Six word story.

Following a discussion on another board, here's a quick writing challenge:

Write a story in six words.

It sounds insanely difficult (well, it isn't easy, I'll admit that) but it is a really useful task. I think we're all guilty of using ten words when one will do, as you will no doubt be able to tell from my previous posts, but the professionals have the skill and confidence to hint at ideas rather than just tell us.

A big problem in writing is over-explaining as it takes away the aspects most likely to hook your reader: exploration and discovery. So why not give it a try?

Here are some famous examples:

Ernest Hemingway - Baby shoes for sale. Never worn.

Joss Whedon - Gown removed carelessly. Head, less so.

Stan Lee - Automobile warranty expires. So does engine.

Margaret Atwood - Longed for him. Got him. Shit.

Anyway, have a go - and feel free to post your stories on the comments!

SHORT STORY - The Redraft

The Redraft

The air had cooled, the skin on her fore-arms prickling like a breeze caught on the tips of waist-high grass but, for all that, her eyes remained heavy-lidded; sleep had been difficult over the past few weeks.

The chill of evening sun-burn massaged Lena’s legs and she considered turning back. It was just a moment, but longer than she would have expected. Still she reached the edge of the jetty, the sea sucking at the barnacles on the support posts ten feet below.

Her house sat idle and would do until past ten, when Will returned home, but that was still two hours away. She rubbed her hands together and blew between her palms, barely noticing arms glide around her like the sea-breeze.

“Missed you.”

Lena closed her eyes, “Missed you too.”

“You like this beach?”

“Let’s walk.”

“Sure.”

Their footsteps sank in dry sand and slowed them as they left a dusty wake. They didn’t hold hands, Lena wouldn’t allow it, but she knew that anyone who saw them would have understood.

“Did you have work today?”

“Yeah.”

“You going to tell me what you do?”

“Not yet.”

***

She met her mother the next morning, embracing her like they hadn’t seen each other for months before settling into a café. The frail woman nestled a Styrofoam coffee cup in her hands, leaning over it like she was fighting off a bitter chill.

“Good to get out of the sun,” she said absently. “Far, far too bright.”

Lena nodded silently.

“Did you hear from the people? The teaching people?”

“The University?”

“That’s the place!”

“Nothing yet.”

“You have to get...”

“I can’t quit until I have somewhere else to go to.”

Her mother took a few careful sips of her coffee, “Isn’t Will making enough?”  

***

The beach had rapidly become their meeting place and Lena had spent the days between their walks closing her eyes to hear the rolling waves and licking her lips to taste sea-spray. Will had kept hidden in the spare room with his latest project and her Pinot Grigio supply had dried up, leaving her alone with her thoughts.

Friday night was spent sat in a deck-chair in the garden, a blank note-pad in her lap lit by the open living room curtains. A biro hung like a cigarette from her lips as she stared up at the stars and the old oak that grew too close to the house.

Eventually, she heard the padding of saggy trainers and her fiancé stood over her. His shirt was streaked with paint and a dollop of magnolia sat in his hair.  

“Are you... you been okay?”

“I’m tired.”

“True.” Will nodded, then carefully; “Still, there’s something else…”

She was half-tempted to tell the truth and, appropriately, what she said was half true; “It’s the house.”

Will smiled; “Don’t worry, it’ll get there. How’s the writing?”

“I’ve ground to a halt.”

“Tried taking a walk?”

“Yeah,” Lena replied a little hesitantly, “All the time.”

“Didn’t help?”

“No.”

Will sighed, “You got holiday left?”

“Not saved up but maybe six days left for the year.”

“Then take ‘em,” Will said, closing his eyes. “Take ‘em and go on holiday. Go to Corfu and do some travel writing, use the place to write. Do whatever you need to do.”

“I can’t afford it.”

“I can.”

“I can’t take your money.”

“Never stopped you before.”

