3 Short Stores on NYE

Yesterday, via Facebook I asked for random story prompts and within minutes I had three. Not wanting to disappoint, I wrote a story for all three of them! 

Sadly, I FAILED to keep them as short as I wanted. But as promised, I had a crack and I'm sharing my first drafts of each, knowing they're imperfect.

While most people are out revelling, I'm at home with chocolate, the cat, wine and this challenge.

The prompts I was given were:

-          Woman preparing for a camping trip – by Kim Georgine

-          A long, lost object is found – by Julie Miller

-          A picture of a bird on a shopping trolley at night – by Claire Quinn

Here's what came out...

1.       What Not to do When Camping – for Kim Georgine

It’s 11.57pm on a hot, sticky night and Caitlin is in the process of taking things out of her suitcase. For a three-night camping trip with her two children, she’s packed ten outfits apiece, four pairs of shoes each and three bottles of sunscreen. Piled downstairs is a well-stocked first aid kit, two chill boxes and four bags of food, five sleeping bags (one spare each for the children), a tent, a spare tent, five bottles of handgel, rubber gloves, a toolkit, a camp stove, 3 torches, spare batteries and a picnic set. 

The children, Lily and Ben, love camping. Caitlin hates it. It was something George was great at and they promised the kids that afterwards, they would still go once a year. Caitlin spends the entire time watching the children like a hawk, checking for danger and making bizzare deals with God, bartering over responsibility: ‘I’ve done everything I can, God. I took them to swimming lessons, I’ve told them not to go to near the edge, we’ve role-played worst case scenarios. Now, just while I go for a wee, can you take over and make them not fall in the stream? I’ll come back to Church and visit my mother more often.’ She's not sure he's listening, or if she even believes, but she can't risk the possibility that something will happen because she failed to pray. 

Right now, she’s shaking her head at every new risk which enters her head. She has no idea what’s worse – to think of each risk, until the thought is so powerful, she has surely increased its possibility by the sheer energy it now holds; or to not think of them at all, and not prepare. So far she has assured herself: 

-          You can’t get malaria in Dorset

-          Neither of the children have ever reacted to an insect bite

-          The forecast is in the 20’s all week

-          You can’t get hypothermia in summer if you’re dry and in a £200 sleeping bag

-          They have more water than they’ll need

-          The car just passed its MOT

Caitlin goes to check the insect repellent is still packed when it hits her. Sometimes the feeling hits before the thought has even fully taken shape. First the pounding in her head and chest, then the rising bile, before hot, poison begins to course around her system. This is more than fear, this is shame and terror.

Caitlin knows she shouldn’t but she can’t help herself. She stops and brings the thought into focus, gives it words and a voice:

What if you go swerve into the oncoming traffic?

No, she won’t do that, she’s never done that. She was a model driving student. Nobody had more control over a vehicle than she did. She’s never once sped. She is careful.

What if you go crazy and do it on purpose?

No, no, no, no, no.

It’s been a hard couple of years. Are you sure you don’t want to? 

She loves them far, far too much to ever do that. It’s an awful thought. And no, no she doesn’t want to do that. Even if she did, what about the other car….?

Even IF you did? Oh Caitlin!

Caitlin is drenched in sweat and she can see nothing but light and black spots. As the contents of her guts begin to liquify, she uses the wall to guide her way to the bathroom, eventually sitting on the toilet and resting her head against the cold tiles. She spits some bile into a piece of toilet paper and  the room slowly comes back into focus.

“Mummy?”

Ben is standing in the doorway.

“How long have you been there?”

“Just now. What time is it?’’

“Too late for you to be up. Are you ok?’’

“I couldn’t sleep, I’m too excited. Are you excited mummy?”

“Very.”

Caitlin takes Ben back to bed and sits with him, stroking his hair and listening to him chatter about what he’s most looking forward to. She nods and says ‘mmm’, but only hears half of it. The children deserve better. She knows this. Better than a dead, lovely father and a reckless, awful, mad mother.

