Congratulations to Brianna Bovill for having their following short story chosen for publication on Blank Canvas Post. The short story that follows is a truly wonderful exploration of Domestic violence, the necessity of community, and moral ambiguity. Please read the follow conversation between us at Blank Canvas Post and Brianna Bovill to understand more about the writer and the context for this brilliant short story.
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Writer Spotlight: Brianna Bovill
From Boston, Massachusetts, USA, Brianna Bovill has been writing for well over twenty years.
What was it that made you start writing?
Reading was a form of escapism in my childhood. In the characters, I saw my most honest self. In the pages, was my idealised life. I felt seen and if I could make something that made even one other person feel that, then I am fulfilled.
What experiences have you had that have shaped the writer you are today?
Walking in nature. I am a transcendentalist.
What genres are you writing at the moment? What genres do you enjoy writing?
Short stories and poetry.
What inspires you to write? Where do you take your inspiration from?
I see beauty in the mundane. Significance in the ordinary. I love how impactful Raymond Carver’s short stories are, how raw Bukowski’s poetry is, and how the romantics sanctified nature.
What does your writing process look like (e.g., environment, tools, setting)?
My brain experiences life as poetry. I keep a lot of bits in my notes app. Sometimes I see a beautiful piece of writing or I have an experience and I think — this is significant.
What do you envisage when you are writing something new? Are you writing with the intention of sharing your work, or are you simply writing to write, for example?
I am compelled to write. If I was alone in the world I would write on the walls. If I was in prison I would write it on a napkin. When I am waitressing I write it next to people’s orders.
Why do you think community is important for writers and creative people?
Community is essential for survival. Writers understand each other.
Where do you currently share your work?
Substack, I write for a few blogs and I am a contributing writer for a small art magazine.
Why did you submit your work to Blank Canvas Post? What drew you to our publication?
I love the community you are creating on Substack, it came across my feed organically.
About the Short Story: The Good Neighbour
Regarding The Good Neighbour, what inspired you to write this piece?
As a renter in a lower income building, I have had a lot of crazy experiences. It’s amazing what you can learn about people living in close proximity. Nowadays don’t value relationships with neighbours as much as they have in the past and this is a piece to make people consider that.
What is the context for this piece? What is the main feeling or message behind it?
Sadness, fear. So often we see pain or injustice and we are too afraid to address it. I think all the time we truly can only save ourselves.
What was the process of writing this piece like for you? What did this process look like?
It was an ongoing experience that I had and I think writing this was a way to document and understand what I saw. It was the closure I never had, what I wish had been different, an honest way to say I am not always what I want to be.
Why did you choose to submit this piece specifically to Blank Canvas Post?
In a broad way, this piece is about community. It’s a universal experiences and a reality that needs to be faced.
So, without further ado, here is The Good Neighbour, a short story written by Brianna Bovill.
The Good Neighbour, by Brianna Bovill
A good neighbour isn’t nosy. By that definition, I am not a good neighbour. Standing close to my door, I listened to muffled thuds and foreign garble. Working in restaurants with Brazilians, I had picked up a few words, but the rapid cadence prevented me from hearing anything substantial.
I tried to keep my breathing shallow. The walls, built with horsehair plaster, were incredibly thin, but the roar of blood in my ears made it hard to hear. They often went at it like this. They seemed nice enough. He had helped me with the groceries. She had briefly greeted me in the hall. But it’s hard to truly perceive anyone’s character when you don’t speak the same language. Of all my neighbours, I saw her the most. I would see her in the hall watering and pruning her plants while her grey tabby kept her company.
Even though I lived in a complex, it was surprising how little I encountered the other inhabitants. Much of what I knew of my neighbours I gleaned from context clues — humorous welcome mats, identifiable packages, leaflets from the Catholic church left in the wrong box.
When I had first moved in, I felt I would like whoever lived across the hall. Just outside their door, right on the outdated, fraying carpet, was a little oasis: smooth pieces of slate, large clean terracotta planters with carefully pruned lemon trees, bright green onions haphazardly sprouting up, and a beautiful bonsai’ed jade tree. In that dilapidated corner of the building, with aged, dusty curtains and egregiously peeling paint, it was a beacon of beauty and civility.
In those early days, I would try to imagine what strange mysteries lay behind the aging, punctured door. Often, I’d linger in the hall wondering who the keeper of the hall garden was. Next to the door were dirty work boots, but there was an inexplicably feminine spirit in the garden.