***

  
A bell sounded over her head as she entered Bluebird, the small surf shop tucked away from the town’s main roads. It was packed but empty. Clothes lined the walls and filled the aisles, even hanging from the ceiling, until she couldn’t progress any further without turning sideways.

Then she heard shuffling sounds, stifled by a half-closed door, drift from the store-room. They were followed by a voice; his voice, “I’m coming.”

He threw the door open but it was cushioned by wetsuits before it met the wall and he scrambled behind the counter. Before he saw her he muttered apologies, then he froze.

“Well howdy there.”

“Hi.”

“What do I owe this pleasure?”

Lena shrugged, smiled.

He looked at his watch, “I thought you were busy during the day.”

“I got away early.”

“Superb,” he smiled, “I wanted to talk to you about something.”

“Really?” he mistook disappointment for surprise.

“I got a brochure for the theatre productions in London…”

Lena shook her head.

“Of course we can,” he said. “We can catch a train there and stay the weekend in a hotel. I haven’t got much money but…”

“I don’t have any.”

“My treat.”

“I have a boyfriend.”

“A boyfriend?” His eyes dulled without a smile, “How long?”

“Seven years. We’re engaged.”

He chewed the inside of his lip, fists clenched in his pockets, “Then I guess that’s it.”

Lena shook her head, “No.” Good sense told her that he was right; there wasn’t anything else to say.

“Why’d you come here?”

“I wanted to talk to you.”

“What more do you have to say?”

“I owe you thirty-four ninety-nine,” she said, producing a crumpled receipt as proof.

“The t-shirt was a present.”

“People write that stuff off and... I want to pay you back.”

“I’m fine.”

“I’m not,” Lena said and fished out her purse. “Thirty-four ninety-nine…”

“Is that why you’re here?” he asked, his voice offering echoes of different accents. “To clear all debts?”

“Just take the money.”

“Fine.”

A pause held amongst the clutter and his blue eyes.

“I can’t write in that house.” Again Lena sought the right words; “It’s just work. Whenever I picture the house I want to live in… it won’t ever be that place.”

She looked up but he was still quiet, watching her and expecting more.

“The other night, I found some old stories,” Lena sighed. “I tried to redraft them but I just made different mistakes.”

“Then leave him.”

“I can’t.”

“Then don’t,” he shrugged. “What do you want me to say?”
The corners of Lena’s eyes chilled with the beginnings of tears, “I love you.”

SHORT STORY - 'Making up the numbers' taken from the collection 'Beside the River' by Ben Allan Watkins

Short Story:

The following is a full short story from the collection 'Beside the River' by Ben Allan Watkins. Available as an e-book on kindle, it can be purchased for an introductory price if you click on the following links:

US link: http://www.amazon.com/Beside-river-Stories-Ashwater-ebook/dp/B00AUHY4GE

UK link: http://www.amazon.co.uk/product-reviews/B00AUHY4GE

Otherwise, please enjoy.

Making up the numbers

The best thing. Max had thought about it for a while, rolling a cigarette on a DVD cover and watching curls of tobacco scatter onto the carpet. Sophie had asked him what the best thing was... what the best thing was for the kids.

Autumn had been overcome by winter; the trees had taken a silver sheen to their bare branches and the grass had grown patchy and brown. The kids going to school had started to wear bigger and bigger coats, taking gloves and scarves without complaint.

Well, he’d done the right thing, for sure. Of course he had.

He fished a plastic lighter from his pocket and thumbed it three times before it lit. Always three times. He felt the flame crawl under his nail, burning his skin tight and smooth, before he tossed it back onto the table and put the cigarette to his lips.

His brother, Tom, didn’t mind the smoke. He had no choice, but he didn’t mind it. He had grown up with it, so it smelt like returning home; like day old roses; like Sunday dinner and sitting around the table listening to his grandfather’s old stories. It had always been around him.

