Story A Day May (challenge)
Morgen Bailey
Smashwords Edition
Copyright 2011 Morgen Bailey
‘Story A Day May’ is the result of an author’s challenge to write 31 stories in 31 days.
Each story is self-contained and some connected.
This version of ‘Story A Day May’ contains the stories written, together with the prompts given by http://storyaday.org and additional comments by the author. ‘Story A Day May (stories)’ contains the stories only. It is available separately at the same price.
Discover other titles by Morgen Bailey at Smashwords.
Smashwords Edition, License Notes
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CONTENTS
1. Over
2. A Military Couple (part one)
5. Ghost
6. The Threadbare Girl (part one)
7. Do It Right Or Get Off the Horse
10. Late
11. The Big Game
12. A Military Couple (part two – A Different Perspective)
13. The Houseguest
14. A Story For Amelia Earheart
16. A Scientifically Unexplained Occurrence
18. A Broken Dart / Of Moonlight – Splintered On The Sea
19. Man Overboard
20. In The Stars
21. Court (A Shaggy Dog Story)
22. The Case That Sherlock Couldn’t Crack
23. She Suspects
24. Sparkly Blue
25. Don’t
27. They Said It Couldn’t Be Done
28. Feeling Like A Child Again
29. Small Town Drama
30. The Lake At Dusk
31. The Threadbare Girl (part two)
Today’s prompt was ‘over’ to use as we wish. I woke up full of cold (hinted at by waking up with a sore throat earlier in the week) so was hoping for something simple. I wasn’t sure whether this was or not but we use one-word prompts in our Monday night workshops so I took the dog out for a walk and started coming up with ideas… resulting in this:
“Over,” I say, and my dog and I cross the road. Overnight, after oversleeping, I’ve become overcome with cold. I’m usually overrun with chores but I’m taking it easy today. A contrast to yesterday, blitzing my overgrown garden; now my pavement is overcrowded with overfilled brown wheelie bins and strong, green gardening bags.
I look in the dictionary and have never heard of ‘overhand’. Wikipedia tells me it’s a boxing term and a knot, and I’m not a violent person but right now I’m angry. My neighbour’s extension has gone over and above what was promised to me; it’s already overhanging the light into my south-facing garden.
I head to the bank to check that I’m not overdrawn, not dipped into my overdraft, then buy some over-the-counter medicine before this cold overpowers me. I think I’ve been overcharged. On the way home, another neighbour calls me over. So, switching off my iPod’s classical overture, we talk over the fence, while his England flag flutters overhead.
To say I’m fat is an overstatement. I’m a little overweight and could do with an overhaul of my eating habits, but it would be an oversimplification to say 5-a-day fruit and veg would do it. I often overlook them at the supermarket, an unhealthy oversight. My body’s been doing a bit too much overtime at the moment so it really wouldn’t hurt.
An early night is also long overdue but I have plans tonight (I’m having writing friends over) so an afternoon nap will have to make do.
My back is complaining, it does that a lot. When I go to pick something up it says, “don’t overdo it” but I never listen. Tomorrow morning I shall carry stacks of Red Cross-donated books which I’ll tip on to the counter and their shiny covers will slip against each other and overbalance on to the floor.
In the afternoon, what energies I have will be used to empty my loft (pre-electrician’s visit), bring down the boxes of already-bought presents that will overwhelm my mother in September, when she’s easily pleased, although I suspect she overplays it, oversells for my benefit. My aunt, her twin, will just look overawed, carrying her overladen gift bag into the kitchen, putting her Andre Rieu DVDs with the others. An überfan.
Then Wednesday lunchtime my job sharer will read me her handover notes as our shifts overlap, my turn to work two and a half days before another weekend arrives.
I usually travel overseas but my friend and I are busy so we’ll wait a year. She’s off to Mexico, me to Winchester. I’ve never been there before so I’ll need to pay attention so I don’t overshoot the junction, overstep the mark on the map for the venue.
If I played cricket I think it would be underarm not overarm, that’s just how I throw; like a girl.
Radio Litopia’s AgentPete calls me an overachiever but I like to think I’m just overjoyed with all things literary. We chat during Sunday night’s Open House then our Skype connection is terminated before I overstay my welcome. I live and breathe writing, albeit stuffily through a red overblown nose. I sneeze over and over again.