Finally one day, as I was returning from a grocery trip, I saw a cat sauntering through the hall. He was a portly grey tabby. Kneeling, I set down the bags and the bold little fellow pushed his head into my hand. The door across the hall was slightly ajar. I noticed the latch of the lock dangling in splintered wood. Tentatively, I knocked on the door, but there was no response. If I let the cat in but the door wasn’t secured in some way, he would return to the hall. He might wander off or make it out onto the busy street. He definitely didn’t look fit to survive in the wild, and he’d make friends with any stranger on the street. I had to keep him from encountering any bad actors, so I pushed the door open further.
Afraid to cross the threshold, I gazed into the unit. The entrance was a narrow hall with a faded oriental rug on the polished wooden floor. Suddenly, a woman peeked her head around the corner and made her way to the door. Her blouse was a tight button-up with a bright tropical pattern and fitted capris. She smelt like coconut and wore red lipstick. The cat wrapped himself around her leg.
“He was wandering in the hall.”
She stared at me blankly. I gestured to the damaged lock, and a look of recognition crossed her face. When she thanked me, I recognised her soft lilt.
“Brazilian?” I asked.
“Sim.”
Suddenly, I remembered my groceries. My ice cream was melting. As I backed away from the door, I heard the wood scraping in the frame, but the lock never clicked.
That was the most communication we ever had. One night, while I was sitting in the parking lot, I saw her strutting to her car in a short sequinned dress. Playfully, she grabbed her companion’s arm and rested her dyed blonde head on his shoulder. He wore a polyester button-up and his hair was sleek with gel. She slid into the car after he opened the door for her, her acrylic pumps catching the moonlight.
They were the same heels she was holding the next morning when we crossed paths in the hall. It was the beginning of my day, but the end of hers. Her dress now appeared garish in the unforgiving morning light. Although she mostly avoided eye contact, a brief cursory glance revealed wary eyes with smeared eyeliner beneath them. The man wasn’t with her now, although his dirt-caked work boots were still outside the door.
Later that night, I heard him shouting across the hall. I padded down the narrow entryway of my apartment and stood very close to the door. Only two flimsy doors separated me from the irate man and the unfortunate object of his anger. She remained terrifyingly silent.
I heard the dull thud of a body hitting the ground.
The steady volume of his shouting suggested he was standing above his victim, his furious tirade raining down on her. Shrinking away from the door, I listened for the sound of her getting up, or giving it back, or at least someone hastily exiting the unit, but I never did. The stretches between shouts grew longer, and eventually it was completely silent.
In vain, I stood frozen by my door, listening desperately for a sign of life from her.
Gently, I opened my door and peeked around it. Their door sat loosely in the frame because of the broken latch. Even without the impediment of a lock, the space between our doors seemed uncrossable. My heart pounded in my chest. The cat was cowering in the hall behind one of the large plants. He knocked against the terracotta, causing a yellowing leaf to fall.
Knocking on their door seemed out of the question, but the undeniable slap of flesh on wood echoed in my mind. All I could hear was the pounding of my own heart in my ears. I tried to calm my breathing so that if she stirred, I would hear it. I listened for a few tense minutes, then gently closed my door.
As I got ready for bed, I tried to put the incident out of my mind. Late into the night, I tossed and turned until sleep fitfully came.
The following morning, as I wearily trudged up the stairs, I was relieved to see her standing by her hallway garden looking out the window at the end of the hall. She wore a pilled grey sweatshirt and tattered sweatpants. Her usually styled hair hung in a greasy ponytail at the nape of her neck. I searched for evidence of the violence I had heard through the walls, but her back remained turned even when I began to fiddle with my lock.
Her eyes remained stubbornly fixed on the smudged glass. In the reflection of the window, I saw light glinting off her tear-streaked cheeks.
Just a few nights later, he was at it again and with a vengeance this time. Before I could even make it to my usual spot, I saw the flash of blue and red out the front window. Looking out street-side, I saw the man sloppily gesturing at the cops. As the officer cuffed him, I saw him angrily shouting up at the window in foreign garble. I imagined her cowering at the window and was relieved to see the car door finally slam.
In the days that followed, I would pass her alone in the hallways. I searched for signs of relief on her face but was met only with a blank stare. Our encounters were more brief than ever.
One afternoon, I saw her cat looking lonely by the lemon tree. When I went to pet him, I noticed her lemon plant had begun to wilt. I tried to water it, but the soil had been dry too long. The roots had pulled away and shrivelled in the pot.
The cat rubbed against my ankle and I looked up at the closed door.
It was finally fully latched.
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Wonderfully executed
This is beautifully and vividly written but in an understated way as a physically-detached narrator. That choice allows your readers to empathize as much as I feel the narrator herself. Sentence by sentence, this story flows almost effortlessly, though I can imagine the craft at work. Wonderful!