The supermarket - an unexpected animal

I wrote this as part of a creative writing workshop that I attended and every so often the facilitator interjected with an addition we had to add to the story. If my memory serves me well, a lot of it was adding "unexpted events" or "twists"...

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“One tomato, three potatoes, two carrots, six pears and one can of beans.” “One tomato, three potatoes, two carrots, six pears and one can of beans.” She furrows her eyebrows slightly in concentration. “One tomato, three potatoes, two carrots, six pears and one can of beans.” She hums softly in satisfaction, her brows loosening, counting it three times is enough … or is it? Panic enters and she frantically counts once again. Maybe a fifth time? Maybe a six-

A shrill voice pierces the air “£6.50”.

She stares back blankly, her eyes wide, her temple creased and her mouth pursed closed. The voice splits the air again, slightly faster this time, “£6.50”.

Understanding flows through her eyes and she reaches for her purse. And she’s reaching for her purse. She’s still reaching…and reaching … and reaching?

She looks to her left, then her right. Down. Up. Behind. She looks to her left, then her right. Down. Up. Behind. Left? Right? Down? Up? Behind? She’s about to crouch down when she feels a tingle on her ankle. The tingle is soft, like air, pillowy and fine. The tingle is also decidedly loud and currently meowing at her. Shit. The tingle shouldn’t be here, it definitely shouldn’t be here.

Quick hurry get him into her bag!

She reaches down, seeing it about to skitter off and then she doesn’t. In fact, she can’t see anything.

Panic barges through the ceiling and cackles at its mess as panic ensues.

She clutches her bag and her £6.50 worth of unpaid groceries. Clutching anything familiar. Anything normal. Anything safe.

Though you couldn’t see it, her eyes are shut, her mouth painfully closed, her fingers digging into the fabric, nearly piercing it. Perhaps if she pretends the dark was of her own choosing, it would be alright? Perhaps pretend she was simply walking back, on track to get home by 4:25 pm, and she just happened to close her eyes. Perhaps?

Her groceries in her hands, and then no longer. A familiarly unpleasant voice proclaimed “not paid ma’am!”. Well, indignation brings her back to reality. Back to the dark, back to her owing £6.50 and back to oh no! The fat idiot!

She swirls her head, blinking fast and hard, desperately trying to see. But alas! She cannot. So she blinks in the dark instead. Tears threaten to spill over until she feels a very familiar tingle on her ankle. Without hesitation, she scoops him into her arms and dashes towards what she thought was the direction of the door. Which was incorrect, she notices because light floods her vision and the disarray of the store rears its unorganised head.

Hurrah? Celebration? She still wants to run though.

Panic crashes through the ceiling - no this time literally. The ceiling is crashing down.

Her heart goes off-key as the sound splits her. Reverberating through the store. Crushing any line of thought she was trying to follow. Replacing it with one very simple, very instinctual command. Run!

Run. Run. She’s silently shouting at herself. Run. Her feet stick. Run. Like year old fudge. Run. Her bone and muscle refusing to obey. Run. Her body unmoving. Run. She’s going to die if she stays.

Run. So run. She isn’t on track though. Run. This is wrong. Run. This shouldn’t be happening. Run. This is incorrect. Run.

A body barges through her, and the floor hurtles towards her as it goes dark a second time.