For some reason, there are too many wheelbarrows. Actually, one wheelbarrow would be too many. When Fiona had last been in her front garden there were none. She looks out of the kitchen window and counts them: one, two, three…she loses track at seventeen, begins to count ones that she has included, stops noticing if she has done the blue one, the green one. Can no longer figure what’s what. They are ramshackle. Higgledy-piggledy. Not in lines. They are chipped, weather-beaten, paint peeled. They are old and used. They are frightening her. If she stands on tiptoe and cranes her neck she may be able to see if there’s anything in them. No. Can’t tell. She hesitates before stepping outside. It is broad daylight. She feels herself flush a little with a tinge of embarrassment. What will the neighbours think? She hopes they won’t see, then supposes they will have noticed already.
The usual sounds are on the air: birdsong, a dog bark, a car engine. Everything normal except the wheelbarrows. And Fiona can see now that each barrow is empty, bar old dirt that has not quite been tipped out, crumbs of earth, a stone or two, a tiny spider. She wheels them into three neat lines, eleven wheelbarrows in each line. Eleven times three equals thirty-three. Some of the wheels squeak and jam. They protest at the order she insists on. Her neighbour says hello, and Fiona replies, cheery. Neither woman mentions the wheelbarrows.
Indoors, kettle on, pondering. She wonders what she could put in them. If she filled each with compost, she could grow different plants in every one. Like a flower bed that she wouldn’t have to kneel for. Think of how easy the weeding would be. What a delightful thought.
Sara Crowley’s novel in progress “Salted” was shortlisted for the Faber Not Yet Published Award. Her short fiction has been, or is due to be, published in a wide variety of places including Pulp.Net, 3:AM, elimae, Dogzplot, flashquake, Litro, Dogmatika and FRiGG. She blogs at A Salted and appreciates you taking the time to read this.
Wonderful. I love the surprises here, especially the narrator’s response to that startling apparition. The image of three-three weathered wheelbarrows in three straight rows is quirky and lovely. Even more powerful, and hopeful, is the image of thirty-three knee-high flower beds.