Writing Challenge 13 - Write a story about "Treat" in 1000 words or less

Moonlit Bucket

The dark alleys of the city where often visited by beggars and lunatics. The walls were tall enough so you could seek cover from the winds, and there would be enough scraps and trash to create a small ember of warmth for your limbs during cold nights. The dwellers often kept close to the ground, laying down in a bundle covered in newspapers to keep whatever heat they could. Seldom stood people up in the alleys, it was just a waste of energy. Even rarer was it to see two people standing on top of each other.

“Is it high enough, sir?” said a female voice to the person above. She was a young woman, wearing clothes fit for a boss in a company. Her face was of oval shape, almond eyes of brown and thin black brows. She had delicate lips pressed into a single line as she balanced the weight of the figure above her.

“Straighten your back a bit, gal, a bit to the le- there ya go,” said a raspy voice. “Okay, stand still now.”

It was an old man sitting on top of the young female’s shoulder. He lifted up his hands revealing a red bucket in the dim moonlight. The hands were fragile and sinewy, veins apparent, but they held the bucket in a tight grip as the elder positioned himself so the inside of the bucket would get basked in the moonlight.

“There ya go,” he said in a softer tone as if ushering small animals into the bucket.”There ya go, just go inside.”

“Sir?” asked the person on the ground. “How long are we going to stay like this?”

“Just for a little bit,” responded the old man looking down. The moonlight revealed a bald head with thin white hair on the sides. The skin on his face had folded for the weight of life. “How you holdin’ up?.”

“I can stand here all night, sir,” assured the woman as she re-balanced herself, shifting the weight to a better position.

“Atta’ gal,” said the old man and patted the woman’s head. “Not often seeing a young woman like you in this day and age. Helping old people out, and polite also. I haven’t been called ‘sir’ for a long time!”

“I lived with my grandparents when I was young,” explained the female. “My grandpa was very strict about treating older people with formality. Using titles to older people was a very important thing for him.”

“Sounds like a nice guy,” said the senior with approval in his voice. “He still alive and kickin’?”

“Yes sir, still alive and kicking,” reported the woman. She glanced up at the red bucket and shifted the weight once again. “So what are you doing with the bucket, sir?”

“Collecting moonlight,” responded the old man as he corrected the angle of the bucket. “For my memories.”

“How unique,” said the woman politely. “Most people write down their memories in diaries or takes photos.”

The old man chuckled. “Yeah, well. I’m one of those that didn’t write down anything at all.”

“And now you...” the woman paused for a moment, “... don’t remember?”

“Yeah, big mistake,” said the old man in a lower tone, his body slumped slightly. “I was so proud of my memory. I could remember everything so vividly. Never needed a notebook or a reminder. But now…”

“And moonlight will help?”

“Maybe…” the casual tone faded from the old man’s voice.

“Tell me and let me decide.”

“Well, I’m sort of...praying to the Goddess of Memory.” explained the man. “The one from the Greek mythology, Selene, who was also the moon? I thought that if I gathered enough moonlight, the goddess would, you know… give me some of my memories back.” His eyes looked up, gazing higher than the moon, staring into the dark nothingness. “I mean, I prayed already to the Christian god but nothing happened, so why not try some other gods I know about?”

“I see,” said the woman, again politely.

They both stood still for another moment. The woman gathering her thoughts. The old man in an arduous and crazy quest to do the same.

“I thought the Goddess of Memory was Mnemosyne in the Greek mythology. For mnemonic,” said the woman, breaking the silence. She looked above her and saw the old man gaze far away. His face grim and eyes twitching. The hands holding the bucket quivering and escalating in magnitude.

“Oh wait, my bad. Mnemosyne was the muse. I remembered it completely wrong. You’re right,” declared the woman, her voice turning shrill and urgent.

The shakes from the old man subsided. His absent gaze disappeared and the face lit up with a wry smile.

“Careful now, you don’t want to lose your memory like me,” said the old man with a chuckle.

“You know a lot about Greek mythology?” asked the woman as she once again began with shifting the weight of the old man to a more comfortable position.

“Oh do I, you could ask me anything about it. I might not know my name anymore but I can still recite all the gods in the pantheon, but let’s start from the beginning. In the beginning, there existed only chaos... ”

The old man prattled on in the silent night, eager to share his knowledge. His almond eyes of brown shining with joy, the thin lips pronouncing each foreign names with ease. And the woman listened while supporting him.