Can't Sleep, Won't Sleep, Volume 2: Grownup Stories for Bedtimes

By Lesley Atherton

Brilliant Short Reads!

This book is volume 2 in an ongoing series of short stories, perfect for reading at bedtime or while travelling and commuting. Inside you’ll find intriguing tales of revenge, of compassion, and of humour.

A 30 year hiatus.
Strange goings on in Lancashire moorland towns.
Pensioner Felicity's final adventure.
Manipulation, control and abuse.
Buttons, inept cooking and discovery of cave people.
City fears and cyber clouds discovering the past.
Cross-dressing, puppets and life opportunities.
Depression, mental illness, musicianship and drinking.
Weird towns and weirder people.
Post-apocalyptic life underground.
And so much more.

​​​​​​​Published by Words Are Life. Do support independent publishers!

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Books by this Author
​Bigheart
Conflict Management: Novelettes for Discerning Readers (Collection of No Matter What, Walking with Eve, Divine Intervention and Changes)
Crash Test Dummy
Feet On the Table: An Enormous Book of Tiny Stories
Life’s a Mess... and Then You Die: Hoarding, Writing and Lost Family
Melissa And the Mobility Scooter: And Other Bedtime Stories
The Waggon
Can't Sleep, Won't Sleep, short story series.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lesley Atherton
• Release date: Nov 25, 2022
• ISBN: 9781005607739

Lesley Atherton

I’ve always been a writer. I was the kind of kid who would create little books of my own, and I also did quite well at school when it came to writing projects and exams.I’ll always remember my lovely English teacher, Mrs Nash, giving us an assignment. We had to read Seamus Heaney’s poem ‘Blackberry Picking’ and then were told to write our own version.My resultant poem, though simple, used some strong words and brought positive and glowing reactions from Mrs Nash, both at the time and later in her literary flourish of an end of year report card in which she told me how much my writing had blossomed and would soon become wonderful. I loved that teacher so much. She was awesome, kind, creative and a little eccentric. Unfortunately, I don’t have her report anymore, and I don’t have the poem either. I just remember that it began something like this:Blackberry picking, sweet and sticky, Dum de dum de dum de dum, Like a gaping wound.Later in life, I married a writer who became a publisher and helped him out with office and business management. I loved the writing-related work that came with it too - reviews, articles, copywriting and editing, proofreading and the rest of the whole shenanigans. Yep, I loved all that.Later, when we split up and the children were a little older and more self-reliant, writing seemed to become my ‘thing’. It was what I wanted and needed to do.When I got a little braver I saw a poster on a bookshop wall. It was for a writing group, and it gave Michelle’s email as a contact. I emailed her a few breathily nervous messages, then we agreed to meet at a local café. It was a lovely and unforgettable meeting. She directed me to join a writing group and this was what I did. Joining the group expanded my new writing confidence massively.So I began publishing more. Writing a little less (temporarily). And Scott Martin Productions was born.The company became Words Are Life as I moved away from publishing fiction (I am truly appalling at selling things, and nonfiction sells itself to some extent). I carried on writing, ready to publish.So, that’s my history. Good at editing, not bad at imagination and writing skills, but bloody awful at selling stuff.​In recent years I’ve published ‘Melissa And The Mobility Scooter’, which is a gorgeous book of bedtime stories for children (not just girls!) between 5 and 8. Older children will enjoy reading ‘Melissa’ themselves.I’ve also published a collection of novelettes called ‘Conflict Management’. It’s an interesting collection of stories about good and evil twins, managing autism and long term illness, making serious life decisions, ghostwriting, revenge, and working with a male supermodel.My first novel originally came out under the name, ‘Past, Present, Tense’, then was slightly re-written under the name ‘Life’s a Mess... And Then You Die’. I love this book. It’s all about hoarding, family lost and found, dysfunctional relationships, vengeance and hope for the future.And, I've also written what might just be the largest, floppiest book of empowering short stories ever created. It is called 'Feet On The Table'; and is the result of many, many years of work.At the time of writing, I’ve just published my second novel, ‘The Waggon’. I normally don’t have much confidence in my work but I believe this to be the best thing I’ve ever written! It came about as the final assignment of a Masters Degree in Creative Writing. This was back before Covid times, and I was due to publish it, but lost a lot of creative confidence when I was given a Merit on the course. I genuinely believed the writing deserved a better grade, which is unlike me. Unsure about how to progress, I gave it to a number of beta readers for feedback. It is their feedback that’s enabled me to rewrite the book. I hope it is deserving of a Distinction grade, even if it is only in my own head! Better late than never.I have also just published short ebooks, 'Crash Test Dummy', 'Could This Be An Office Romance?', and 'Bigheart'. Also, my books, Can't Sleep, Won't Sleep - short story anthologies available here on Smashwords.So, that’s where I am at the moment. I’m publishing on a few different platforms and am concentrating on editing and writing. There aren’t enough hours in the day to write all I want to write, but it’s getting a little easier every day.

