Urban Camping (or the joy of eavesdropping)

It’s 4:30am. This is the point where I am unable to pretend that I’m not sleeping on thinly veiled brick. My daughter is sleeping peacefully beside me, cocooned in blankets – my husband gave up long ago (he hurt his neck yesterday so he has an excuse). I was awoken this time by both the soreness of my right side and the close sound of a short-legged animal munching in the bushes next to us and then brushing against the side of the tent as it passed. I was too scared to look, but did let out a protective hiss. (All things are scared of snakes, right?)

 

Urban camping at its finest
 
This wasn’t the first time I was awoken tonight – for the record it’s probably been a collection of twilight sleep broken by sounds of helicopters, cars passing by way too fast, and the conversations of drunk people as they return back to their cars from the scattering of cool bars cropping up in my ‘hood.

The most interesting (and yet horrifying) snippet of conversation overheard tonight went something like this… 

Her: She doesn’t know. She doesn’t know I tell you everything. She assumes, but she doesn’t know. She doesn’t know I told you about the R.A.P.E

(Silence, followed by a low grunt — i imagine HE was looking at his phone but that is just my mind trying to fill in details.)

He: I’m listening.  … But you did tell me.

Her: Yea, but she doesn’t know… 

At this point they trail off past hearing distance. Although the topic was somewhat disturbing it does bring me back to one of the reasons I enjoy writing- capturing moments of life and expanding on them. I have a whole short story out of that small window of conversation, at least.

I love observing and listening to the world around me and trying to recapture a bit of life back into the page. Although my back is aching and I’m fairly sure a nap is in my near future perhaps I will let my daughter convince me to go “camping” again — but first I need to get a better barrier between me and the brick. I’ve read a lot of historical/fantasy fiction in my day and have determined that modern day humans (okay, me) have gone soft.

Telling ghost stories
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