What a curious prompt? The little yellow tent.
August 2, 2018, prompt: In 99 words (no more, no less) write a story that includes a yellow tent. Where is it and who does it belong to? Think of how the color adds to the story. Go where the prompt leads.
Back in college, I had little money and, as my third year ended, two ambitions. To get a job which was an increasingly fraught process and to cement my nascent relationship with the Textiliste.
So far as the former was concerned, I drew blank after blank. I’d pretty much given up hope as I waited for the results of my exams to see what class of degree I had been awarded.
But for the latter goal my plans were looking pretty good. The dashing young student accepted my suggestion that we pack our rucksacks, catch the Fishguard to Rosslare ferry and hitch our way around the southern coast of Ireland. Our home for those two weeks would be a little yellow tent.
We visited Cork where I embarrassed myself by failing to understand a bus conductor’s accented English, we were picked up by a elderly German couple in Merc who wanted to know the details of our sex life and we had dinner in a caravan overlooking Bantry Bay, the only place that didn’t have flesh eating mozzies. We learnt early that as soon as the sun hit the nylon sides of the tent you got out because the heat was intolerable, but as soon as the sun went down or the shadows covered the tent, it was perfect.
Over the next several years we took it to Jersey and Guernsey and the Isle of Wight. I suppose, eventually, it fell apart or we earned enough to pay for the odd B&B but, for sure, it’s no longer with us. I hope it’s been recycled somewhere….
Heres my flash…
‘Logan, what are you doing?’
‘Trying… what a stupid idea to use this tent.’
‘Why? It’s fine…’
‘It’s so small I can’t even fart…’
‘That’s one blessing. Anyway, you’ve happily spent hours crushed with 100,000 strangers by the main stage, dancing to Metallica…’
‘I didn’t know them. I know you.’
‘Surely it’s the other way round?’
‘No… is that what I think is sticking in my leg?’
‘On the tube, if a stranger stinks, elbows me, I get off. Here, I’m stuck with you.’
‘I don’t smell. Do I?’
‘No Morgan. Are you sure that’s your elbow?’
PS. The good news, when we returned from Ireland was I had a job offer and, after a sweaty couple of days, I secured a far better degree than seemed likely. Maybe that tent was a lucky omen?
PPS some years ago the Lawyer was part investor in an extraordinary festival tent…
He never had any problem finding it in a camp site…