As part of NaNoWriMo (National Novel Writing Month) I was asked if I’d like to take part in the Waterstones NaNoWriMo Story Cubes Project.
The idea is that a group of bloggers will all contribute one chapter each, with the twist being you roll a pack of Rory’s Story Cubes to determine where the story goes next.
I’ll not pretend I wasn’t more than a little
petrified nervous to get the first chapter, and I should probably apologise now to everyone who has to pick this up and run with it, but here is what I came up with …
This lorry had apparently invited itself in, navigated the stairs and landing, and was now emptying the contents of my bedside table. Its sirens entering one ear but refusing to exit the other, choosing instead to reverberate around my head until there were enough of them to launch an assault on my inner eye-lids.
I reached for the smothering solace of a pillow. A pillow that felt, and smelt a lot like a pizza box.
“Morning mate, I see you’ve had breakfast.”
Confused, I opened one eye. That’s not strictly true, I opened both eyes but one was now sporting what appeared to be a peperoni eye-patch.
Once upon a misspent youth, waking up to find a traffic cone at the end of my bed wasn’t out of the ordinary, but that was over twenty years ago, and this was a giant neon supermarket sign?
I closed my eyes, took a deep breath, and tried again. Nope; I was in a car-park. A local car-park, although right now that wasn’t offering much in the way of comfort.
“What the ….”
The bin men hadn’t hung around for the end of the sentence, not that there was one. It was only as I pulled myself up against the cold metallic headboard of an industrial bin that I discovered what I’d assumed to be my duvet was in fact an old leather jacket, and my pillow, the pizza box I’d really hoped it wasn’t.
I sat for a minute and waited. Surely I was about to be punched in the groin by some shameful memory, anything that would explain how I’d come to be here. 5, 4, 3, 2, 1 ….. nothing. It never came. I had nothing to work with, no story to tell, and more importantly no excuse to give my girlfriend.
What I did have was someone else’s jacket; and in their jacket an old mobile phone, a small notebook, and what looked like directions scribbled on a scrap of paper; Which was good, as this would obviously help …
“Where have you been all night?”
“No idea love, but here’s a notebook with embroidered initials that aren’t yours.”
This wasn’t good.
I picked myself up and headed home. Slowly. This was going to take some explaining, if only I could make sense of it myself first. Maybe something would come back to me before I reached the house.