Potential
Delicate white petals of ash rose on a stream of smoke, mingling with glowing embers, twirling in the air. They danced off over uniform rows of conifers and creosoted fences as Ray stabbed at the smouldering pile with his hoe. He turned and grabbed another fistful of papers from the wheelbarrow – this time photos. He threw them on before stepping back to rub sweat from his face, soothing the sting of the heat. An image of Amanda and her sister clinking martini glasses on holiday browned at the edges before roaring into flames. A smile pulled at the edges of Ray’s mouth.
‘Fucking bitch,’ he muttered, easing down onto the overgrown lawn. ‘Can’t wait to see your face when you come back and see all your shit burned.’
‘Ray, for God’s sake,’ a voice shot through the fence. ‘We’ve asked nicely-’
‘Oh fuck off, Natalie,’ he shouted back. ‘I don’t care about little Timmy or beautiful, sensitive Jemima. Don’t you get it?’ He jabbed his hoe into the ground and heaved himself up with it. ‘If the worst that happens in their charmed little lives is they hear a bit of colourful language from some loser neighbour, then lucky them.’ He bent and swiped up a can, shook it, grimaced, then tossed it back to the ground and looked around for another. ‘Worry more about them ending up with some whore who walks out on them one day for no reason. That’s a better use of your time. Don’t you think?’
Ray pictured Natalie on the other side of the fence, urging Kurt to do something: prodding him with her bulging green eyes that she always underscored with too much eyeliner.
‘Well,’ Kurt said eventually, ‘the thing is, Ray, you can’t really be, you know, out here day after day, burning stuff and… you know, swearing about Amanda. The crying, too. It’s upsetting the kids.’
‘Fuck me!’ Ray groaned into the air, head back, hoe dropped. ‘How clear do I have to be? I don’t give a shit about your fucking kids. I don’t care how well they’re doing at school, what musical instrument they’re excelling in and most of all, I don’t care what they hear or see in MY GARDEN.’
The fire crackled. A magpie flapped on a roof across the way.
‘You’ve turned into a real arsehole you know,’ Natalie said. ‘I’m not surprised Amanda left you.’
Ray leant on his hoe, eyes closed, as Natalie stomped away, slamming the patio door as she went. He looked back towards his house. It used to be so full of… potential. Not so much love, but the potential of it. The potential of kids that could have made everything alright. But Amanda hadn’t wanted any of that – not with him anyway. The day he’d come home to find her sitting on the stairs, two bags at her feet, it hadn’t really surprised him. All of a sudden it had felt almost familiar. Like he’d been expecting it; manifested it, even.
Ray trudged back to the house through the long grass, dandelions and empty cans. Hand on the door handle, head down, he paused – called back, ‘You still there, Kurt?’
Kurt sighed. ‘Yeah, mate.’
‘I’m sorry I’m an arsehole. It just… It hurts, you know?’
Kurt took a breath
‘I know, Ray. I know.’
Peter’s writing blurs the boundary between novel and short story collection; it builds layers of characterisation through linked pieces that result in profound moments of self-realisation and/or dramatic action. He was recently shortlisted in the Hammond House International Literary Prize and the Ironclad Creative Awards. His short stories and poems have appeared online, in print journals and in several anthologies and his debut book is slated for publication with a traditional publisher.
Peter studied English Literature at The University of Cambridge, was awarded a Distinction for his MA in Creative Writing and is currently working towards a PhD at Exeter University. He is the editor and co-founder of Inkfish Magazine and a committee member for the Penzance Literary Festival.