Book preview

Can’t Sleep,

Won’t Sleep:

Volume 2, Grownup Stories for Bedtimes

by Lesley Atherton

This edition, 2022 by Words Are Life

(Smashwords Edition).

Copyright (c) Lesley Atherton and

Words Are Life 2022

Discover other titles by Lesley Atherton:

Can’t Sleep, Won’t Sleep

Could This be an Office Romance?

Bigheart

Life’s a Mess

Melissa and the Mobility Scooter

Conflict Management

Feet on the Table

Crash Test Dummy

The Waggon

Table of Contents

30 Year Hiatus

Blain Moor

Blue Grass

Bundle of Rage

Button Monthly

Can’t Cook

Caves

City

Cloud

Females

Hans in Luck

If You Had a House, What Food Would You Buy?

In Clouded Thoughts

January Sings

Lost Kids

Night Night

Send Me a Man

Skewed

Souvenir

Underland

What is it?

Also by this Author

Short and dark stories for the curious, for the world-weary and for those caught in the midst of life’s challenges.  Light and uplifting stories for life’s optimists, free-thinkers and creative spirits.

This book of short writings is what happens when lemonade gives you heartburn, when the glass was unwashed and you contract something nasty, only to find you can’t get antibiotics.

When light and dark compete, can there ever be a winner?

Thirty-Year Hiatus

It’s been almost thirty years since our last physical meeting, and even then, it was accidentally, smilingly and (perhaps) awkwardly short... We met on the bus - I with my then-partner, and you with yours. You got off soon after, and when you left, I was left as well - left with a nagging sense of reality-shock that we’d both grown up and moved on. Best mates, we’d been, and confidantes too. You, with your Robin of Sherwood hair (I refer to the Michael Praed era of course), denim jacket and those intensely gazing eyes. Me, wearing anything swirly and Indian I could get my hands on. The brighter the better.

You’ve told me since that you were shy back then. I didn’t notice, probably because I was too, in different ways. We gravitated towards each other, our souls of mates. We shared a life outlook, and we liked the same music, you and me. I’m getting old and wonder if perhaps I misremember this? It doesn’t matter, anyway. It was the time we spent, not the interests we shared, that were important. Do you remember the crafty smokes on the Sculpture Park in between college classes? Do you remember the common room too, where we sat and lounged, waited for friends, ate junk food and drunk the occasional hot chocolate? You’d barely recognise that massively extended college complex now, and the thought that future generations won’t experience what we did makes me a little sad. And my ignorance makes me frustrated that I don’t even remember the courses you took. But I remember you, as you were then...

We were so close, yet we didn’t see much of each other outside of college. We did keep in touch over the year, though, thanks to the wonders of social media, and through your birthday phone calls and friendly mailings telling of your new life on foreign beaches.

Children and relationships.

Jobs and life and moving on.

You’re coming back though.

It’s only been a thirty year hiatus.

You’re concerned about the cold in these northern climes.

You’re a tourist in the UK now, and want to see the sights.