Max watched the smoke drift and drool from his lips. They wouldn’t miss him. It would be a badge of honour and, when they’d grown up, they could blame him for anything they liked. It wouldn’t make any difference to him what they said; out of sight, out of mind.

“You still seeing that girl?” Tom asked.

“I’m seeing her, yeah.”

“Seemed nice enough when I saw her.” Even when they were kids they never had conversations like this; funny what a disaster brings out.

“Yeah, I know,” Max nodded, “but you make hay whilst the sun shines.”

Tom shifted, he didn’t really understand but it seemed to him like he should have. He leaned back, digging his shoulders into a sofa soft as dust, and propped his boots on the coffee table. “You need to like your place more,” he sighed. “You need to treat it right, no-one else will otherwise.”

Max dug his chin into his chest, feeling the three day old stubble. “Yeah, I know.”

“You know?”

“Yeah, but it don’t matter none,” Max sighed. “Still, you can take your boots off the table for a start.”

When he was done Max pulled on a hooded jumper, dusting tobacco off his legs as he stood up into his smoke. He found two socks, whether they matched meant little to him, and an old pair of trainers that were worn through in places.

The staircase that led down from the third floor was narrow, old and in need of paint. The air was thick with mould as they made for the front door, prompting Tom to hold his breath behind his brother’s back. Max fished out his key; “I got some paint cans from Sulley,” he said. “No point waiting for the landlord to get himself in gear.”

His new flat was over a chip shop and they got a glimpse of polished stainless steel surfaces as they passed by the side windows. On the walls, high above the counter, old posters offered pies, local fish, some even hinting at the promise of Chinese food. “We’ll grab something on the way back. I know a good place... better than this and cheaper too.”

“Where are we going, Max?”

Max didn’t look back, he was marching. “Got something to show you.”

“Why am I suddenly filled with a sense of dread?”

“Hey, if I weren’t stupid, then I wouldn’t be nothing.”

Whenever Max caught sight of the signs, the billboards and posters that had sprung up over the past few months, Tom saw him chew it over and over in his mind, his eyes distant and furious. Normally it would mean that he would retreat into his shell, pretending that he was checking his laces or some scuff on his shoes, but today was different.

“Hey, hey...” Max said, stopping quite suddenly in front of his brother, “I’ve got something.” He set a hand on Tom’s shoulder and gave it a friendly squeeze. “I found something the other day. I... I was going through some old boxes, stuff Dad left...” He grinned warmly, forgetting himself and allowing a glimpse of his egg-shell teeth. “Remember when we were kids?” he asked. “Those inter-school competitions? The big sports days...”

“I remember you going,” Tom replied.

“Yeah,” Max nodded. “Found this little medal in one of Dad’s boxes.”

Tom took a look at it, reaching over and letting it sit in his hand. It was light, made of cardboard and coated in gold paint. On the front in black was the number one, big and bold as you like. Tom smiled; so he had finally found the time to pick up his share of the things.

“I got it for sprinting,” Max said. “First time I realised that was what I wanted to do with my life. I was seven then. Seventy-nine it was, I guess, and I couldn’t stop running after that.”

“I didn’t even get anything from the little school sports days,” Tom said. “Every year they tried to find something to give me a medal for. They even introduced tiddlywinks to give me a chance. I think I was the only kid who didn’t win a thing.”

Max laughed, thrusting the medal back into his pocket. “I’m not saying anything.”

Past pastry shops, a furniture shop called ‘Seconds’ and a boarded up catering company, they turned left onto Exleigh road. Wider, with shops crammed tight on either side, it ran straight and long, a rare quality for a road in Ashwater. They passed a sign saying “allotments” that pointed down a narrow path that twisted away into the shadows. The buildings were squat and cramped, seemingly creaking with seaside tat and charity shop donations, and overshadowed by old four story homes a garden’s length from the road.

Tom was already looking forward to getting away again. How long before he said that he had to call the wife? How long before there was a problem with the kids and he had to go home?

“You know how much it’s worth?”

