Below are a collection of short stories I have written over the years. Generally I don’t write short stories but have occasionally tried my hand at them. Hope you enjoy.

Tom’s Diner

I work at Tom’s diner.  I have been a waiter there since I was about twenty.  I’m twenty five now.  I suppose in my time I could have moved on, looked for a more rewarding job, something that pays better and had some kind of prospects.  But work at Tom’s Diner is more than most people will have you believe – I don’t mean it’s a particularly enjoyable job…cleaning up after messy customers, collecting glasses and serving people that don’t say please or thank you.  No I mean the different types of customers who frequent the diner, and the stories they tell.  By that I am not saying they tell those stories to me, but more that I see the stories in them, by how they dress, behave or speak with each other – even if I am not close enough to hear their conversations, I can imagine a world they are from, the jobs they might do and the things that take place in their lives. 

Often I sit on my stool, eating a donut I had kept to one side for break time, and wonder if that woman sitting alone in the corner table, eating a BLT and looking out of the window – is she married?  Has her boyfriend or that guy she has a crush on at the office, realised how pretty she is and how much mystery there is in her face, her expression?

I wonder all of these things. 

You might think it weird, but how do you know others aren’t doing the same, observing, thinking and imagining?  We all have our own private thoughts; just not everyone writes them down and tells someone else about them.  These people I think of though, they don’t have names…I don’t concern myself with the facts – its more fun to think, hey, this woman might leave here and meet the man of her dreams, or finally find the courage to ask out that guy she has a crush on (of course I don’t know there is a guy, or a crush, or if she’s married or not – but she may be all of these things, or none of them).

Then there’s the young boy, no older than twelve who always gets a milk shake at lunch time – he doesn’t come in with a group of friends, so my imagination goes wondering – why hasn’t he got friends with him?  Is he lonely?  He always looks happy, even if he doesn’t say much – but who would he say it to?  I sometimes think about going over and talking to him.  Then again, I could be wrong, and he could be popular.  I like to think though, that really he’s like me, a thinker, a private person, who enjoys his own little world, with his things in them, and he’s happy in that world, he’s adjusted himself.  Its not so bad really, not having that many people to confide in – it leaves space for your own thoughts and in some ways, a freedom that can’t be controlled.  You are free.

I finish my donut, and return behind the counter…only three more hours until I finish for the day, then I can get on with that book, finish that videogame (or maybe neither of these), or I could talk to the girl who works in the bookshop next door – not that I have ever talked to her.  You see, I am much the same as the people I observe, I imagine things for myself – but will I actually ever do them?  Sometimes I am afraid of change, or of what might happen if I step outside of my usual routine.

Still, there’s that old man, his weathered features telling a thousand stories, of when he worked down that mine pit, and ate coal and lived through a Monty Python sketch saying ‘we were grateful’.  I smile and sometimes chuckle to myself, and get weird looks from my work colleagues.  I don’t care though…they don’t have control over my thoughts, only over what I do and what tips I make and if I am late or well or off sick.  Anything other than that is up to me, and that’s how I prefer it.  The old man, probably younger than his face says, sits drinking coffee, and sometimes spends a few hours in the same seat.  He’s alone too, yet he looks content, at peace with his life, and enjoys sitting, reading a news paper, giving his unspoken opinions on the world from what he reads – but doesn’t voice them.  I like him.  He’s one of the more fascinating customers, and is in regular, everyday in fact.  I have got used to what he orders, how he takes his coffee, and what time he arrives.  I think he must drink a little too, and I smell it on him, but not overly – he’s not a drunk, he just finds comfort in a bottle of Whisky now and then.  No harm in that.

As afternoon draws darker, the young couple who turn up about once a week come in, and order a meal.  They are quiet, obviously not newly in love – I find people like that annoying.  These two are happy in each other’s company, and sit talking for ages before they order.  I give them their space, and watch over them, with a little envy, which I know is wrong.  I should be happy with my own lifestyle, who cares if I never say anything to that girl next door?  Will the reality be as sweet as the fantasy?  The way these two are, doesn’t look like the big important what everyone wants, and how many people do you know who are truly happy with each other?  I’ve been there though, and it doesn’t seem to suit me.  I’m not saying it never will, because like this couple – something happened in their lives that brought them together, and it worked out.  Fate.  It has a plan for all of us.

