The sailor

A young girl works as a nanny at a wealthy family, just as she has done for the past three years, but one day something is not as usual. The story of getting stuck and setting free.

The sun was burning her shoulders as Melia walked down the street in the quiet neighboorhood with the big intimidating white houses quietly stating how she is misplaced in this environment. It still terrified her even though she had walked this street almost every day for the past three years. The job of being a babysitter had become more and more like normality for her, but in the back of her mind, she still wished for a change, nevermind the size, just a shaken in her world. As she walked, the feeling in her stomach started to growl again, she didn’t really want to go even though she needed the money and she crouched her back in hope of becoming invisible from the large windows she was walking past. It wasn't free to rent an apartment, or free to travel to Bulgaria and so she had to keep enduring the embarrassment of living at home while her former classmates were out living their lives, though the half of it was on Instagram. She could spot the dark double door at the humongous screaming white house. The breakfast crept up her throat, it was unbearable. 

The Franker family just wasn’t her cup of tea, especially not the shallow prima donna of a mother. How could anyone be so opposed with how you make a peanut-butter sandwich, it was killing Melia to know that the mother was a curling eagle. Actually more of a dragon. As Melia slowly approached the house closer and closer, her throat began to tangle. The taste of scrambled eggs in the mouth. After a couple of breathings, she pressed the squared spot white doorbell and shortly after the sound of 15 cm heels was heard through the door.  “Oh, there you are. Well, come in.” said the blonde-haired mother. Her discolored sneakers looked misplaced on the marble floor. “We will be home by 11, probably later. She is in her room. Goodbye.”, the high heels and the bodycon latex dress went passed her, followed by an absent-minded husband in a Gucci suit.  She then walked between all of the designer furniture and all the family pictures with huge painful smiles, while she hoped to remember which room was the rights one. She grabbed the first door handle and at the same moment as she pushed the door, it was pulled from the other side. A pair of blue eyes looked down on her from a defined sunburnt face. “You must be the nanny. I’m the older brother.” He said with a sweet tone in his voice while he moved closer to her. “Uhm… yes, yes that is me. I was just looking for Mille.” She quickly removed her sticky hands from the door and looked down. “Let me find her for you. Come with me.” Together, they walk down the white hallway with the giant windows to a pink painted door with princesses all over it.

 

Just as he opened the door, a high-pitched shrill voice was heard. “Is she here?! Hi! Come, now we are going to play princes and princesses!” immediately a little child hand took hold of the nanny and dragged her into a huge playroom filled with barbies and teddy-bears. The big brother stood in the doorway and looked with a smile on his face. She had to sit in an uncomfortable way on the floor in order to sit by the lavish dollhouse. Mille without delay started to talk about all her new dolls while she with her nose in the sky proclaimed that they all were given to her last Christmas. The nanny looks with raised eyebrows at the sunburnt big brother who was still watching. “Can I join in, Mille?” The deep voice sounded from the doorway. “That’s new, as long as you just listen, and don’t run off as always.” The brother sat down on the other side of the dollhouse and with relaxed shoulders, he listened to the intense stream of words coming from the little girl. 

As the sun moved closer to the horizon and the child’s voice became smaller and weaker, the nanny kept looking from the child to the brother. Finally, she said, “I think it’s time for bed, Mille” and without no further word, the nanny guided the talking little girl to bed. The child’s eyes closed to a lullaby coming from the nanny. When finally, the girl was absented in her dreams and her arms didn’t strangle the teddy bear, the nanny looked around the empty room with a deep breathe. 

 

She walked into the living room where the brother sat with two glasses of wine at a glass table. With a cautious movement, she sat down in front of him, fumbling with a thread from her shirt. “You’re great with kids. I didn’t know she could talk that much.” He said. “Yeah, you learn few things after being a nanny for 3 years.” She answered with an absent-minded look and a burning in her cheeks, but that warmth was due to more than one thing. “I haven’t seen you around the house before.” She carefully asked. “No, I’m a sailor so quality time with family is a rare occasion.” He looked out the enormous windows and she noticed a twitch in his jaw when he spoke. When he turned is face towards and their eyes met, a silence filled the room. “It’s slightly warm outside.” He mentioned with a nod towards the patio door. Her legs shook when she lifted herself from the chair and with an indecisive movement in her hand, at last, she offered her hand to him as a replacement for her words. Like a hundred pins in the skin, a tension connected them when he took her hand. 

 

The mild summer breeze welcomed them on the patio, and they sat down on a large black garden couch. Rosa light shuns on their faces and she felt the pins spreading to her feet. They watched a small humming-bird jump across the patio. He then smoothly turned her face towards him and they both looked into each other’s darkness. He moved closer and a sense of roses filled her body. He moved even closer and the pins spread to her face. He moved again but was met by her rouge lips. A feeling of euphoria and limitless overwhelmed her. She saw nothing but sparks and humming-birds, in a world away from the house with giant windows. Flurried did hands move around with no compass. Slowly clothes were no longer a barrier. The feeling of being alive. 