“Your medal?”

“Yeah,” Max smiled.

Tom crossed his arms; he wasn’t quite sure where his brother was going with this. “Nothing.”

“Not a bean, yeah,” Max laughed. “But then no-one’s interested in my sporting achievements.” He pointed up to a house, third from the end, and asked, “You know who lives there?”

Tom squinted; he kind of remembered it from when he was a kid. Had a friend lived there? Or maybe one or two doors over... “No.”

“Helen Layland.”

“Is that meant to mean something?”

“You need to work on your community spirit, Thomas. Get away from the ivory tower and take an interest in those around you.” Max found a low wall and parked himself awkwardly on it. “You never heard of Helen Layland?”

Tom shrugged; the disinterest in his body language was quite deliberate.

“She runs the local swimming clubs, the Otters.” Max said proudly. “Thirty years she has and always voluntarily. Four of her kids have gone on to compete in international tournaments. One was at the Olympics. Don’t know how she did.”

“Shelley Holland?”

“That’s her name,” Max grinned, “well done!”

 “So?”

“Again, community spirit.” Max pulled his collar up and dug his hands into his pockets. “She carried the Olympic torch through town. She had a mile with it. Right here.”

“Good for her.”

“It was. You know what they do with the torches?”

“Pass them on?”

“You’d think,” Max replied. “No, they take one home. Everyone who carried the torch took one home.”

“She has one in there?”

“Yep,” Max nodded. “Now ask me how much they’re worth.”

“I figure you’re going to tell me.”

Max smiled, he was enjoying himself. “One sold for over a hundred thousand.”

“Really?”

“People buy any old rubbish on E-bay.”

They sat there a moment, watching the house, before Max stood and un-buttoned his jacket as far as he could bear. Tom watched him: his brother had the same determined look he wore when he was fixing up the old VW van he’d bought, or painting houses for cash, or moving furniture. “I could join the dots for you, but that would just insult your intelligence. So, I’ll just ask this: you gonna help?”

“I’m an office manager,” Tom said helplessly, but he was already standing. He didn’t know why he said yes and, after a few more steps up the path, Tom started to doubt whether he had agreed to it at all. It was daylight, grey and overcast but it was daylight; people were passing by in the street all the time. “I work with insurance…”

The garden was quite long and a little overgrown; grass grew around an over-turned trike and a clay pot that had been split by the roots inside it. The wall was low and uneven, with very little cement left between the stones. It didn’t run straight, instead weaving a little on its way to the house.

Max knocked on the door and took a step back, a breath. Tom always figured that you could learn a lot about a person from their front door; here it was heavy duty and fire retardant with a fresh, but decidedly thin, coat of green paint. So rented accommodation it was.  

“Hello, my name is...”

The door was only half open before she asked, “Are you from the TV company?”

“Yes, my name is Ryan and this is my colleague, Tim.” Max said confidently. “We’re looking forward to talking with you…”

“Well, I just want you to fix the thing.”

Max hesitated, “They didn’t really explain the problem when I got the call.”

Shelley was in her early sixties with her silver hair cut short. She was small and lithe, dressed like she was an artist rather than a swimming coach. She wore tinted glasses and a pashmina scarf that Tom guessed to be more expensive than his coat.

“It’s been terrible,” she sighed. “Really it has. As soon as I turned the thing on the picture becomes all blocky and none of the 3D works.”

“We’ll have to take a look,” Max said sagely, before stepping past her.

The TV was already on when they entered the living room but it had fallen into static. Two pairs of 3D glasses lay haphazardly on a battered old sofa and that was about it for furniture. Tom knew Max’s eyes would be saucers for the thousand pound TV but he was more concerned with the state of the remainder of the room.

“Excuse the mess,” Shelley said, suddenly quite self-conscious, but there hardly seemed to be enough in the room to make a mess even if you wanted to.