Having over-egged today’s prompt, this ditty is over. Well, anymore would be overkill, wouldn’t it?
###
My heart sank when I read the prompt for today. I know nothing about the military. However, while out walking the dog, the first scene came to me and it rolled out (and, as is my way, down) from there…
Laura watches the ship leave. Silence. No waving hands, no kisses blown. The major’s words replay in her head. “He didn’t tell you?” He hadn’t. Not like him.
Laura pictures the box of his letters at the bottom of her wardrobe, at their home. The photos of him, comrades, even an ice cream van. She’d squinted at the face holding… no, offering the Flake 99. Offering it to him. Laura’s husband.
Laura’s never been the jealous type. Never needed to be. Until now.
It’s the woman’s brown eyes – like a puppy’s. John’s always been a sucker for those.
It had been her, Laura, who’d prevented them getting a dog. She loved them as much as he did but sneezed just passing one in the street. Every time she saw newspaper articles of sniffer dogs she’d smile, knowing they kept him company when she couldn’t. But now he has this woman keeping him company. Surrounded by deep brown eyes whose owners know how to use them.
And now he’d made the choice. Home to her or stay with them. He’d written so freely, so lovingly that it had never dawned on Laura that there would be a choice. Could be. She’d stood with the other wives, waving, cheering. Except the other wives were holding hands with their children, until their husbands arrived and they let go, threw their arms around them. A group hug. A human parcel of flesh and blood.
She’d watched them one by one, group by group, get into their cars, and drive back to their houses, safe within the confines of the base. A bricks and mortar group hug. To homemade food, parties, reunions. Only Laura’s still waiting for hers.
She doesn’t mind it getting dark. It’s the warmth she misses. A sunny early May day turned into a cold May night. She zips her jacket up to her chin and digs her hands into her pockets. She isn’t sure why she waits; she knows there won’t be another ship. Unlike buses they don’t come in threes. They come in ones and her one, his one, came and went hours ago.
She hears footsteps behind her and turns. A man in uniform and she nods.
“I’m sorry ma’am. I’m going to have to lock up now. Do you have a ride…?
She nods again and walks to her car. It’s still the one he bought her when they were first married but it drives well and she doesn’t want to change it. She doesn’t want anything to change.
The car starts first time and purrs like a kitten. The talked-about kitten that went the way of the dog. She drives the half hour to their detached redbrick house and pulls up to curtained windows with no lights behind.
Locking the car she walks up to the green metal post-box, finds the smallest key on the ring and opens the door. It squeaks as she pulls it and she makes a mental note to locate some WD40. John would have noticed it before now and she’d never have known.
Picking out the solitary letter she recognises everything about it; the envelope, the writing, even the smell. She shuts the door and lets herself into the house.
Putting a pre-prepared casserole-for-two into the oven, she sits at the kitchen table and stares at the letter. She has twenty minutes to decide what to do. She can wait while she eats but she doesn’t want to spill anything on it. She thinks about the dinner and what she’s to do with the other half. There’s no dog to feed it to. Once it’s cooked it can’t be re-frozen so decides it’ll keep in the fridge until it’s binned or eaten. She knows it won’t taste the same; eating alone never does. Conversations turn to silence as she has nothing to share.
The timer pings as the doorbell goes and she stares at one then the other. The dinner, too hot, can wait a while but with no-one else it can be, she knows the other choice can’t.
She runs to the door. He’s changed his mind. Only when she opens the door there’s not one man to greet her but two. One takes off his hat, followed by the other. One goes to speak but can’t find the words. She knows him, from John’s 30th. Andy, she thinks his name his. She recognises the other from earlier in the day and feels sorry for him, that he’s had to leave his family so soon after getting home.
She knows why they’re there so she doesn’t need them to say anything. She knows she doesn’t want them to speak but that they inevitably will.
“Wait,” she says and the men look at each other. “Please come in and wait. Don’t say anything. I need to do something first.”
The men do as she asks, wiping their feet on the mat, although they all know there’s not a speck of dirt to be found. They stand, caps under their arms, a gentle pressure that ensures no dents. They watch her walk into the kitchen, slowly as if stopping time. The men smell the food and Andy licks his lips then bows his head.