A man, a woman, an ashtray

Here is a story my daughter wrote today. It was an assignment in her Creative Writing class, based on a "prompt" that Chekhov had given to a writing student.

Everyone in her class had to write a story on the prompt of "a man, a woman, an ashtray." The prize is a Pez dispenser, and they all want it, so this should be interesting.

I thought you might like to try writing a story on this same prompt. I wrote my story after reading Lauren's. Here is her story:

Lauren Shawcross

Fiction Writing

1/30/06

Go on, tell me how big your state is. I dare you. Madison Lemming was a true Rhode Islander. And at four-foot eleven, she was just as small and feisty as her state.

She surveyed the room, from the flag mounted on the back wall to the cowboy hat atop the file cabinet—the room reeked of Texas. On the desk, in front of a framed photograph of four bushy-haired children was the embossed quote: "By now you have noticed that there is no product that can't be improved by making it in the shape of Texas." How tacky, she thought. If he liked Texas so much why didn’t he stay there?

She sighed, her reign was over. It had lasted two blissful days following the previous manager’s abrupt resignation. For 2/7ths of a week, she ran the show—all 675 square-feet of it. She was, after all, second in command. Then headquarters sent in this clown. They must have lost her application.

This Tom Jenkins was definitely a change. No more leaning towers of paper, even the highlighters were alphabetized—but any five-year-old could have done that. Neat people irritated Madison. She was the type of person who recklessly squeezed toothpaste from the middle of the tube, instead of carefully rolling the end up a bit more after each brushing. She eyed the golden ashtray in the shape of the twenty-eighth state and wondered if it was aerodynamic.

Reflexively, she drew back her hand, as the door swung open revealing a plaque that read: “Tom Jenkins- Manager- Sweets-N-More” and a gangly, bow-legged man with porcelain veneers that soon eclipsed it.

“Hi there,” he said in a soft-spoken voice and offered her his hand. “What are you doing in here? Ms. Lemming is it?”

“Yes.”

“Taffy?” He offered, pulling a piece of twisted wax paper from his pocket, “It’s the new flavor—Cran-Raspberry.”

She squinched her left eye (the lazy one) and turned her head ever so slightly. Was he hitting on her? Just because he was the new head honcho, did not give him the right to prey on the lesser-paid, but noble-hearted head cashier. She had a Masters in Finance, thank you very much. So what if it was from an online university? If he even tried to sidle up to her, she was prepared to tell him to take that ashtray and shove up his gangly little…

“Ms. Lemming?”

“Thank you sir, but I’m diabetic.” She diminutively cocked her head, while looking up at him through what she thought were long lashes. She adjusted the green and black plaid headband that she had found outside a Catholic day school and wondered what would happen if she kicked him in the shins.

Just then the cell phone affixed to his belt rang, so she excused herself to open up the cash register.

An hour later he returned, scratching his balding head.

“Have you seen my ashtray? It’s in the shape of Texas.”

She shrugged and turned back to the silver balance. Smiling, she weighed out another pound of banana taffy.


Thomas Shawcross
Fiction Writing

1/30/06, later in the day


Hi there. What are you doing in here? Ms. Lemming is it? Tom Jenkins could hardly believe what he had just said. How lame was that? After all the planning and stealth it had taken to be transferred to Store 1113, just so he could woo and win the woman of his dreams – Madison Lemming – why did those have to be his first words to her? Probably, they would laugh about that as they worked late tonight, aligning the inventory according to Magnetic North. She was definitely signaling that she liked what she saw in him. Tom couldn’t help but notice the way Madison had admired the razor-sharp crease on his trousers – women were such suckers for neatness! He chuckled to himself how he had always been able to read women’s (and cats’) minds and often wondered why it had provided him surprisingly little advantage so far.

Tom loved Texas and wanted to stay there forever, but Tom had asked for a transfer from managing the 10,000 square-foot Store 1031 at the Galveston Galleria after his cat, Chekhov, (who had watched him hack into the corporate Human Resources website to look for potential dates) had disdainfully prompted him (telepathically, of course) to “grow a pair, and ask her out.”

So, when the opening came up at the Tummy Acres food court in Providence, Tom shredded all the other applications, packed his U-haul, and left his stunned co-workers with only a cryptic “wouldn’t you like to know?”

Now, here he was, in a “store” so small he had to step outside just to change his mind, and he had fumbled his first chance to impress Madison. After all, he had done his research and knew all there was to know about her. But wait, wasn’t that headband she was wearing of a Scottish tartan pattern? Was Lemming a Scottish name? Now that money he had coincidentally spent on bagpipe lessons wasn’t looking like such a bad investment after all! This was another sign!

Tom’s ace-in-the-hole with Madison was her love of expensive jewelry. Tom had paid Tiffany’s to create a one-of-a-kind diamond brooch in the shape of the Rhode Island Red hen for Madison. A simple yet tasteful pavé of rubies and white diamonds, it had set him back an extra ten grand just to have the gold filagree set with blue sapphires spelling out the Rhode Island State Motto, but if he didn’t have “HOPE” then what did he have? Certainly, luck wouldn’t win him a woman from the thirteenth State. He had taped the engagement brooch to the bottom of his handsome Texas-Flyer ashtray, and he would present it to her when the moment was right. Yee Haw!

But first, he would go SLOW, teasing Madison with his knowledge of her State, and of her. Cranberries were the major crop in Rhode Island, so maybe he should offer her some Cranberry taffy? No, too obvious, make it Cran-Raspberry. That should keep her guessing! Personally, Tom preferred banana taffy, but he had always hoped to find the woman who would share his dreams with him, and if Madison preferred Cran-Raspberry, then so be it. All he needed from her now was just one small sign . . .