short story – Rachel Potts

Writer’s Retreat Aug. 2025

This year’s writer retreat came at an increasingly pivotal time for me. As in, I have been facing significant writer’s block and have refused to even look at my novel for the past several months. Did I work on my novel at the writer’s retreat? Well, no. But did I write? Well, yes.

This year’s writer retreat for me was a not just communion with my friends and fellow writers, but about rediscovering the joy of telling a story. I need that reminder. Badly.

Editing my novel, I’ve been riddled with road blocks, frustration, boredom, and self-doubt. So much so that I haven’t even been able to write anything else. But this weekend I did it. I wrote a short story.

This year, we all decided to choose a single prompt and each write our own story based off that prompt. I won’t tell you what the prompt was, but I’m curious to see if you can figure it out after reading my short story! It was such a fun exercise and I truly enjoyed seeing the different directions each of us took it.

Now, without further delay – my short story.

She woke up to the smell of burnt coffee and sweaty sheets. The temperature in the bedroom was stifling. Had her boyfriend turned off the A/C when he left? Why the hell would he do that?

She rolled out of bed, stripping the sweaty, smelly sheets off her body and made a B-line for the bathroom.

She flicked the bathroom light switch. Nothing. She flicked it a few more times. Still nothing. She swore under breath and then peed in the dark.

Her boyfriend, Tanner, had only just started sleeping over regularly and, up until now, it had been going well. But the lights, the smell, the heat – what the hell is going on? He could have at least texted her to let her know the bathroom lights were out. She double checked her phone. Nope. Nothing. Not even a “have a good day!” text, which was his unofficial official way of her letting her know he had arrived at work for the day.

What happened this morning? She typed out and then sent him the text while she walked into the kitchen.

Sure enough, the light for the coffee pot was on. She flicked it off and walked over to the thermostat. Off.

“What the fuck,” she groaned as she jammed the power button.

Hadn’t they just been complaining about how today was the hottest day since like 1932 or something? Had he lost his mind?

His phone buzzed and a “Failed to send” messaged popped up on the screen.

“Huh?”

She checked her phone again. No internet. No service. The SOS in the corner of her phone suddenly filled her with dread.

This isn’t normal. This isn’t normal. This isn’t normal.

She raced to the front door and flung it open. She didn’t know what she had expected but everything was normal. No signs that disaster had struck. Everything was calm. Too calm? No, she shook her head at herself. Everything is fine. Stop being a weirdo.

Coffee. She needed coffee.

As she cleaned and prepped the pot, she turned her phone off and then on again. While the phone glowed the “welcome” screen while it rebooted, she turned the coffee pot on except… it didn’t actually come on. She did it again. She bent down and aggressively ripped the power cord out of the wall.

“I can’t fucking believe this,” she mumbled as she jammed the plug back into the wall.

She tried the switch again, giving it a couple seconds this time in case it was only the “on” light that wasn’t working. But when the pot again refused to do it’s job, she threw her head back and let out an exasperated, “fuuuck!”

She was on the bring of an actual tantrum.

Storming through the hot, sticky apartment, she made her way to the spare bedroom, looking for the damn breaker. She was going to reset it all or burn it down. At this point, she barely cared which.

She threw open the double doors to the guest bedroom closet and…

She blinked. Hard. She blinked again, this time a little longer.

No, they were there. Stairs. Where her winter wardrobe should have been hanging, there were now stairs that, yes, she was certain, had not been there before. She looked to the right of the closet and there was the breaker, exactly how she remembered it. She stared at the breaker and then back at the stairs, her gaze going back and forth.

Finally, she settle on a decision and took a tentative step on the first stair. With both feet solidly planted on the first stair, she swallowed hard and took another step. The staircase creaked and swayed slightly. She clasped the wobbly case iron railing on either side of the staircase and took a deep breath before continuing. The staircase swayed slightly with each step, but it wasn’t long before she could see the landing. Just a few more steps and she was there. It looked like… an attic space?

There was a worn, burgundy, chair in the corner next to a small bookcase and lamp. All covered with at least a few millimeters of dust. The standing lamp was glowing, softly illuminating the small space. The smell of cinnamon descended upon her and she turned her head to see a teapot and tea cup sitting, waiting on a small table pushed against the wall. The rest of the room was bare.

She walked to the teapot and placed the back of her hand against it. It was hot. She lifted the lid and was met with a gush of steam and cinnamon.

She smiled softly and then, hesitantly, poured it into the teacup.

With teacup in hand, she walked over to the bookshelf and scanned the titles in the low light. She was surprised to find a compilation of her favorite titles mixed in with others that had been on her “to be read” list for eons. She asked herself, well, something comfortable or something new? She closed her eyes and pulled a dusty book of the shelf. With a small smile she thought, something comfortable it is.

She settled into the chair, a puff of dust surrounding her as she did.

She did not leave for hours. Maybe even days. When she needed to relieve herself, she noticed a door she hadn’t seen before that held a small toilet and sink. When she began to feel sleepy, hidden away in a cobb-webby corner was a cot, creaky but comfortable. She felt hungry and found orange scones, her favorite, stacked neatly on a plate on a shelf.

Eventually, she realized that perhaps she had been there too long. Didn’t she need to work? And she saw the stairs, finally noticing them again. She placed the book she had just finished back onto the dust shelf and descended the stairs back into the guest bedroom closet.

As soon as both feet were flat on the floor, her phone tucked in her pocket and long forgotten, began to buzz. Her WIFI and service were back up and she had hundreds of missed calls and messages.

She stared at her phone for a long time, her brow scrunched. Certainly, she hadn’t been gone that long?

She clicked on her messages, her boyfriends at the very top.

Where are you? He said. Can you believe what’s happening? He went on, are you safe? And dozens of messages along similar lines.

She crinkled her nose and realized that she was inhaling smoke.

She looked back down at her phone and then back at the stairs. After another moment, she slipped the phone back into her pocket and went up the stairs.

Writer’s Retreat Sept. 2024

Now that the first draft of my novel is done, I have a little more space in my life to update you all more regularly. Recently, a group of writers (who also happen to be my friends) set out on an adventure to wine country to, you guessed it, drink wine and write. Though, if I’m being honest, there was probably a little more wine drinking than writing. But who’s keeping track?

It was a wonderful weekend of friendship. We were able to let our guard down, forget about the worries of every day life, and completely enjoy each others’ company.

It also forced us all to step away from our current projects and focus on the writing itself. Each of us were given a prompt and a maximum word count and then we were let loose. What did we do? We each wrote, in our own style, a short, easily digestible story, chapter, script, etc. Then we got to read each others’ stories and provide feedback. Risky, I know. But we’re all good sports. Phew.

So, without further ado, I provide you will my fun little short story from the weekend. I hope you enjoy! Feel free to leave little comments on how much you love it 😘

Al the Alien

Al was an unusual guy, everyone knew that. If you asked his coworkers about Al, they might respond, “Al who?” And, when reminded about the man in the cubicle by the window with long black hair that was always meticulously combed into a perfect pony tail and who never took off his brown trench coat no matter the weather, they might say, “Ah, Al. The one who likes paintbrushes.”

Al did not speak to his coworkers more than necessary. It is unsurprising to hear that they would identify Al by his paintbrushes. When Al first started at the office, Al’s paintbrushes were a point of discussion among his coworkers. Al has paintbrushes of every size and kind; some with plastic handles and thick bristles, some with wooden handles and wispy bristles; and he delicately takes them out of his briefcase each day and sets them on immaculate display. At the end of each day, he would take the same care and tuck them back away, taking them back to his tiny apartment with him each evening.

At first, his coworkers asked him about the paintbrushes, “Do you paint?” “Who’s your favorite painter?” “Which paintbrush is the best?” but Al would respond only with grunts or one-word answers if he even responded at all. Eventually, they all gave up and left Al alone with his paintbrushes and barely remembered he was even there.

That is until one day when two strange humans showed up at the office in perfectly pressed suits, their hair slicked back, and their polished shoes reflecting the light from the jarring fluorescent lights, and asked where they could find one Al Smith. Curious, Al’s coworkers watched nosily as the two people made their way to Al’s cubicle. When they reached his cubicle, Al was not there but his paintbrushes were. His coworkers knew then. Something was amiss.

In fact, something was amiss. Al saw the two humans as they arrived and knew he didn’t have much time. He quickly grabbed his favorite paintbrush (because he did have a favorite paintbrush) and left as discreetly as possible down the back staircase that no one ever used. He exited the building and took a sharp right and walked as quickly as possible to the subway.

He wasn’t going back to his apartment. No, he wouldn’t go back there now.

He hopped on the next train and patiently waited for the doors to close and the train to take him away from the people in the suits with the shiny shoes.

A few stops later, Al hopped off the train, clutching the paintbrush in his pocket and scanning the crowd to make sure he hadn’t been followed by the humans. He didn’t see anyone suspicious and so he carefully made his way through the crowd and out the station.

Once he reached the sidewalk, Al took a deep breath and held the air in his mouth. He wanted to taste the gasoline, dirt, and sweat of the city. He didn’t know when he’d ever get to taste it again and he had grown accustomed to the dirtiness. The thought of fresh air, or worse, no air at all, sent a shiver down his spine.

Before dread could settle in, Al exhaled and hurried down the street. It took him another ten minutes and several turns down back alleys before he reached his destination, a quaint boutique called The Petit Paintbrush.

There was a whimsical jingle when he opened the door and the clerk looked up from the book they had been enjoying behind the register. With a soft smile on their face, they greeted Al.

“Welcome back,” they said.

Al nodded but did not return the greeting nor the smile. He made his way to the counter, his hand fumbling on the paintbrush in his pocket. The clerk closed their book and stood up, the smile remaining in place.

When Al reached the counter, he clutched the paintbrush in his pocket and took it out, carefully placing it on the counter in front of the clerk.

“Ah,” the clerk said, “you are in need of an exchange?”

Al offered a sharp nod.

The clerk gave Al a sad smile and fought the impulse to pat him on the hand. Instead, the clerk took the paintbrush in their hand and then swung the small door that led behind the counter open and motioned for Al to follow them. Al did so and followed the clerk to the back room.

“Wait here,” the clerk said and then returned to the store, leaving Al alone.

Al waited patiently, taking deep breaths of the dusty air, it was fainter inside but he could still taste the city. After another moment, the room started buzzing and a faint green light began to illuminate the dark corners. A hole appeared above him where there was once a ceiling and, taking one last deep breath, Al was sucked up and far away, the taste of the city still on his tongue.

A Story Without an Ending

It’s been awhile since I have posted any updates. As some of you may know, I started grad school back in the Fall and, unfortunately, have not had much time to update my website. Or write for that matter. During the past two semesters, I have thought about it often and have longed to work on my novel (which I failed at completing before I started grad school).

Thankfully, I’m in-between semesters now and, with the pandemic, have had ample time to continue work on my novel. To that end, I wanted to post a short story that I’m removing from my novel that has no other home. The story that I will be sharing with you was meant to be the prologue for the novel, but upon re-evaluation I felt that it no longer belonged. I still love it, however, and wanted to share it with you all. Proof that I have been writing! Haha!

So, enjoy this short story that is probably too short to even be called a short story. Hopefully, I will get to update you all at least once more before Summer semester begins!

A Story Without an Ending

The man with no shoes ran every morning. I saw him every day, Monday through Friday, on my route to work. It was a long stretch of road, there was often traffic and I would just sit in my car and watch him jogging past all the cars until he took a right into the sheltering neighborhood. Seeing him was the highlight of my morning and if there was ever a morning that I was running late and would miss him, it would put me off. I never took a picture or recorded him, I never put him on social media, though of course the thought crossed my mind. But then I would think, would they understand him? This man who just needed to go for a run, rain or shine, without his shoes?

I moved. A new city. A new job. There was no man with no shoes jogging his way along the highway during my new commute. I knew he was where I had left him. I had left but he was still there, diligently trekking along. Nothing had changed in his world. Everything had changed in mine.

Two years after I moved, my job sent me and another coworker to a seminar. Eight hours to sit in a conference room and listen to someone drone on about something I could care less about. My manager was excited for me to get the training and I was excited for a whole day that I didn’t have to spend at the office.

When my coworker and I arrived, we were ushered to a small, dingy conference room. It was so cold I could see my breath and I could certainly see the bucket in the middle of the room catching the slowly dripping water coming from the ceiling. I sniffed and the undeniable odor of mildew hit my nose.

“At least they have tables. The last one of these things I went to we had to sit at desks like we were in school,” said a male voice behind me.

I quickly spun around and noticed a gentleman clipping a nametag to the pocket of his shirt that read “Allen.” My eyes moved from the nametag to his face and I suddenly found myself speechless. It was him. The man with no shoes.

My eyes darted to his feet. Shoes. Well-worn loafers, in fact.

“You like them?” he asked.

I tore my eyes from his shoes and glanced back at his face. He was grinning and his kind eyes were resting on me.

“To be honest, I’ve had these shoes forever. Can’t find it in me to buy new ones. I don’t like shoes. I try not to wear them when I can get away with it,” he shrugged and started to move past me, “Unfortunately, these things have a dress code.”

I was about to follow him when he turned back around, “I know you saw the nametag, but I like proper introductions. My name’s Allen,” he said and stuck out his hand.

I returned the smile and took his hand, “Judith.”

“Nice to meet you, Judith,” and before I could reply he turned back around and took a seat at the front of the room.

My coworker leaned into my ear and whispered, “That was weird, right?”

I lowered my eyes and shrugged, “Where do you wanna sit?”

We took a seat in the middle of the room, somewhere we would get lost in the sea of faces, but also somewhere that I could keep an eye on Allen.

The Presenter introduced herself and made us go around the room to do the same. Allen volunteered to start and I found myself sitting on the edge of my seat.

There was nothing extraordinary about his introduction – “I’m a manager for a company that sells fleece blankets. Don’t ask me why a fleece blanket company is based in Florida, the owners like the irony I guess,” the whole class laughed. “We ship blankets all over the country. My god people love blankets. Honestly, how many of you own a fleece blanket?” the entire class raised their hands. “See? All you fine people are keeping me employed. Isn’t life funny?” he grinned over the entire class before turning back to the Presenter who, returning the grin, took the cue and moved on to the next person in the room.

The rest of the introductions went by quickly and without flair. When my turn came, I glanced at Allen to find him attentively watching me, like he had watched everyone. In my quick glance, I thought I had noticed him wink at me. It did nothing to change my boring, standard, introduction that didn’t make anyone laugh and no one remembered as soon as I stopped speaking. When I was done, I snuck a glance back at Allen and found that he had also moved on to the next introduction. I was slightly disappointed in both myself and Allen. I’m not sure sure what I expected; maybe a joke at my expense or possibly, probably, most definitely, for him to stand up, kick off his shoes, and announce, “I run without shoes and you can’t stop me,” as he ran himself right out of the conference room. That didn’t happen and, instead, he listened to the rest of the introductions and politely paid attention to the Presenter. The Presenter whose presentation I already forgot.

I’m not exactly sure when, but at some point during the presentation I made my mind up to ask Allen to lunch. I knew it might be a slight annoyance to my coworker to have a third wheel and a stranger no less, but there was nothing in that moment I wanted more than to spend time with him. At that point, when I decided to invite him to lunch, I think I may have vaguely realized that I was obsessed with this man. This man who I knew, though didn’t really know, was the man with no shoes. It wasn’t until much later that I realized how badly I needed to know for sure that I was right.

As soon as the Presenter announced that it was time to break for lunch, I made my way across the room and around the bucket to Allen. He smiled at me as I approached the table and, collecting his things, he stood up and waved.

Waving back I asked, “I noticed that you were alone and was wondering if you’d like to join me and my coworker at lunch today?”

The smile on his face spread wider and he replied, “I would love to.”

My coworker and I rode together. The spot that we had picked out was only five minutes away and we rode in relative silence. I thought she might ask me why I had invited Allen to join us, but she knew I was relatively outgoing and would occasionally make friends with strangers when we went out together. She must not have sensed that this was any different; even if it seemed glaringly obvious to me.

By the time we had gotten our food and found where he was sitting, he had already finished eating half of his lunch. I couldn’t figure out how he had gotten so far ahead of us, but before I could ask he asked first, “How long have you ladies been in Florida for?”

“I’ve lived here my whole life,” my coworker replied.

“Ah, a native. You don’t meet too many of those.”

“I’ve been in Florida for almost eight years.”

“Eight years, huh? What brought you here? School?”

I had just taken another bite of my sandwich, so I responded with a nod.

He rubbed his chin.

“Well, I double that. I’ve been here for sixteen years. I moved here from Michigan. It’s so damn cold there. You gotta wear shoes all the time. And the worst kind of shoes, boots. I remember it clear as day when it was that I decided to move down here. I had just gotten home from work in the middle of January and tore off these big clunking boots. My feet were still so cold that I immediately sat down and wrapped them up with a fleece blanket. My wife came with a cup of hot tea and I told her, ‘Lorraine, we need to move somewhere warm. My feet are too cold here and I don’t think I can take it anymore’ and right when I said that, I kid you not, I noticed the tag on the fleece blanket that said ‘Made in Florida.’ The very next day I called the company to see if they had any openings and then a week later I was moving my family down to Florida and throwing those boots in the garbage,” he paused to take a sip of his water and then continued, “My wife, well, she liked the cold. After a couple of years in Florida she decided she couldn’t take it anymore and moved herself and the kids back to Michigan. I never visited them up there and now they never ask me to.”

My coworker and I quickly exchanged glances.

“I’m sorry,” we both responded.

He shrugged, “I used to feel sorry for myself, but then I gave a dead man my shoes,” and then he slowly wiped his mouth with his napkin, let the napkin fall from his hand to his plate, and stood up from his seat.

“Well, ladies, I’m gonna get a move on,” he said as he grabbed his tray and started pivoting toward the door.

My coworker and I exchanged quizzical glances, he hadn’t finished his food and we had another thirty minutes before lunch was over.

As we watched him walk out the door, my coworker muttered, “Judith, this is why you don’t talk to strangers.”

I ignored her and watched Allen as he left the restaurant. Once he was outside, he stepped to the side of the entrance, slipped off his shoes without bending over, and then walked away.

That was the last time I saw the man with no shoes.