Unlocking the padlocks, she pushed the doors open to find a mattress, foam falling out at the sides, fag ends and a half empty can on the bare wooden boards. The curtains used to form a sort of changing room had been ripped down and hung across the gap at the back.
So this was how the intruder had got in, prised off the back panels, low down, out of sight, crawled inside, made a temporary home. Luckily for him she had been ill and had not been down for a few weeks. She gingerly started to clear up, bagging up everything, swimming towels, kids toys, all the rubbish. Nothing missing and not much damage really.
The guy along the way helped her screw back the panels. She went along to the dump and then to B and Q to buy some new chairs.
It was two days later she saw the report in the local paper. Homeless man murdered on the lawns just a few feet from her beach hut. It was then the tragedy hit her, who had the stranger been, and had she unwittingly denied some poor devil the safety of a temporary home.
Wrote this off the top of my head just now, had been discussing flash fiction with a friend and really have idea whether it is flash fiction or not, but the story had been on my mind for a few days. Looked up flash fiction – knew Bridget Whelan’s blog would have something about it and then found a couple more useful sites. Might get hooked on it, it seems to have some of the elements of prose poetry and I dabble with that and if my story doesn’t ‘cut the mustard’ of flash fiction someone will surely tell me!