So what comes of them once they leave here, each week?  Do they just go home, or are they really secret agents, whisked off to a mission in a foreign country, like Brad Pitt & Angelina Jolie – not knowing each other are spies?  I like that, but looking at how the guy is a little overweight, he’s not about to be kicking the ass of drug barons in the middle east, now is he?  Perhaps he’s a politician?  There are so many angles these two could have, so much to decipher…sometimes my head hurts from the myriad of possibilities.  Couples, unlike the lonely looking boy or the old man, or the woman in the corner, are harder to read…but its still fun trying.

Perhaps the boy is at home playing videogames, or maybe he’s a book worm and his parents can’t afford a game system for him, and argue over money and don’t get on, and he cries himself to sleep and gets bullied at school.  Would explain why he’s always alone.  I get sad when I think like that and wished I could help.  Perhaps the woman in the corner has a son who doesn’t have any friends, and they could be introduced?  Or the old man could introduce him to his grand-son or grand-daughter.  When I observe these people, I wonder if their lives could be enhanced if they knew each other and interacted, got involved in each other’s lives?  What effect would that have?  Would the atmosphere in the diner suddenly change?  Would they sit together?  Or would they not get on, and stop coming to the diner so not to bump into one another? Actually, it could be a disaster, and the lives I have imagined for these people, the stories I have created for them, it would all end.  No they mustn’t become friends…it would ruin everything.

Evening draws in, and I finish the last few dishes in the wash basin, and then dry my hands.  The woman I work with is almost like a Mother to me, and doesn’t pry or ask questions.  She seems ok that I don’t speak that much or join the others on nights out.  She likes me for who I am.  I am happy, in my thoughts and in my own little world – some say it’s wrong that people like me don’t interact – but maybe we are interacting, just privately.  We are observing, aware of the world and what people think, do or say, and it all matters to some extent.  Yet those like me, also see probably more than the people who are talking, interacting, and socialising, and have seen and heard more than they might ever do.  We have our place in the world, and we make a difference too – it’s just that not everyone knows it – but so what?  It doesn’t matter if the man who serves you coffee has figured out all your little secrets – it’s his choice, and anyway, he might be wrong – or if he is right, so what?  What you got so secret you really need to hide it from the world?

I pocket what tips have been shared out to me – it’s been a good day, I realise, in more ways than one and I say goodbye and grab my coat, leaving through the back door that customers don’t use, and begin my walk home.  I am happy, thinking of the people I have met today and what they might be doing right now, where did they go after they left the diner?  What worlds are they from?  What are their stories?  There’s enough material there to fill up anyone’s life. 

I’m not lonely or bored or unhappy – I have too much to think about.

The Crash

He was unsure of how long it had been by the time he came too. A blink of a light was the first thing that alerted him, that and a cold wet feeling at the back of his head. James Mackenzie was 21, it had been his birthday, perhaps still was, and the night had been a riot of drink, music and the company of friends. Yet now in a semi-conscious state all he could ponder was if he was alive or dead.

Slowly trying to turn, he suddenly became aware of a terrible pounding in his head, and a feeling like his skull was dented, with the wet feeling sending shivers through his body.

Thinking for a moment, he recalled the journey home, how Peter, his old high-school buddy was passed-out beside him, and Peter’s elder brother Bryan was driving – too fast. Bryan hadn’t been drinking, but there had been a lot of frivolity in the car to make James nervous – he was always nervous when in a car driving at night, but this was different; it was like he had sensed something.

James couldn’t recall quite what had happed though, it was a blank, but he remembered car headlights blinding him as his last memory – had there been a collision? Was he part of a crash? The reality began to spill into his mind just like whatever was spilling out of it, and his eyes focused to see the gravel of the road coated in tiny pieces of broken glass. That’s when he realised he was upside down, with the cold night air blowing against his chin and neck where his shirt collar lay open.

James groaned, “Is…is everyone ok?” he slurred, not really sure if he was audible. He wasn’t even sure if he had spoken the words out loud.

Again the blink of a light caught his gaze, coming from a distance away…a street lamp maybe? Or was it another car? Then after a moment of silence that felt like an eternity, there was a crunch of gravel & glass, footsteps that gradually grew louder, and James saw a pair of stiletto heeled shoes, bare flesh and an ankle bracelet – someone was standing by the car, a lady or at the very least a cross-dresser. He tried to look down rather than up to see who it was. The smell of the night was stale, but as that someone knelt down it was replaced with perfume.

A woman in her twenties wearing a cocktail dress looked in at him, her forehead crimson and a trail of blood ran down her left cheek. She looked shaken, but was obviously in a more able state than James was, at least from his immediate figuring.

“Hello…can you here me?” the woman shouted, then reached a hand in, and James felt her fingers wrap around his own hand that he hadn’t even been aware was in the position it was, lying lifelessly half out of the car window.