Suddenly, the sound of a low-lying car with a huge engine tore away their world. Before the door was even open, she sat back the real world avoiding his glance but still with a tenderness in her body. By moving quick-witted out of her reach, a cold wince drew over his face. The loud sound of high heels filled the house and shortly after the mother made an entrance on the patio. “Well, here you are! Enjoying the view, I see. Not something you see every day, huh, son?” The brother left with locked eyes to the ground but before he went in the house he gazed back at the nanny. They saw the darkness again. “Thanks for your help, here is your money. I guess I’ll be seeing you next Saturday?” The mom was checking her phone. “No, sure but I’m moving away from the town.” The nanny kept admiring the sunset and ignored the raised eyebrows coming from the mother. The mother broke the awkward silence. “oh, I didn’t know. Well, where are you going?” The nanny answered with a frontal lit-up by the red sunbeams. “I have no idea, but I’m going.”

Author's Note

You are welcome to comment on anything, grammar as well as the story itself.

Reviews

[JayG]

Given that your bio says you're looking to improve your writing, I thought you would want to know that there are a few issues that you need to address.

Look at the opening the way a reader, who knows only what the words suggest based on THEIR background, must:

• She didn’t really want to go even though she needed the money.

An unknown female, in an unknown location, era, and situation, didn't want to go to an unknown location or event, for unknown reasons. This, in spite of the unknown amount of money she would be paid for doing something unknown—money she needs for something unknown. In other words, words that lack cause because you've placed effect—her reaction and feelings—before their cause.

You have context, of course. But the one you wrote this for has no clue of where we are, what's going on, or whose skin we wear. In practical terms, that means that the reader lacks both context, and, any reason to WANT to know more. A lack of information isn't the same thing as a mystery.

But of more importance, this is not a story. It's someone unknown talking about that story in general terms for which the reader lacks context.

• It was becoming embarrassing to live at home while others were out living their lives.

Others? What others? And where's "home?" Why is it embarrassing? And what does that have to do with line one?

The problem is that before you read the first line, you know who the protagonist is, where she is, why, and what's going on. You have a clear mental images of the scene and everything in it. You know the purpose of the scene. So for you, every line acts as a pointer to images, ideas, memory, and more, all residing in your mind and the story lives as you read.

But what about the reader? They have NONE of that. And, they can hear not a trace of emotion in the voice of the narrator, other than what punctuation suggests (have the computer read this aloud to hear how different what the reader gets is from what you intend). So for them? Every line acts as a pointer to images, ideas, memory, and more, all residing in YOUR mind. But that helps them not at all, and you're not there to ask when they read it.

It's not a matter of how well you're writing, or your talent as a writer. It's that because all professions are learned AFTER we're practiced in the traditional three R's that employers feel their prospective employees must know. And writing fiction is not only a profession, it's a difficult one to master.

Think back those school days. You were assigned endless numbers of reports and essays because employers need us to write reports and essays. And over the years you perfected a style of writing that's author-centric and fact-based. The narrator explains the situation clearly and concisely—designed to inform as does all nonfiction writing.

But how many stories were you assigned? How much time did your teachers spend on making dialog realistic. Did they ever mention "the scene clock?" Did any teacher clarify the role of the short-term scene-goal? Did they explain what a scene on the page is, as against one on screen and stage? if they didn't, how can you write one? Did anyone ever mention that fiction is character-centric and emotion-based?

The short version: As you've been taught, and like pretty much every hopeful writer, you're using your nonfiction writing skills because they're what you own. And a semester of creative writing will not change that significantly. A degree in literary Studies or something like it usually won't, either. So while you have a problem, it's one you share with a LOT of people. And fixing that is something every successful writer faced—more a rite of passage than a disaster.

Mark Twain put it very well when he said, “It ain’t what you don’t know that gets you into trouble. It’s what you know for sure that just ain’t so.”

And here's the good news: If you are meant to be a writer you'll love the learning, and spend a lot of time saying, "That's so obvious, why didn't I see it for myself?"

A really great resource is the library's fiction-writing section. Devouring a few books on technique will be time wisely invested. After all, you, like those you know, have been reading pretty much only professionally written and prepared fiction since you were old enough to read. It's what people expect of you, so it makes sense to spend some time and perhaps a few coins on your writer's education, to pick up the tricks-of-the-trade.

For what it may be worth, the articles i my writing blog were meant to expose the hopeful writer to some of the issues unique to fiction writing.

Given where you stand, Debra Dixon's, GMC: Goal Motivation & Conflict would be an excellent first book. It's a warm easy read, like sitting with Deb as she talks about writing.

But whatever you do, don't let this throw you. Hang in there, and keep-on-writing.

Jay Greenstein
https://jaygreenstein.wordpress.com/category/the-craft-of-writing/