Can't Sleep,. Won't Sleep, Volume 3: Grownup Stories for Bedtimes

By Lesley Atherton

This book is volume 1 in an ongoing series of short stories, perfect for reading at bedtime, tea breaks, or while travelling and commuting.
Inside you’ll find intriguing tales of revenge, of compassion, and of humour.
•Mild insanity in a greasy spoon cafe.
•Life-changing and hair-changing epiphany at the hairdressers.
•Stuck in a lift with the office bitch - how sweet is revenge.
•Revenge and recriminations.
•Insomniac ramblings.
•An intruder in the cupboard: another in the attic.
•Poverty, making ends meet, and recovery.
•Hoarding and mental health issues.
•The horrifying return of an absent (and unwanted) ex-partner.
•Nosy monologue.
•Dance of a supernova.
•Santa, domestic abuse, and second chances.
•And so much more.

Support small publishers at www.wordsarelife.co.uk.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lesley Atherton
• Release date: Dec 22, 2022
• ISBN: 9781005543358

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

(Woof) A Canine Debate

We, by which I mean our entire species, are presented with a problem, the like of which has not confronted us in many a year.

And now, facing this new challenge: this challenge we must accept or reject at our peril... I ask you, my brothers and sisters, how do we proceed?

Do we take up the mantle of new technology and grasp it, using it wisely and for our own needs?

Or, do we reject this, and instead remain loyal to our proud heritage?

I note some blank faces amongst you today. Can it be that you have not heard this debate echoing amongst your peers, your friends and your family?

In that case, I will make it plain. The debate we are here to discuss today is one of great importance - the stick versus rubber ball.

For centuries canines have quite rightly been lauded as ‘man’s best friend’. We have carried and hunted, assisted, warmed, calmed, befriended - and so much more. We have asked only for a little company, some scraps from the hunt and the odd stick for chewing and chasing.

But now, the advent of advanced technology has amended how our species reacts, changed where we live, and most importantly for today’s debate, technology has changed how we play.

And how do we feel about that? I, for one, am firmly on the side of new technology. These rubber balls do not pierce our gums and make them bleed, they do not splinter in our grasp, and nor do we get sore stomachs when the temptation to eat our playthings becomes too much to bear. Our teeth, even the canines for which we are so well regarded, are unable to pierce many of these balls, and (unlike sticks) a rubber ball is seriously unpalatable. They also do not rot. Instead, they roll, and the whole chasing experience is made more intense and valuable as a result.

So, Dog’s Debating Team, join me to approve the use of new technology in our parks and living rooms. Long live the rubber ball!

Back to Contents

A Sleep Acrobat

His body shifted against hers. He broke wind and twitched a little. It was waking up time. And far too early.

‘Darren,’ she whispered, quietly, but loudly enough for him to hear, she hoped. ‘Go back to sleep.’

He ignored her and began to rouse still further, her hand being unable to keep him down.

‘Oh God,’ she thought. It was that time again: that time of fumbling and noises, shifting round the bed as if explosions were being detonated under his buttocks, and eventually, it would climax in a goofy-faced expression as he fell back to sleep. The problem was that once Darren got started on this peculiar ritual, he could be at it for hours. There was no point in either of them remaining horizontal now. She poked him in the face.

‘Darren. Wake up.’

‘Make up your mind, woman. Go back to sleep? Wake up?’ he grumbled.

She grumbled back. ‘Darren. Wake up. You’re doing your sleep-acrobatics again.’

Darren sat upright. ‘I do not do sleep-acrobatics, Dianne. You’ve got that wrong.’

Dianne reached over to switch her bedside light on. She knew Darren would not do the same.

‘Sleep-acrobatics,’ she reiterated. ‘Bloody ridiculous.’

Two weeks ago, Dianne had purchased a video camera and set it up in the bedroom. It was action-motivated but wasn’t intended for any kind of sexual adventure.

The camera’s motion sensors switched it on whenever Darren moved. That meant it was on for most of the night, as Darren was far more active asleep than awake. This slug of a guy spent more than half his life on the sofa, about an eighth of it standing in front of the mirror looking at his disappearing hair and reappearing scalp, and the rest in bed training to be an Olympic gymnast.

The use of the camera had not been successful the first few nights, and Dianne had realised it almost immediately. She’d tried the camera’s further programmes and modifications, but it was either too sensitive and picked up every twitch and fart, or wasn’t sensitive enough, not even switching on when Dianne had her eye blackened by her husband’s energetic elbow.

Reluctant to admit she had wasted a huge amount of money; Dianne had tried something different. When Darren woke her up, she activated the camera manually to record his sleep-acrobatics. Alas, she’d found the controls confusing, and the camera had not done what she wanted for five nights running, leaving Darren’s nocturnal activity unlogged once again. She was close to giving up on the damn thing and buying him a huge hamster wheel.

He refused a sleep clinic saying they were the last resort for fat and unhealthy snoring blokes, and he was not one of those. He refused a camera taping all night because, well, just in case, you know... Dianne knew. It didn’t matter to her. The chances of ‘you know’ were minimal. She was barely getting enough sleep to facilitate the barest of functions, never mind the extras.

