Writing Prompt 45: Trolley
Abandoned
I’m thinking where this trolley could have come from. Either the Home Depot a five minute walk away behind me or the supermarket across the main road. That would entail a more dedicated commute to the north side of the shopping mall. Or if you have a car, a drive. Yet here it is leaning awkwardly against the wall, one back wheel in the air. Shopping trolleys always seem so vulnerable to injury.
When my daughters were young, grocery shopping could be an arduous affair. The youngest usually got to ride in the seat of the trolley while the eldest, only two years and a couple of months older, would have to walk. Sometimes this caused much shouting about the unfairness of it all. And if you’ve ever tried to reason with a three year old in public, you’ll know the type of frustration this brings, a tightness in your voice and a quickening in your heart rate.
My poor mum once had the terrible experience of trying to manage me in a shoe shop, lying on the floor and kicking my legs, crying as if the world would end because I couldn’t have the black patent leather shoes I so desperately wanted for school. Sorry Mum.
So where does a shopping trolley lead you? Start with the trolley and you might end up somewhere else, somewhere surprising. I started with my kids and ended up with my own toddler tantrum. Try not to think too hard. The story will come.
Until next time.
Judy pulled at the trolley nearest to her in the lineup outside the superstore. A sign read, simply: Sale Day.
The front wheels were all caught up with the back wheels of the trolley ahead. Judy gave it a sharp tug. Something sticky hid underneath the handle, covering her fingers. She wrinkled her nose, holding her hands in the air while looking for something to wipe her fingers on.
Carefully, Judy moved things around in her handbag using the backs of her hands as best she could, trying not to smear the unknown substance onto the lining of her favourite bag. She found an old used tissue.
It would have to do.
She wiped her hands and, using the tissue for protection, pulled the sticky-handled trolley out of the way. Once moved, she tossed the tissue in the bin and pulled at the next one in line. It wheeled out smoothly its handle, Judy noted, was not sticky. She gingerly picked up the empty crisp packet and half-drunk juice carton and threw them away, muttering furiously about people having no respect these days.
Something caught her eye. A small folded piece of paper fluttered in one of the front wheels. Curious, Judy bent down and peeled off the piece of paper using the very tips of her newly manicured fingers.
You know where to find me. Be there. 8am. Wednesday.
Judy recognised the use of a typewriter. As a trained typist of many years, Judy prided herself on her speed and accuracy.
But no one used a typewriter these days.
Each letter left a shallow indentation on the thin, soft paper. The letter ‘w’ was particularly faint. She ran her fingers over the lettering, reading the message once more under her breath.
She folded up the piece of paper and went to throw it in the bin along with the rest of the rubbish from the trolley. She hesitated. In that moment, as Judy stood holding an anonymous message to someone she didn’t know, someone screamed, a piercing scream that ripped through the quiet of that Wednesday morning. Judy froze before slipping the message into her handbag.
Story first posted in January 2019 // Photo: Tanya Clarke 2018