“Don’t worry at all,” Max replied as he knelt before the set. “It’s a lovely TV, isn’t it? Hard to believe what we all put up with only a few years ago.”

“Yes...”

“Have you managed to get any picture on it?”

“Yes, for a minute or two.”

“We’ll have to have a look behind it...” Max said, twisting the screen to peer amongst the cables that ran down to the floor. He sat up again, and looked back to her before asking, “Is there a chance of a cup of tea at all?”

Once she was gone he grinned, “The motherload!”

“There’s nothing here...”

“The TV, the Olympic torch, her bingo money... ”

“Where?”

“That’s where you come in,” Max replied. “I think it’s time for a little recon on your part.”

Shelley came back hurriedly, muttering apologies that she only had green tea. Tom thanked her, but barely touched his, and Max drank his so quickly he could barely taste it. “So,” she asked, “Is it fixable?”

“Well,” Max replied with his most sincere expression, “We’ll certainly have a try.”

“Please do,” she said. “The kiddies will be awfully disappointed otherwise.”

So they set about the task with a professional-seeming vigour. Before Max could show himself up, Tom asked for a look at the satellite dish and she led him up to the bedroom. The corridors were neat, if a bit sparse, and the room itself consisted of a double bed, a few scattered boxes and a collection of ornaments set out on the carpet.

After a few minutes of hanging out the window and waiting for her to leave him alone, he climbed back inside the room and pronounced that there was nothing wrong with the alignment on the dish. He quickly shut the window, shivering, and walked back downstairs with her.

“Have you just moved in?”

“No, been here years,” she replied and, when she noticed his surprise, she stopped and grabbed his hand. “I know it’s looking a little empty nowadays, but I couldn’t keep all his things after he left. Not when so many of my family have little kiddies and are struggling at the moment.” She smiled softly, but her grip on his hand tightened. “Promise you won’t tell... they’ll all be so cross at everything I sold.”

When Tom returned to the living room, he had to take back his initial opinion; it was obviously quite possible to make a mess in such an empty room. Max had pulled out most of the wires and, for some reason, dismantled the stand the TV had sat on. His brother froze and bit his lip.

“It doesn’t look like it’s going too well there, sonny,” the old lady said. “Looks like we’ll need to put another pot of tea on.”

Max protested otherwise but she scuttled off to the kitchen before he could stop her. As soon as the door shut, Tom had a hold of his brother’s shirt. “What have you done here?”

“I nearly had it at one point.”

“At one point?”

“Well, not now obviously,” Max shrugged. “Now I think I’ve knackered it.”

“What are we doing here?”

The doorbell rang and they heard Shelley sigh and walk back to the corridor.

“Did you find the torch?”

“No sign of it,” Tom replied. “She doesn’t have much of anything up there, to be honest.”

Faintly, Tom was aware that the front door was opening and “hullos” were sounded. “Wait,” he snapped. “Is that the real repair men?”

They turned in time to see the living room door open as Shelley ushered in a mob of children, all shouting and laughing and bumping into each other. No, Tom thought to himself, if anything it was worse.

“We have to go,” Max said quite apologetically, but he was already half past the old lady and his eyes were on the door. She caught him on the sleeve and her grip was surprisingly tough to let slip. “I’ll have to phone it in to get the right tools for the job...”

Shelley paused then, her head tilting a little. “Well, why didn’t you bring anything like that with you when you came?”

“Daddy!”

Aghast and growing paler Max looked down and saw his daughters clinging on to him, one for each leg. “Hey there, poppets,” he managed with what enthusiasm he could muster. “You look happy there.”

“Because Daddy is here!” Kelly exclaimed, before bursting into tears. Beside her, little Jo looked set to go the same way too.

Max swept them up into his arms, “Why are you crying, dear?”

“I’ve missed you Daddy.”

“We’ve missed you,” Jo corrected with an indignant sniff.

The doorbell rang again. Tom spluttered, “What are you running? A cresh?”