Ben’s eyes close, his head still resting in her hand. He’s beautiful, like his father, and lovely. Caitlin wants desperately to kiss his forehead, but he’s too delicate, and so is she right now. She sits there for several more minutes, before finally taking a deep breath, pushing his hair back and returning to her packing.

(722 words. 10 minutes planning, 45 minutes writing, no drafts or amendments…)

2.       The Matilda Doll – for Julie Miller

When I hear the door open, I assume it’s Jenny; she’s been in and out, spring cleaning, emptying drawers and taking mementos for the last few days, ever since your mother died. I’m about to go back to dozing when I hear choking and realise it must be you. Jenny keeps doing that Shake n’ Vac. I knew you wouldn’t like it. I don’t either.

You haven’t been in this room since your mum died. I’ve heard you in the kitchen, but you rush past this room, I suspect with your head down. I know you don’t want to see her gone-ness. You never did like to look at the Bad Things until you were ready. 

But you’re ready now Viola. And you don’t know it, but I’m here for you. 

You open the door and stop in surprise. I can see you now, through a crack where the top of this drawer doesn’t quite meet its frame. Gone now is the bad furniture. The hospital bed, the commode, the zimmer frame, the breathing machine. The men came to take it back, and give it to another mum. There’s space again now. I can tell you’re relieved. See, it’s safe now Viola. This is the lounge you grew up in, where you fought with Jenny and played with me every night. 

Instinctively you move towards the dresser and start to open the drawer. It’s where your mum used to keep her purse. It’s not here now, but I am, trapped among postcards and pens, cracker toys, playing cards and spare batteries. You sigh and start to close it again. 

Stop, I’m here.  

The drawer won’t shut, so you try to rearrange thing things in it. And that’s when your hand finds me. The first thing you feel is my woollen hair, then your finger gets stuck in the hole in my neck. You push it further into the stuffing. That’s when you know you’ve found me, your friend, after all these years.

You pull me out, gently and look for moment into my green, cotton eyes. Staring back at you, I can see your own eyes reddening, your face flushing and you bite your bottom lip, the way you always did. You grip me tight. It doesn’t hurt. Oh Viola, how much pain you are in.

You stumble over to a chair and whisper my name: 'Matilda'. 
'You're not alone' I whisper back.


I’ve been dozing now for 30 years, and now it’s time to wake up.

(403 words. No plan. Not sure how long it took to write, but maybe 30 minutes. I originally planned something else, but it was going to be too long. No drafts or amendments)

I will specifically time the next one.

 3. Thank You and Goodnight – for Claire Quinn

Located between a giant Saveway and Discount Baby World on Pearsons Road, just off of the third exit of the M11 Southbound, stood (and still stands) Witheringtons Pearsons Road (or ‘Withies’ to most). Withies was a homewares store like every other; staffed mostly by bored young people and angry older people, it sold mass-produced soft furnishings, kitchenware and forgettable but inoffensive gits. 

One unremarkable Friday, Claire was working the 12pm-8pm shift. It was an undesirable one, but she’d volunteered for it to curry favour for when she needed time off during exams.  She’d been assigned to Kitchenware that day, a particularly painful department as it was run by Eileen, who found endless fault in everyone’s displays and had bestowed upon the Claire the label of ‘attitude problem’, although Claire was still not quite sure why.

‘Alright Fridge?’

Claire looked up from the tea towels she was re-folding to see Craig, wheeling a trolley full of cushions across the floor. Fridge was his nickname for her, short for Frigid. Claire did not respond. 

‘Eileen, you wanna tell this one to smile a bit more. Won’t sell many mugs with a face like that.’

‘I’ve told her before, Craig. Pretty girls like her don’t think they have to. But I’ve been selling crockery for 30 years.’

‘And you still know how to charm them!’

Eileen cackled in a horrific display of flirtation before turning to Claire. 

‘See, what have I told you my girl? You wanna listen to him.’

