a host of carefully displayed memories.

“How much do you want for this?”  The man was holding an intricately designed wrought iron wine rack with a pattern of leaves and grapes.


He had the hungry look of a dealer about him, trying to appear nonchalant but the glint in his eye betrayed him.  Slightly scruffy, dressed in varying shaded of beige, a cap pulled low over his brow, hair curling over his collar.  Trying to blend in with the crowd but the flash of gold at his wrist belied the deliberately casual attire.

“£10” she said flatly.  He sniffed.  “Give you a fiver for it” he reached for his wallet like it was a done deal.

“£10” she said more firmly.  “Do it for 8 quid, split the difference?”  She decided not to split hairs by pointing out that splitting the difference would have actually made it £7:50.

“Sorry” she said all the while thinking, ‘it’s a bloody bargain at a tenner and you KNOW it mate!’

He sniffed again. Putting it down he moved on up the dusty path to the next table muttering under his breath, ” it’s a fucking car boot sale not fucking Covent Garden you know.”

Well, maybe he was right but it was early yet. Plenty more buyers would pass by and, although she couldn’t afford to be fussy, somehow she didn’t want him to have any of her memories.  She fought the urge to wipe his greasy fingerprints from the wine rack, telling herself that this was a means to an end, that these were just ‘things’.

The day passed in a blur of talking, selling and rearranging to fill the gaps.

 The tin box held a small pile of notes, her jeans pockets jingled with coins, one for each child as she sold the things they had gathered together.

In the late afternoon there was a brief respite.  Leaving the depleted table in the capable hands of her friend  she picked up her discarded polystyrene coffee cup and wandered across the field to the hedgerow which was laden with plump, juicy blackberries.  After filling the cup to the brim, her fingers and lips stained with the purple juice, she stopped by a stall and bought some cooking apples, acid green with smooth waxy skins. 

As the day drew to a close she packed up the unsold items, carefully wrapping them in newspaper and stowing them in a box.

Her hand hovered over the tin, would it be enough?  What would she do if it wasn’t? She couldn't even contemplate THAT possibility, it had to be enough.

Carefully she counted the money.  It WAS enough.  She sent up a silent prayer of thankfulness.

Suddenly the sale of her memories seemed less important.

This, this was what mattered right now.

       *********************************************************

Broken Dreams
“What’s not to love?”

She sat looking at her friend, nibbling the skin on the edge of her thumb, the steam rising from the teapot on the table between them.

“He’s tall, good looking, successful, and he adores you, seriously, what more do you want, what more could ANYONE want?”

Still she said nothing, examining her thumb which was now red and sore.

“We don’t laugh” she said eventually.

“Of course you do, you ....”

“You don’t understand” she interrupted. “Yes, he can MAKE me laugh, but we don’t laugh together, it’s not the same, not the same thing at all”.

“I know how  ……….. “  She trailed off.  Somehow she couldn't find the words that would do justice to the way she felt.  It was impossible to explain how you just knew when something felt right. This didn't, and no matter how hard she tried she knew it never would.

“What is it you know” said her friend “because you’re right, I don’t understand.  Do you know how many people would love to be in your shoes right now?  Do you know how many people are queuing up to be in your shoes?  He’s not going to hang around forever you know, sooner or later he’ll get tired of waiting and someone else will snap him up”.

She shrugged, “maybe”.

“I’m beginning to think that’s what you want" said her friend, "it saves you from having to make a decision. It means you can't be blamed for breaking his heart because that's what you're going to do, you know that don't you?"

She looked around the teashop.  The checked cloth covered with a sheet of glass on every table.  The blackboard on the wall with the daily specials.  Above the counter another board proclaiming ‘chocolate menu’, everything from gluten free chocolate brownies to hot chocolate with whipped cream and marshmallows.

On every table a vase of fresh flowers.

“This place used to be called Flowers you know”.

Her friend sighed in exasperation.  “Tell me” she said. “Tell me what it is that’s stopping you”.

Reaching into her bag she drew out a box.  Opening it she said, “It’s broken. I loved it, I looked after it, I would never have done anything to damage it and yet it broke”.

Her friend reached across the table and gently took the bangle from the box examining it closely.

“It can be mended” she said softly, “look”.  She traced the silver wire with her finger.  “It’s just come unstuck from where it was fixed to the stone.  It’s not really broken, it’s just come apart a little”.

“Maybe that's true” she replied with a smile. But the smile couldn't hide the sadness in her eyes.