Can't Sleep, Won't Sleep, Volume 5: Grownup Stories for Bedtimes

By Lesley Atherton

Brilliant Short Reads
This book is volume 5 in an ongoing series of short stories, perfect for reading while travelling and commuting. Inside you’ll find intriguing tales of revenge, of enlightenment, compassion and humour.
Volume 5 of Can’t Sleep, Won’t Sleep features ‘Walking with Eve’ - the story of a bigamist husband whose wives seek a special form of revenge. Also included are tales of a too-small house, a pathetic fire-free Armoured Dragon and of people struggling in society, 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: Dec 23, 2022
• ISBN: 9781005206673

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

The clouds arrived from the west: clouds like dark cathedrals, clouds like machines, and clouds like black blossoms flowering in the arid starlit sky.

They settled over the English countryside, in towns sunk in their muddled sleeping.

They settled over the low, populous hills where scatterings of lights throbbed in the darkness.

At midnight they reached the city, valiantly glittering in its shallow provincial basin. Unseen, they grew like a second city overhead, thickening, expanding and throwing up their savage monuments, their towers, their monstrous and unpeopled palaces of cloud.

Adlington’s residents were sleeping, but here and there a house might show an orange rectangle of light. Cars crept along the deserted roads. A cat leapt from a wall, pouring itself down into the shadows. Silently the clouds filled the sky. The wind picked up. It faintly stirred the branches of the trees, and in the dark, empty park the swings moved back and forth a little. A handful of dried leaves shuffled on the pavement.

Miles away in the city there were still people on the streets, but in Adlington, most were in their beds, already surrendered to tomorrow.

All afternoon the rain had fallen, leaving only droplets on the pavement at first - droplets that sunk gently into the slabs, then flowed as they massed and edged towards the porous cracks. Droplets expanded into tiny pools, rain-like pixie lakes glistening on the dark and smoggy inner-city streets. They fell from clouds shunting buildings of even gentle height, their spikes and aerials and crenulations piercing and causing rain to drop to the tarmac below.

Adlington wasn’t yet asleep, but rested and part-slumbered, giving the young and the old a head start to the land of nod.

The rain fell on their windows, easing the sleepers with its pitter-patter lullaby.

In surrounding towns, life went on. People would eat, drink and party, and fortunate souls attended the cinema to view one of the latest releases. In the foyer, the overhead lights glared as they purchased tickets then looked back towards the wide expanse of glass doors while the cashier counted their change or returned their bank card.

Outside, watery pavements glowed and twinkled, glazed by streetlamps and the shimmer of the near-full moon.

People arrived, keen to watch the film, and scurried for their seats within this cavernous, darkened, velvet room. Despite there being plenty of space, a man placed himself just a couple of seats away from a single young woman. Already the heat radiated from his body. She felt it and sensed his thoughts and needs. Neither was able to concentrate on the film, both being aware of each other’s presence and of the steam rising from their damp bodies.

The water vapour wasn’t only the redistribution of the incessant jewels of water that fell from the sky - it was also the steam of sexual heat. Emboldened by their shared desire, the man and woman moved closer and allowed their thighs to gently touch. On screen, the rain fell, and lovers kissed on a beach. The rain fell outside the cinema too, but in the hearts of those two people, there was only sunshine and light.

Outside, the clouds still filled the sky and the rain still fell. But in the cinema, a pocketful of carelessly discarded sweet wrappers crunched beneath the woman’s feet as she surrendered to the delight of moving pictures and moving fingers.

Back to Contents

Chip, the Armoured Dragon

Chip, the slightly clueless Armoured Dragon, was not at his best. He was tired, he was hungry, and when he looked in his mirror, he realised he looked even dopier than usual.

This town wasn’t a fun place to live when you were a weary Armoured Dragon. Chip’s ancestors, the old-school Armoured Dragons, were generally known for their toughness and their amazing fire-breathing, but Chip knew himself that he was a gormless and weak reptile. There was no way in the world that he could ever do their kind of work.

Worst of all his problems was that his fiery breath didn’t work at all. He was becoming desperate. Without a home, without regular employment and love, he had done something he’d always vowed never to do. He had allowed his desire for mouth-fire to get the better of him and tried an old witch’s suggestion of drinking magic potions to ignite his missing flames.

He had taken more and more of the potion and tried to flame all over the town. But when he failed every time, he knew that his dragon services would never be required again.

That was when Chip began sleeping in a rubbish dump and eating all the town’s unwanted scraps. It was a terrible way for an Armoured Dragon to live, and no matter how much help he was given, he would not perk up.

There was one person who remained friendly with Chip, even in his reduced circumstances - Darrell from Morland Hall. Quite often it was said that Darrell’s greatest pleasure was the misery and misfortune of others, but Chip, in his naive ignorance had always believed Darrell was his only true friend and supporter.

Chip decided to visit Darrell at Morland Hall for advice. They’d become a lot closer since Darrell realised he was all Chip had. He hated to watch the unhappiness writhing on Chip’s trusting face.

‘Howdy,’ Chip said, slurring and looking more than a little confused. He’d already forgotten why he’d visited Darrell. All he knew was that he was wearing his rainbow hat at a jaunty angle, his long green tail was strong and tough, and his huge nose was cool and wet. He may have been confused but at least he looked smart. He admired himself for a moment in Darrell’s hall mirror.

