Lost in my notebook
Three micro stories that sleep easy in my notebook.
I haven't had the opportunity to sit down and write any new short stories. But I have been writing when and where possible. The following micro stories, as I'll call them, are little snapshots from my notebook over the last month. Two of which - Gambling and Sunburn - come from a writing group I host in my hometown. During our sessions, we pick prompts and write for ten minutes. That sudden time pressure gets the creative juices flowing.
Try it yourself - or if you are local to Haarlem, drop me a message and come to a session.
Buy my debut novel today! Search ‘Love, Loss & the View from My Window’ on your local Amazon marketplace. P.S. You can read the blurb at the bottom of this post).
UK - HERE
NL - HERE
Gambling
I never thought I'd have to send this text. Okay, maybe that's untrue, but I never expected to send it this soon into the term.
"It's easy," Ben said, showing me he's mounting winnings.
"But it's all luck."
"Only if you don't know what you're doing."
"How can you 'know what to do'? It's a ball bouncing around a spinning circle."
"It's about picking the good numbers and committing," he said, wagering five hundred pounds on his next spin. His money's spread over the board in a disorganised mess. "Twenty-two is my number. Zero is always a good bet. Then I bet on the numbers between."
The skinny blond with caked make-up and a low-cut dress spins the tiny metal ball. It starts circling the black and red wheel.
Ding, ding, ding - it rattles and jumps with every collision against the metal frame.
"Black twenty-two," she announces, and Ben's total winnings rise to five thousand.
"Bloody Hell."
That's the moment that screwed me. Those few seconds watching that ball nestle into the perfect spot cost me that very same night when I bet my student loan on black eleven.
Mum, I start typing, I fucked up.
An Afternoon in the Park
Damp shadows, rippling water, passing boats chugging through the scene, then disappearing around a corner. Cigarette smoke and fresh grassy air stir together to make Springs perfume. Bronzing skin glazed with sweat and sunscreen. Uncomfortable, uneven ground digging into ribs and backs but cooling as its moisture seeps through bedsheets and blankets.
Why do we flock to the waterside when the weather turns? Most of us with no intention of taking a dip. Yet we came to admire the silver ripples, imagining how cool they might be. Maybe the thought alone is enough. Or perhaps it's the aesthetic we crave. Each one of us seeking out a place in a watercolour landscape - hoping there's a painter hidden behind the Willows veil.
Sunburn
"I told you to put on sunscreen," she's poking her finger into my back.
"It can't be that bad. I had my T-shirt on for most of the day," another poke, this one accompanied by a giggle.
"Go look in the mirror." So I do, her feet following as if they're a part of my shadow.
"It doesn't look that bad," I say, craining my neck for a better look. She flicks the switch, and the bedroom glows white with its offensive light.
"Jesus!" More giggles, I can see her lacklustre restrain in the reflection. "Get me the aftersun, please."
Her hand fumbles in the disorganised mess that's our bathroom cabinet.
"We haven't got any."
"moisturiser?"
"Here," she says, dolloping a cool blob on my shoulder glades. "You're gonna peel like a satsuma."
My skin pricks with goosebumps as her hands glide across my back. Where they have yet to, it feels as hot and dry as the pine seats of a sauna.
"How did you not get burnt," I ask.
"Because I put on sunscreen."
"And you never told me?"
"I did. You were like 'I'm fine, I want some colour."
Love, Luke