You say you’re apprehensive about treading the ground you used to tread.

I’d be apprehensive too, if I were making your trip. I’m security minded - my home, my town, and my county all envelop me in known routine and ritual.

I’m apprehensive too, though I’m still on home territory, but mine is a different form of apprehension. It hasn’t arisen because of where I am, but because of who I am. It’s hard to put into words why I feel this. I like myself well enough. I enjoy being me and all it entails. It’s good to be older, wiser, happier, settled, secure... middle aged, even. That inevitability of the march of time - it holds no terrors for me.

But, oh the shock. Thirty years of change - change to body, change to face, change to walk, change to talk - and to personality too. Thirty years of change are to be assimilated in just one moment. How strange that will be. Those friends who’ve known us on and off for years have experienced these changes gradually and been largely unaware of each wrinkle melding into another. Mutual ageing isn’t noticed and commented upon - it is joked about, at the very most, with each new ache, pain and grey hair being disregarded as just another of life’s inevitable crosses to bear.

We all grow older, taller, wider and wiser. We daily mirror the inevitable progress of our regular contacts along the same route - this invisible conveyor belt. And we take it for granted - till one day we wake and wonder who we are now. How did this all happen? How dare age affect us as it affects everything and everyone? Surely, we are special? Surely immortal?

And us?

You and me?

After a thirty year hiatus - will we even know each other?

Will we get on? Is the reality of being grown up depressing, or does it give us glorious comfort?

Apprehensive? Yes, I am. Just a little, though I know there isn’t a thing I can do about it. Our meeting is nothing to be afraid of, but, probably out of some misguided pathetic desire to impress, I feel the need to prove I’ve done something with my life. So what if I’m changed - I’ve borne two children and dealt with many issues over the years. You can’t get through a life well-lived without displaying at least a few battle scars

And now I realise the crux of the matter.

Why the apprehension and anxiety.

That insecure need to prove my life’s been a good one; that I fulfilled at least some of the potential you may have seen in me... I was never going to be a captain of industry or a world leader. Instead, I was always going to enjoy my narrow life with its narrow parameters.

And I shouldn’t be afraid to be judged on those parameters, for they are what define me. And yours are what defines you.

I’m no glamorous cougar (how I hate that term) and was never destined to be. Despite the wrinkles and other tell-tale signs of age, I’m not changed. Not the fundamentals. Not the important bits on the idealistic inside.

But so much has changed of the externals of life. I’m not as you remember me. You’re not as I remember you. How could I be? How could you be?

Both older and wiser. Bolder and wider.

I’ll be honest - I’ve realised that I revel in the fact that we’re edging towards fifty years old. I like the fact that you’ll have changed, developed and moved on, just as much as I have. How could it be otherwise? Only the narrow minded and the foolish would believe things must forever remain as they always were.

Still though, I’m nervous, but that’s me to a T. Thoughtful, careful, responsible and sensible, though still just that little bit flighty too. I still own that away-with-the-fairies fantasist side of my nature - the one delighting in magical happenings, creativity and eccentricity. I also do the school run, pay the bills, and cook the meals... As you do. I have two jobs and more. I run my house (my gingerbread house). As you do your own.

The people we were then, thirty years in the past, are not the people we are now.

But we share the same core.

I write, therefore I am.

I worry, therefore I am.

I dream, therefore I am.

I know who I am, but who are you?

I look forward to finding out.

Back to Contents

Blain Moor

It's been almost thirty years since our last physical meeting, and even Eva screamed, boot polish and brush falling onto her old leather hiking boots and bouncing onto the rug. Her scream was long, sharp, and uncharacteristic, ending abruptly and leading to a second or two of silence. Then, her second scream began, equally as piercing as the first.

Jerry came running, with Amelia close behind.

Eva's screaming became increasingly agitated as the other two struggled their way through the rooms and corridors of the small ramshackle inn to find her. Where was she, and why was she screaming?