Satisfied, Craig moved on with his trolley, calling back over his shoulder,

‘Hey Fridge, I think you left something on that shelf of mugs!’

Claire found it, on the third shelf down, second row back in one of the mugs – a torn off piece of receipt paper scrawled with the words: 

Eileen u r an old dry slag luv Claire Fridge.

She screwed it up and shoved it in her pocket. She checked her watch. Only 2.30.

An hour later, she stepped outside into the cold, reached into her fleece pocket and dug out her cigarettes. Eileen had already told her off six times today, twice for shelves she was certain Craig had rearranged and she’d spent half her time neurotically searching for more little notes. Lighting her cigarette, Claire looked upwards and inhaled deeply, enjoying the silence.

‘Having a sneaky one, Fridge?’

Craig appeared from behind the wheelie bins.

‘It’s my lunch break.’

‘Didn’t know you smoked.’

‘I’m full of surprises.’

‘I bet you are.’

‘I’m going back inside.’

Craig moved in front of her.

‘So soon?’ 

He began rolling a fat, messy looking joint.

 ‘Want some of this? Might loosen you up.’

‘No thanks.’

‘Typical Fridgey two shoes.’

‘That doesn’t even make sense.’

‘Thought you were clever.’

'Just move.'

Craig stayed put. Claire was resisting the urge to scream, or cry, or scratch Craig’s eyes out, when she was saved from the tedium by the appearance of Danny from Bedding. As she walked back towards the store, Craig called after her.

‘Always a pleasure, Fridge!’

Eileen left at four and the rest of the afternoon passed without incident, except for Craig leaving a few more notes around the department. An hour before close, she was in the stockroom, looking for something for a customer. There, to her total lack of surprise, was Craig. He was lying in a trolley full of cushions, his knees bent, flicking a lighter on and off. 

‘Hello there Fridgey two shoes. Wanna do something for me?’

‘No.’

‘That’s the spirit. I’ve been hanging all day today.’
‘I’d never have known.’

‘Can’t make it through the next hour. Gonna have a little kip in here. Cover for me.’

‘Whatever.’

‘Thanks Gorgeous.’

Claire returned to the shop floor, hoping that Craig really did intend to sleep for the next hour and went about tidying the department and wilfully ignoring anyone on Rugs that looked like they might need help. Let Craig get in trouble for not being there. At quarter to eight, the store manager Emma asked her if she’d seen him. Claire shook her head.

‘Well can you find him for me, and tell him he’s on trolley duty?’

‘I’ll do it.’

Claire took the opportunity of locking up the trolleys outside to have a cigarette and calm down from her frustrating day. Emma stuck her head out the door and called to her.

‘Remember the trolleys in the stockroom! I saw about 12 in there.’

Claire obeyed, leaving only the one which contained Craig.

At eight on the dot, Emma announced,‘alright everybody, departments are looking great, customers are gone, tills are cashed up. Go enjoy what’s left of Friday!’ 

As Claire traipsed back from her locker through the stockroom, for the last time that day, she remembered to wake up Craig. 

‘Oi, dickhead’, she hissed.

Craig only snored. She shook the trolley.

‘I said dickhead… Craig’

No response.

‘Hey Claire, what are you doing back there? We’re about to lock you in.’ 

She paused for a split second, giving Craig a final poke. He only snuffled in his sleep.

‘Found one more trolley.’

‘Leave it.’

‘No, I’ll put it with the others.’

Once outside, Claire slid the trolley into the one in front of it, sure this would finally wake up Craig, but it didn’t. She’d covered him in his coat and taken him out by the fire exit, so nobody saw him in there. She clicked the chain into place, ensuring the trolley wasn’t going anywhere and re-did the padlock around the trolley bay. 

Slipping a note into the trolley and smiling, she whispered, ‘see you in the morning, Craig’. 

(920 words, 10 minutes to plan, whole hour to write…. And I don’t even like it!)

Here's the picture Claire sent: