This will be the opening story in my new [as yet unnamed] Short Story Anthology [Book 3 in the series]. I wanted you to be able to read it one last time before it is blacked out on my site. I really love this story and I remember how I felt while I was writing it. At the time, I was exploring my ability to ‘write as a woman’. That is not as easy as it sounds. I did not want to be ‘pretending’ to be a woman. If it did not ring true, then I had failed as a writer. I think that this, and other pieces I have written, where the protagonist is a woman, work pretty well. I hope you agree, and I hope you enjoy this story. The world needs more stories about garden tools; don’t you think?
“So much depends on a red wheelbarrow glazed by rainwater beside the white chickens.”
William Carlos Williams.
Without it I would not have been able to move the body.
I’d always taken it for granted — the wheelbarrow, not the dead body.
It had always been there, leaning up against the shed or sitting quietly, filled with weeds or split fire-wood — just waiting for the task to be completed.
It was ‘on special’ at the hardware store on the high street.
The shop went out of business not long after, but I remember the wheelbarrows all lined up outside with a huge sign saying how much they were and how much I would be saving if I bought one.
The sign had the desired effect.
I’d needed a wheelbarrow for some time and the first one in the stack was red.
The gentleman who served me was happy to…
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