He struggled, but could not move his hand to grasp hers back – her company instant warmth to him, even if it was to be his last. He naturally feared the worst.

“Listen to me. There’s been an accident. Your car hit mine, and you went over. I hit the fence.”

James began to realise that the blinking light was a distant car indicator. The woman’s face didn’t shift from his eyes though, and he didn’t want it to either.

The woman then looked away, keeping James’ hand in her own, “I need some help here!” she yelled.

After a moment several other figures began to come into view, a middle aged man and woman, along with a young boy. They looked un-hurt. James still tried to keep his eyes on the woman, but she was looking away.

“This one’s still alive.” she said – it was four words that shook James to his very core – did that mean his friends were dead?

“I’ve called an ambulance.” the man returned, approaching, and leaned on the car, peering in,

“You’re going to be ok, son.”

The word ‘son’ made James think of his father. The same man who had warned him ‘not to drink too much’. James wasn’t drunk as such, at least not paralytic. Strange choice of words really, considering he wasn’t sure of his injuries yet. He then thought about moving his feet…he could wiggle his toes.

“I think it’s just….just my head and arm.” he groaned.

Briefly the woman let go of his hand, and placed her own on the gravel right before him.

“Hey Miss…are you ok? We should get that head looked at.” the man commented.

The woman was silent of speech, but James could hear her breathing. She seemed to have gone unsteady, and he suddenly feared for her. He opened and closed his eyes as his vision struggled to stay focused.

“Hey, are you ok?” he asked.

Then suddenly, the woman collapsed beside the car, and James gasped to see her head slump to the road a little distance from his own. Her eyes were closed.

“Help her!” he yelled, unable to do anything but watch this angel that had suddenly seemed to be his saviour, look in a worse state than he was – at least he was conscious.

The middle aged woman knelt beside the woman who had collapsed, and tried to revive her with a hand to her shoulder, but she didn’t move – she didn’t even seem to be breathing, and the ever seeping wound to her head looked like the culprit.

Then there was a siren and a flash of lights that grew both closer and brighter. There was a sound of an engine and doors opening and shutting, then mingled footsteps, and finally a stretcher was laid down beside the car.

A paramedic that knelt down peered in at James, “Hang in there son, there’s a fire engine on its way here, we’re probably going to have to cut you out of this thing.” he said louder and with more assertiveness than the others.

James couldn’t think of anything but the woman and if she was ok.

“Just help her.” he said quietly and gradually other paramedics, and what may or may not have been a policeman filled James’ viewpoint, darkening everything, but was it the people or was he passing out?

“Shit, we’re losing this one! Where’s that damn fire engine!” someone shouted, and James wasn’t sure if they were on about him, or the woman.

*

James woke up to see a ceiling fan rotating above him, its gentle movement soothing. He slowly became aware that he was lying in a bed, and ran a hand under the covers across the soft mattress. He sighed, and licked his lips, thirsty. The room was bright, much brighter than his eyes could stand, and he closed them again. His body was aching from head to toe, and for a second he wasn’t sure if he could properly move. He wiggled his toes again, and it made him smile. He tried the same with his other hand, only to find it hoisted up to his neck, held in a sling.

“James?” then came a voice – and not one particularly familiar. He thought for a moment who it might be, and it wasn’t his mother, or even his sister.

He slowly opened his eyes again, and something touched the shape of his good arm through the covers.

“James?” came the voice again, then as it spoke some more, he recognised it the same as he recognised the face as he turned his head.

“My god. You’re awake.” said the woman from the crash – a bandage covering her head, and she looked rather pale. She was sitting wearing a hospital gown.

“Where am I?” James groaned, words still a struggle.

“The hospital. It’s been two days since the accident. The doctors thought you may have slipped into a coma.”

She had a beautiful face, deep brown eyes that matched her dark hair, and full lips. She looked probably a shadow of her former self, however that might look, and the cocktail dress was more than likely hung up somewhere in her room or a cupboard on whatever ward she had been put on. At least she was alive. James didn’t know this woman, had not even seen her before that he could recall, but now she suddenly meant everything to him. A chance encounter.

“The accident…” she then said, but James stopped her from continuing, unable to face the truth just yet…he just wanted to preserve the moment in time and hold it close to himself.

“Just hold my hand again.” he said, bringing his hand out from under the covers, and slowly she reached to it and took it in her own, squeezing it tightly.

The woman sighed heavily, her eyes wide, a look of sorrow to them.  It told him more than she needed to say at that point.  He just stared at her, lost in her beauty, the reality of his situation playing a close second – for now.