Sinkhole

There's a sinkhole near our house. Ages ago, Mam brought us here to get rid of That Damned Bike. Another time, Dad brought us to get rid of the brokeded washing machine.

I cried, because there was something scary about watching big, solid Things get eaten up. The ground, which should be firm, being soft and hungry, like the sea. Dad gave me a ding round the ear. Mam said it's OK, it's a door isn't it, to another world. Full of builders and fixers and tinkerers. They pick up the broken, thrown-away things from our world, and make them good again.

A man and woman live by the sinkhole. Hard-looking people with brown skin, and going-grey hair. They have mouths that are clamped shut, and tight little eyes that are good at smelling out money.

You bring them things, and pay them money, and they help you give your things to the sinkhole. You don't know how much money you gotta give till you turn up. It depends on what time it is, how big it is, and how much they think you got.

They're good guessers.

It's cash only.

We're not s'posed to get rid of stuff by dropping it in there. We're meant to take it to the Household Recycling Centre. Everyone here calls it The Dump. It's all the way into town and out the other side. The Sinkhole is more convenient for lots of folks. Also, some things you can't get rid of at The Dump.

Like a rolled up carpet. Heavy. With dark, leaking spots.

Dad says the folks at The Dump work for the governmint, writing stuff down and asking questions. The people at the Sinkhole work for themselves. I don't know if they can write, but they sure can count, Dad says, and they only ask questions about money. Those stony eyes look right past dark spots.

I hope the People down there can patch up the bike and the washing machine and use them. I hope they can patch up Mam. She can tell them stories while they lick the spoon, and the sunshine will mix with her laughter in the kitchen because Dad won't be there.

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Word count: 366

(NB. This excludes the title, subtitle, and author's note.)

Submitted on Sunday 13th October at 22:09

The story behind the story: Remember the Wombles?

Underground, overground, wombling free

The wombles of Wimbledon Common are we

Making good use of the things that we find

Things that the everyday folks leave behind

A Year of Stories: I'm writing (and submitting, here) a story every day this year. This continues my 287 daily micro-fiction story streak since 1st January.

ONLY SEVENTY-NINE DAYS TO GO!

Please consider lending your support to the other creators on this madcap "a story every day" adventure. They're putting out excellent content every day!

Rachel Deeming

Gerard DiLeo

Thank you

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Thank you again!