They narrowed her location down to their four-bedded guest room on the top floor of the pub. It was perhaps the obvious place for her to be, but Amelia and Jerry had been standing outside waiting for her to emerge for their planned day's walking, and from the car park, her screams seemed to originate from the moorland itself. They hadn't sounded like Eva on the waltzers or Eva being tickled - they'd been somehow tainted and confused by wind, heather, and the ancient inn - yet it was Eva's unmistakable voice panting and crying for help between the yells.

When they eventually found Eva, she was slumped on the floor. Thankfully the screaming had stopped, and the young, exhausted woman lay crumpled, head in hands, silently sobbing. Both Jerry and Amelia tried to comfort her as they sought explanations, but she was as confused as them and was unable to explain what happened or give reasons behind why she had screamed.

Within ten minutes, their comfort seemed unnecessary. She was herself again, explaining it away as a waking nightmare. It was forgotten (almost).

That was the second morning of their stay at the Blain Moor. They'd all decided to take a trip to Lancashire for a walking holiday before they began their first post-degree jobs. Jerry was a year older than the two women, but he, unlike them, had taken a year out before university. Their lives were moving on at the same pace; it was both satisfying and exciting. They'd all been extremely fortunate - and they knew it.

The first night at the Blain Moor had been uneventful and pleasant. The food was tasty and carefully cooked, and the beer flowed well, being drunk with youthful enthusiasm. The second day was the same, apart from Amelia's unaccountable screaming in the morning. The weather was good, the walks they'd chosen were just the right mix of challenging and enjoyable, and the three got on extremely well. Usually, within threesomes, the couple had the capacity to freeze the singleton out, but these three weren't like that. Amelia and Jerry were brother and sister - and Eva was both Jerry's partner and Amelia's good friend. It worked, and they were happy times. All was well.

All was well until they returned to the Blain Moor pub on the evening of their second day. They'd been walking locally, exploring the nearest handful of small, slightly-decaying market towns with the help of buses, taxis and, when this got too much, the grudging car hire.

Back at the windswept pub's car park, they parked up and walked towards the inn, Jerry with his arms around both young women. They were looking forward to ordering drinks and hot food. Always hungry and interested in the more unusual menu items, especially regarding the food they wouldn't or couldn't produce in their own homes, Eva suggested the lamb hotpot with barley, and the others nodded enthusiastically.

Suddenly, Eva pulled away from the protection of her big brother and screamed again loudly and blankly. It didn't arise as a result of panic or fire but seemed more to be the wail of an automatic siren set by a timer. Her face was blank, and she was still, straight, and screaming.

Jerry pulled Eva towards him and began his usual big bear hug. 'The tightest hug ever,' had been what Eva called it when she was a little girl. Amelia smiled encouragingly at her partner of three years. She knew he was a good man and an instinctive man. She and his sister were lucky to have him. Eva's screaming stopped, and her brother continued the hug, this time asking her as she quietened, 'What was that all about, Evie?'

Eva couldn't answer.

Nobody could.

The screaming, on both occasions, had begun spontaneously and ended in the same way. Perhaps it was this place or connected with Eva's undoubted anxiety about her exam results. If she hadn't achieved an upper second, her job offer would have been at risk, and it was the first rung to the career of her dreams. But she had achieved it. There was no reason to be anxious anymore. She had always been sensitive, but the screaming was new and very worrying. Amelia had already decided to speak to Jerry. She was also going to email her father that night. Given his psychotherapist practice, perhaps she could share their experiences with him without giving away Eva's identity. Perhaps he could help?

It didn't take long for Eva to come around. The screaming left no residual fear, anxiety, or recollection this time. She didn't know she'd screamed, and when she was reminded of it, she didn't know why. That was even more worrying to the others. So, during their evening meal at the pub, Jerry and Amelia closely watched Eva. How odd this was. Eva was usually the strong one. The one to whom everyone else turned in an emergency.

'This hotpot is fantastic,' said Jerry, perhaps a bit too enthusiastically. 'I just love how they've covered it with