‘What you up to?’ Darrell asked.

Chip remembered. ‘I need your help, please. I can’t flame and it’s breaking me…’

Chip couldn't finish his sentence, so addled was his brain on toadstool juice (his preferred local hallucinogenic delicacy).

‘Chip, you’re not talking sense. You must be tired. You need a holiday.’

Chip nodded dumbly. Darrell looked as if he was considering the matter.

‘You could always go stay with my friend...’ Darrell suggested.

‘Oh,’ said Chip.

‘Yes,’ said Darrell, smiling in encouragement. ‘He’s a great boy. Magic dragon, he is, by the name of Tinder. You’ll love him. Mind, he lives a fair old bit away, but it is by the seaside, in a caravan park. It would do you good to get there for a visit. I bet he has some brilliant fire-raising techniques.’

Chip stood round for a minute, scratched, sniffed and took a swig from his bottle wrapped in a brown paper bag. Clifford’s DIY Store. He would miss that enormous cavernous repository of toadstool juice if he went on holiday. He stood a bit longer and watched the tomato plants on Darrell’s window ledge quiver massively, almost in expectation.

‘Alright,’ he said, finally, draining the last drop from his bottle and slamming it down on Darrell’s table with a massive crash.

‘Tinder... hmmmm... yes... hmmm... I bet he’s easily inflamed. I think that I will visit him.’

For a moment, Darrell considered warning Chip of the journey’s perils and what he might find at the end, but what the hell, it would be far more useful to Chip if he was to find it out for himself.

So, handing him a map to the magical caravan park, Darrell said goodbye and left Chip to trudge back to the rubbish dump and prepare for his inspirational adventure. He had high hopes. Perhaps this would help to put right all the things he’d done wrong. He packed his massive frame rucksack with a light heart and a crate of toadstool juice. It was going to be a long journey...

There was nobody to see him off, to wave at him or to say goodbye. He had few friends left - the toadstool juice had seen to that - so once he was packed, he set off, his rucksack on his back. He didn’t want to carry such a big sack such a long way, but he knew he must. After all, he may be gone for good.

After Chip had taken about two hundred clumping dragony footsteps out of the village, he became hungry so settled down for a toadstool juice. And as he sat on the rock to rest his tired tail, he realised that he could hear a boinging noise. There it was again with the boing, boing boing getting nearer...

And suddenly someone began shouting ‘You’re not Zebedee, you know. Bring back my pogo stick!’ The voice tailed off into the distance and the boinging got quieter till there was no more.

Chip reckoned that it sure was weird once you left home, but all was forgotten after his meal of egg and cress sandwiches and a good slug of the hard stuff. Chip was soon on his way again.

Plod, plod, plod. Out of the safety of his cruel and lonely town. Plod, plod, plod. Into a place he’d never even dreamed of. A city. A cartoon city, complete with cartoon cats, a cartoon policeman, and cartoon cars. It was too much for the gentle Armoured Dragon. After all, he could see in three dimensions, so cartoon characters were extremely confusing. What, he wondered, was round the back of them? Whatever it was, Chip suspected they were up to no good, because this was the first policeman he’d ever seen, and he knew they didn’t send policemen to the nice parts of town. Chip knew he must escape, lumberingly, before he got involved in anything he might regret.

So, plod, plod, plod he trudged through the city streets paved with gold and, at a crossroads, while taking a break to siphon a tad more toadstool juice into his toothless dragon mouth, he took his first proper look at the map to Tinder’s Place. It was full of scribbled notes and advice he could barely read. Oh no. This was really, really confusing. Normally he just muddled through and things always turned out OK in the end, but this time it wasn’t going to be as easy as that. He had to take control for once in his life...

He stared stupidly at the map for a good twenty minutes before it began to make sense. It seemed that he had three options...

Number one - to leave the safety of built-up places and clamber through a cave system to a little place called Victimblood. On the map was written ‘Beware of the Killing Dragons’. Chip knew just how overly playful the Killing Dragons could be. He decided against that route.

Number two - to travel via a teleporting address. Hmmm, it was a possibility, but he’d have to be transported to another colourful world temporarily while learning something dreadfully important about his inner self and the universe in the process. Hmm, he wasn’t sure. It sounded like something that might not suit a very dozy Armoured Dragon.

Option three gave him the option to tramp through even more urban streets to an inner-city school.

‘Oh,’ thought Chip, ‘I’ve got to choose, and I just don’t know’.

He sat and thought a bit longer. Poor Chip wasn’t the brightest of creatures and hadn’t worked out that this map was a bit different.

It wasn’t an A-Z of dragon locations: it was a one-of-a-kind map. It had to be this because he was going to visit Tinder, a very magical dragon on a very magical caravan site. That meant that his whole journey there would have to be, by its very nature, magical. Hence the map. It was the most magical map ever. It led the reader only in the directions it fancied sending them in, as a kind of temperamental magic. So, instead of giving Chip a clear and straight route to his destination, it gave him a route through hills and valleys, cities, gardens and caves...

After ten more minutes of