Shelley was moving again and nearly out the door when she called back over her shoulder. “Don’t worry, there shouldn’t be any more kiddies for the party...” she said as she disappeared from sight.

“That’ll be the real repair men then,” Tom snapped, glaring at his brother.

“Uncle Tom!”

“We can’t go,” Max whispered. “What can we do?”

Kelly again: “Why are you going?”

“We have sunk really low with this one,” Tom said. “You do realise I’ll lose my job, don’t you?”

The living room door opened again and this time Shelley was followed by a man dressed in tuxedo and carrying a big suitcase. She called out to the children, “Look kiddies, we have a magician!” and Max and Tom knew that escape was getting more difficult with every passing second.

Despite their protestations, the pleas of the children, determined that they should stay for the show, combined with Shelley’s insistence that they finish the job they started and meant that their escape was as good as blocked. Max slumped back into the sofa as his daughters clambered over him, leaving Tom to slink away to the TV set.

Before Max could do anything, other children followed his daughters onto the sofa, swamping the floral material until it looked set to collapse. Every moment seemed to consist of Kelly grabbing at his sleeve and introducing him to a new friend; names like Sarah, Lilley and Ruth blended together in her excitement. When she finally stopped for air, an older girl called Caitlin, playing mother to the little ones, shook his hand like they were concluding a business deal and gave a little shrug as if to say “kids, eh?”

The magician, an old man who hobbled from years of back pain, lifted his hands as high as he could manage and the room exploded with confetti. “Ta da!” he cried and part of Max couldn’t help but be impressed as he tried to forget himself and clap along with the girls.

The show raced through a number of the old classics: coins from ears, flowers from sleeves and toys made to vanish. Through the different tricks it became clear that one of the children, a little boy that Kelly was friends with, was Shelley’s grandson and the party was for him. The magician’s image had no doubt been tarnished when a film about strippers, also called Magic Mike, had come out but, otherwise, he wasn’t so bad. Max had long thought that most magician’s names could easily been misused in such a way.

“And now for a volunteer...” Magic Mike said rather grandly.

“Daddy, go on Daddy!”

The doorbell sounded again and he hoped that Magic Mike was going to try a vanishing act. Shelley was out of the sofa beside him and children flooded over the seat, filling it instantly. “Don’t you worry yourself,” the old lady said. “Enjoy the show!”

Tom was working with the wires, like if he could fix it then he could save himself, but he seemed to just be getting himself in a muddle. He cursed once, but that particular word didn’t seem to be on the children’s radar just yet.

“Come on then, Daddy,” the old magician said.

Max stood and set his girls down where he’d been sitting. He kissed them each on the top of their head before walking to the old man.

The bell sounded again and Max could hear the front door opening over the old carpet.

The magician stepped beside Max and smiled, “Now, boys and girls, does anyone know what joins and links us all together? The bond we all share?” But Max didn’t hear a word; he was listening, straining to hear the mumble of voices at the front door. “It’s numbers.”

The children booed at that and someone cried out “I hate maths.”

The old man smiled, “You shouldn’t though... numbers are everywhere... not just in maths lessons.”

Max could make out the sound of the door closing and footsteps approaching.

The magician turned back to him, smiling broad as ever. “Now these are not playing cards. They simply have numbers on them. White cards and black numbers. This should be easy for you, sir. I just want you to pick a card, any card, and I will tell you the number on it.”

The sound of footsteps and the door-handle turning.

Still life carried on, it kept moving despite the end being near. Max took a card and looked at it.

The door opened and Shelley returned. Behind her, two wiry men followed in blue overalls. “We’ve jus’ come to fix the TV,” one was saying. “We won’t be no bother.”

Max froze, letting the card slip from his fingers. Tom struggled to his feet but he couldn’t run.

Suddenly the room lit up with a flash of white light until the TV settled on the image of a sprinter at the Olympics, the channel blinking in the top right corner. Max looked to his feet and the card stared right back at him: channel 79 and the card read 79 and the year he fell in love with track, 1979.

