Short Story – Moments

I don’t have a story to tell.

My life hasn’t waltzed by in chapter titles, or numbered pages, or paragraphs that flow from one to the other, following the rhythm of life’s dance. Because books usually follow a trend, in that there is a story, that the reader can follow from beginning to end. What happens to the characters before and after isn’t important, the part of their life that is written is when something happens. Something changes. 

My life so far hasn’t had that moment of change. I haven’t had the build up to a turning point. I’ve been following a course, and the waters have been calm, any rough patches haven’t been enough to toss me aside, and send me somewhere else, because I haven’t had a clear destination. I don’t know where I want to go, so my ship can let the water throw it around, and I’ll be happy just to arrive somewhere.

No, I don’t have a story to tell. I just have moments. 

I have the memory of how I felt, at five years old, jumping out the car after much too long. Pulling on my father’s hand, trying to get him to walk faster, as we went from the car park to the beach, my mother trailing behind with my little brother toddling along next to her, his little hand reaching up to hold hers. The sun on the top of my head as my mother spreads suncream across my face, the smell that I only associate with summer sinking into my skin. Desperate to take my shoes off and run to the sea. Digging deep enough with my little yellow plastic shovel to find the sand that is colder, better for building sandcastles, and the cold taste of an ice-cream, impossibly tall, that drips down the cone and leaves you with sticky fingers.

I have the thrill of the first big snowfall I remember, not just a dusting, but enough that your boots sink into the soft powder, crushing and compacting the snow with a satisfying crunch. My younger brother running after me, and throwing handfuls of snow at the back of my head until I stopped and showed him how to make a proper snowball. The neighbour’s children, all coming out and throwing snow at each other through the white air of snow still falling, until we grouped together with the help of a parent and built a snowman taller than some of the younger kids. Heading inside when we got too cold, with sodden trousers and bright pink fingers we couldn’t feel. Our mother ready with warm clothes, and hot chocolate, which we drank while watching a movie, all of us huddled up together in a pile of blankets.

I have the excitement of my first trip away from home by myself, waving to my family through the window of a coach as I waited impatiently for the engine to start and drive me away so we could arrive and the fun could start. The nervousness of not knowing anyone, but a girl coming to sit beside me, and the journey somehow seeming not so long with her chatting to me. The buzz of carrying our bags through an already busy camp, and getting set up with our tents, given free roam of the site that had plenty of activities strewn about, things like a rock climbing wall, and a zip line. Things that meant you had to stand in line for an hour, with the sun beating down on you, and decide if it was really worth waiting so long, but you’re nearing the front of the line now, so there would be no point in leaving. Lighting a fire when it started getting dark, too many people trying to fit around it, leaning over each other to wave a marshmallow on a stick near the flames. The loneliness that set in at night, when I realised how much I missed being near my family, and wanting to go home, but somehow falling asleep and waking up excited to find out what this next day would bring.

I have the memory of exhaustion after a sleepover at a friend’s house, when we thought we were missing out of the amazement of pulling an ‘all-nighter’. Pretending to go to bed when their parents did, and being as quiet as we could for half an hour, after which we decided it had been plenty long enough, and they must be asleep by now. Watching movies on a laptop, both of us lying on their bed, even though we didn’t really fit. Getting drowsy at two, but pushing on with sugary snacks and breaks to sneak downstairs and raid the cupboards of cookies and the fridge of the leftover pizza from dinner. Somehow making it to seven, out of sheer determination, and spending the day in a strange state of being, between being asleep and being awake, in a dream world while in the real world. Pretending we weren’t tired when asked, because we thought we couldn’t let anyone know we had stayed up all night, thinking it was something that needed to stay a secret.

I haven’t got a beginning, middle, and end to my story, because I don’t know where it’s going. I don’t have a major plot point that the rest of everything is built around. I don’t know if I’m even the main character. I might be the side character in my brother’s story, the older sibling who is there for one or two chapters, to make a cup of tea and offer support when something’s gone wrong. 

I might not be the main character in the story I feature in. But I’m alright with that. It’s not like I have nothing. I have my own side plot, there just isn’t enough information about me for the reader to be able to predict the outcome of my story. I’m there for some of the scenes, and while they might be inconsequential to the story, they are important to me. Those days at the beach, in the snow, moments that aren’t even necessary enough for the story to be mentioned – they are what make up me. I am those moments, those memories. They created who I am, and if who I am is a side character, I will do my best to make everyone around me shine, because while I’m still not sure who the main character actually is, I don’t want to mess up my moment in their story.

And done!

I'm not really sure what this story is. I was scrolling through Pinterest, trying to find some inspiration for a story, and all I was getting was things like 'a storm, the old oak tree, a scar.' 'A dying fire, red hair in messy braids, a grey fox with silver eyes.'

Things that weren't really helping me at all, but also kind of gave me the idea just to write about different moments. None of those things are things a story is about, they are just fleeting moments in the story, a setting for a conversation before the story moves on.

So yeah. That's the inspiration.

That's all for now...

Bye!