Darren had also refused hypnosis, EFT, positive thinking, massage, essential oils, camomile tea and knock-out pills. Dianne sleeping in the spare bed seemed their only solution till she had thought further about a man-sized hamster wheel and had the inspired idea of installing a multi-gym next to his side of the bed. When he started to wiggle and twitch, she would wake him just a little and lead him gently by the hand to the machine. Then, as he cycled and rowed, she could fall back to sleep with a happy heart. She’d tried it for two nights already.

She pushed him out of bed now, him being fully awake and potentially frisky, and put him on the machine, asking him to cycle a few miles before he came back next to her. Dianne settled. The whirring and clanking of the machine comforted in a way that Darren’s usual movements definitely didn’t. She needed sleep as we all do, so the strength she needed for work and organising the kids would have to be pulled out of the ether. As she drifted off thinking of the joy of rest, she dreamed of a foot-powered flying machine: a machine that would take her far away from the sleepless nights and two ungrateful teens. And then, opening her eyes, she saw the bicycle part of Darren’s multigym gracefully unscrew the bolts that attached its component to the rest of the apparatus frame, as Darren piloted the bike out of the window.

Dianne hoped this was a dream, but only because she had no idea how she would explain it to the police and the kids otherwise. Her sleep became deeper and deeper as the sound of cycling receded, like poor distant Darren’s hairline.

In the morning, Darren was gone, as was the bike. The sash window was open wide, and the cold breeze should have kept Dianne awake, but she’d slept in till half past ten. It had been the best sleep ever, and the kids had even taken themselves off to school. And in the corner of her room, the video camera’s ‘I’ve made a video - want to see it?’ light was flashing. She made a cup of tea and got back into bed. Now, this could make interesting viewing.

Back to Contents

Barely Fifteen

When I first went on the streets I used to brush the gutters between clients, cheerful, smiling, and always moving, one way or another. North Manchester was scary and cold to me back then and I never liked smoking much as a pastime. But, still, I needed something to do with my hands while I waited. Something to keep me warm... so I swept and smiled and brushed.

‘You’re mad. Why do you do that?’ Stacey used to cough, tangling her own hands into pointlessly small pockets, bouncing from leg to leg shuffling and crushing the leaf confetti, always looking and waiting for the cars and taxis we relied on. ‘Me feet are killing me,’ she’d say. ‘Can’t wait to get on me back again.’

I’d smile, ignore her and carry on brushing away the crispy golden, papery-thin leaves, and I’d wiggle my bum as I swept. I was a perfect girl-woman: domestic goddess and whore in one slim-waisted, long-legged package.

But twenty years on, life’s pretty different. Once you hit thirty-five the streets don’t belong to you anymore. Most often I just sit at home in jeans and a jumper waiting for the regular who brings me his wife’s clothing to wear. We drink tea, play cards and complete crosswords. Other regulars cook for me and then I hold them - just hold them. Not one gnarled and aged hand moves over to touch the breasts which now stretch dejectedly over my paunch, and I pretend it doesn’t matter.

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Bus Station

Cold, dark and echoing: this place is all steel and concrete, plastic and rubbish. Potential passengers congregate in small clusters, and the 135 bus is late again.

That cavernous interchange is my least favourite night-time place, with its urine stench and blindingly bright lights, not to mention the gangs of hooded kids roaming with purpose for lone victims to lure towards the dark outside.

It’s a zombie movie set, and I see the swaying kids. I’m one of them, but I’m not like them.

I’m age eighteen and am beered-up - just a little. I’m chilly too, despite my duffel coat, jeans, jumper and suede boots. Emerging from one of the rowdier pubs adjoining the interchange come hordes of sequinned dresses, bare legs and high shoes. Sparklers meeting zombies. Will they be willing victims, I wonder?

I turn to watch them fully from across the bus lanes. At my stop, I’m always vulnerable and always cold - despite copious servings of beer and crisps to burn.

It’s lonely too.

Then there’s the irrational fear that the bus won’t come, that I’ll lose my money, or that the bus might break down. It’s made worse because my strict parents insist I’m home by eleven.

A homeless man shuffles past me to rummage in the bin. I don’t attempt to engage him in conversation. Instead, I pretend I haven’t noticed his scavenging and stare at my knees and play with my fingernail, picking off non-existent polish. I wish I had a book to hide behind.

Self-protection is all I can think of. I’m not nasty. I’m not ignorant. I just need to keep safe.

The man finds a burger box deep within the bin’s contents and extracts then eats the sticky remains while I self-consciously examine the contents of my bag - for the tenth time. He moves on, eventually, with shoe sole flapping and wet leather squelching. The overpowering great ape aroma hits me as he passes, and I squeeze myself closer inside my coat. Surely the bus must arrive soon?

A snogging couple distracts my attention but, before I turn from them, their loving turns to scrapping within a second and they’ve suddenly transformed into rabid fighting dogs. I close my senses to tears; screaming, and the tenor-pitched yells of a young man thwarted.

I look down. I hope he doesn’t hurt her, but what will I do? Nothing. I pull my hair from its side plait. I twist it around my finger. My leg twitches. My eyes want to close but self-protection prevents such a blind acceptance of peril.

Bus, please come soon. Please come soon.

An orange bus pulls into the