Shelley crossed her arms and narrowed her eyes. “If these are the gentlemen sent by the TV company, who are you boys?”

Max hesitated, lost a moment, and glanced over to his brother.

“Daddy!” Kelly called out and Max rushed forward to embrace her and her sister together.

“We wanted to pop around and surprise my girls at the party,” he said. “I know there was a muddle but we thought we could help...”

“...And we did,” Tom added, resting a hand on the TV. Despite his best efforts, he had the look of a particularly skittish bomb disposal man.

The engineers checked over the set before they left and the magician finished his show. At the last, as parents started arriving for their kids, Shelley smiled and put her arms around Max and Tom in turn. “Are you away now?”

Max smiled, “I might stick around with my girls until they’re picked up.”

“No problem, as they say. Thank you both for your help,” she said. “You can be sure that you have a friend in Helen Layland.”

“Helen?”

Tom’s eyes narrowed, “You’re not Shelley Holland?”

“No, of course not,” she snapped, “She lives next door.”

Short story - Deus ex machina (from collection 'Beside the river' by Ben Allan Watkins)

The following is a full short story from the collection 'Beside the river' by Ben Allan Watkins. The stories follow the interrelated lives of the inhabitants of a small coastal town, looking at the everyday dramas and epiphanies they encounter.

If you are interested in reading more, you can search for it as an e-book on Amazon or follow the link:

http://www.amazon.co.uk/Beside-river-Stories-Ashwater-ebook/dp/B00AUHY4GE



Deus ex machina

The clouds fell moments after sunset, bleaching the bare hill-tops around him. Sam had crawled from his shelter to catch the view over the valley and, kneeling, he tilted his head to feel the first drops of rain on his face. The plastic sheeting over his bags sang as the coolness spread down his neck and traced the shape of his shoulders and back.

It had been years since he’d last visited a gym and his bare chest revealed more bone than muscle. He was taller than average but certainly lighter than he should have been and his narrow shoulders looked like a coat would just slide straight off them.

As the rain grew heavier, the air became a thick undulating pink and he crawled back under the canvas. His fingers shook as he sought the zip but he found it and, as the wind grew stronger, he pulled it tight to the ground, ripping the seal.

 

***

He closed the double doors after him but the rain had already followed into the Old Orchard Cafe. The waitress crossed her arms and thought half-heartedly about tossing him right back out. But she relented, as she did every week, and he sat, finding himself a booth that looked out over the bay.

“You okay there, Sam?”

He had unfolded the menu already and spread it flat on the table-top like a treasure map. On top of it he’d fished out a mix of coins and was carefully arranging them.

“You look cold,” she said. When he didn’t reply, she chewed her lip and took a step back. He was lucky that he’d missed the other waitresses; they lacked the patience he required. “Everything OK there?”

He sighed at that. “Had to come in. Got too bad.”

“You over the valley?”

He nodded, “Beans on toast. Please.”

“You want a drink with that?”

“Water. Tap. Please.”

As he ate, he palmed humidity from the window and watched the world flooding away. He saw cars lifted from the tarmac and sliding across the road, finding ditches before they disappeared beneath the water. He saw people running from the tide. Screaming.

“You sure you don’t want a hot drink, Sam?” The waitress stood at his side again and the world was normal once more; it was just rain. “Happy to get you a tea from the staff pot. No charge.”

His face brightened beneath unkempt fuzz, “Really?”

“I’ll get it now.”

The waitress returned with one of her own mugs, professing that she was the ‘world’s best mum’, and set it before him. He had already finished the food and happily warmed his hands holding it.

She smiled at him again, “How come you staying out in the wilds there?”

“No-one bothers me,” Sam replied, then quickly added, “The farmer doesn’t mind if I keep to myself. He knew Dad.”

The waitress nodded, drying her hands on a tea-towel she slung over her shoulder. “I don’t know if you’re interested but my Bill could do with someone on the site,” she began. “Help with the lifting and so on.”

Sam looked down, following a single floating tea leaf, “Maybe.”

“That’s better than normal,” she smiled. “Are we seeing some progress?”

“Well, maybe.”

The quiet held a moment after that, allowing just the sound of rain on glass. They had spoken often enough over the past few months but the boy had rarely offered anything for her to cling to; just words and ideas, never anything he would actually do. She knew she couldn't push him but, likewise, she couldn't let the silence stretch any further.

“You don’t have to be out there,” she said, sliding into the seat opposite him.

Sam shifted, sipping his drink again. “Please sit down.”

“Your mother’s just a phone call away, y’know,” she said. “She’s waiting. She wants to hear from you.”

“She’s okay. She’s fine,” he replied. “I got something though...” He reached into his pocket and drew a small, dog-eared piece of card; it was new but ill-cared for. “I treated myself and...”

“Why’d you buy that?”

“Why does anyone?” Sam shrugged.

“You don’t have money to waste on scratch cards.”

“If this...”

“Don’t, Sam.” She crossed her arms and leant back into her chair, looking out into the gloom. She had heard too many of his ideas to believe that they would end in any other way; he would slip out into the storm, back to wherever he curled up to sleep, and reappear a week later, maybe a month, like nothing had ever happened. 

“If this wins, I’m gonna split it fifty-fifty with you for letting me in and all the free drinks...”

“It’s not going to...” She hadn't snapped at him, but he reacted like she had.

“Why not?”

“She wants to hear from you, Sam.”

He lowered his head and tried to take a sip from his empty mug before setting it on the table before him. “She’s got her garden; her strawberries, apples, that orange tree.”

“She can help you, not me.”

“I can’t talk about this every time...” he snapped, shifting to slide himself out of the booth until the waitress caught his hand and the idea faded.

“...but you do keep coming in.”

Every part of him wanted to move, wanted him to get up and walk back out into the rain, but something held him back. “No one else will have me.”

“Why are you doing this to yourself?”

Sam hesitated and he looked back out to the road; headlights flooded the window and left him blinking away the image of a burning eye. “I need to see what life wants for me.”

“How you going to know when it comes?”

There had been a time when the answer would have come easily, but he had been away so long that conversation had become a chore. At first he had talked to himself and there was a comfort in that, he could voice his ideas without criticism or challenge, but he had tired of that charade and fallen silent in time. Now each word felt like crossing a field knee deep in mud.

“I... I studied English at the campus up on the hill...”

She knew, of course, and she watched and waited for him to say more.

“... This lecturer I had, Simon Wells, he kept throwing my stories right back at me. He hated them. Laughed at one.” Sam’s fingers drummed the table-top, “He... he said they weren’t any good, that’s what he said. He said that and he threw them back at me.”

“That’s all he said?”

“They were all ‘Deus ex machina’,” he pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed. “The hero was always rescued. Someone always came in and saved the day at the last minute. No matter how unlikely. He said it didn’t make sense.”

“You never tried changing that?”

“I did,” he replied, beginning to tap his foot nervously on the lino. “But I was... I was dreaming. I was kidding myself. So, I thought, if my decisions have been so lousy, maybe fate can do better.”

“So you’re waiting to win the lottery?”

“No...” he replied, standing up. “I’m waiting for life to take an interest in me.”

“Don’t go again.”

“Thanks for the food, the tea...” he said, buttoning his coat and snatching the scratch card from the table before he left.

The waitress watched him go, head down and hair still dripping. He didn’t even look back before he disappeared out into the rain.

Sam ducked into an alley for shelter and held the card in his hands. Match three. For a moment he allowed himself to daydream of sports cars, of holidays, of parties, of a life without illness. Then he used his thumb-nail to scratch the surface off.

He blinked away rain drops and saw a strawberry, an apple and an orange.