Many writers have shared their thoughts with the public:

"There is something delicious about writing the first words of a story. You never quite know where they'll take you." - Beatrix Potter

"The role of a writer is not to say what we all can say, but what we are unable to say." - Anaïs Nin

"Sharing your writing, being enlarged by others' writing, is what makes you feel famous." - Gretchen Bernabei

"Writing is not an amusing occupation. It is a combination of ditch-digging, mountain-climbing, treadmill and childbirth." - Edna Ferber

"Either write something worth reading or do something worth writing." - Ben Franklin

"One must be drenched in words, literally soaked in them, to have the right ones to form themselves into the proper pattern at the right moment." - Hart Crane

"There are three rules for writing. Unfortunately, no one can agree what they are." - W. Somerset Maugham

Woolworths Noir

It's discombobulation-o-clock in the afternoon and all the chocolate muffins are all gone. Mum's going to lose her shit again if I show up home minus the muffins. I can hear her voice in my head, 'Kevin, how many times do I have to tell you? Preparedness. Planning. Responsibility.' It's only supermarket-quality muffins for fuck's sake.

The sky outside darkens, hanging over the parking lot like a lead dome. A gunshot of thunder sends the shoppers ducking and scurrying. I'm on self-checkout duty, watching out for vegetable-thieving housewives and assisting technology-challenged old men in their fight against the machine. Wind sweeps through the check-out area every time the auto-doors open, letting in the howls of Lionel, the basker, whose favourite song is Creep by Radiohead.

A tiny old lady in a rain hoodie and gumboots rings in expensive organic bananas with the cheapest price. She glances at me but I pretend looking elsewhere, pondering the ethics of simulating a checkout machine malfunction if I find a box of chocolate muffins in a shopper's trolley.

"Kevin to the front counter," Savanna's husky voice announces over the PA. I thank all fucks and leave the self-checkout desolation behind.

Savanna's the resident siren, at least for the minimum-wage population of the Woolies' male contingent. She has legs up to here and icy-blue stare that can reach into your soul and count how many Weetbix you had for breakfast.

"You called?" I say.

She makes a damsel-in-distress pout with her purple-painted lips. "There's a bit of a mess in the cold aisle needs cleaning up. Do me a huuuge favour?"

"Of course," I say and she bats her long, sparkly-purple eyelashes in gratitude. I'd do anything for Savanna, gratitude or promises of more not required. But then it occurs to me that she could do something for me. "Hey, could you check if there're any chocolate muffins left in the store?"

She gazes at me for an uncomfortable moment, but I don't bring up impending Mum ire. She punches some keys with her long blue fingernails. "Nope, none left, sorry Kevin."

"Thanks," I say, starting for the cold aisle.

"Wait," Savanna says. "The storage log shows muffins at zero level but the checkout number for today doesn't match minus one. Meaning—"

"There's still a box somewhere in the store," I finish. Some people discard unwanted product on random shelves when they find something better. I'd call it inconsiderate if I cared to have an opinion about that, but today I'm grateful.

There's a small trolley jam in the cold aisle. The onlookers are crowded by the Butter and Cream Cheese section, shaking their heads solemnly at the floor. The crowd parts at my approach and when I see the horror before me, I don't think the mop and bucket will be enough.

The body is sprawled on the polished concrete. In previous life it had been a whole roast chicken, sold in a foil pack with its drumsticks tied neatly together. What lies before me is a butterflied corpse, run over flat by numerous trolley wheels, stuffing splatted around it, oozing with congealing oil. And the smell of it — stale fat and burnt rubber, with the hint of bitter disappointment.

I shoo the rubberneckers away and take to the task of cleaning it up. The sooner I deal with it the sooner I can set out in search of the cursed muffins, though I'm pretty certain never again I'd be able to enjoy their taste.

Half an hour and two buckets later, the spill is no more. Outside, rain is bucketing the concrete of the parking lot. As I roam the aisles, searching for the stray box of chocolate muffins, I notice skid marks on the floor, and the lingering smell of squished chicken. It might be the smell is settled permanently inside my nostrils. It might be the chicken-killer trolley is still inside the store, hiding from the rain, leaving crumbs for me to follow.

I follow my nose and crispy-skin crumbs through the emptying aisles, moving methodically from one to the next. When I reach Chips and Snacks section, the stink wafts stronger. I see the back of an old man as he reaches the end of the aisle and disappears round the corner. I sprint in pursuit, slip on a greasy skid mark and fly head first into a display case of Pringles. You ever tried to stand up form a spill with Pringle tubes rolling all over the floor with elbows and knees landing on them? Takes me several tries and by the end of it the old man and his squeaky, stinky trolley are rounding the next corner into Kitchen Utensils and Storage Solutions.

I try to cut him off at the pass and dash for the other end of the aisle. He stops in the middle and I stop too, appraising him. Just an ordinary old fellow with wispy white hair and pointy ears, wearing plaid pyjama pants and pink sheepskin slippers. He clutches the handlebar of the trolley and giggles at me, maniacal-like. The front wheels of the trolley are shiny with chicken fat and there're scraps of foil stuck to them.

But that's not what makes me gape. His trolley is empty, but for one single, shiny box of chocolate muffins and I think: there comes a time in every man's life when he must become the law onto himself and take what belongs to him, lest he permanently disappoint his mother.

"You can't run from me forever, sir," I say placatingly, playing good cop, bad cop all by myself. "This sort of behaviour is unbecoming your age," I continue, slowly approaching him.

He glances behind him nervously. There's a large display case of Daily Discounts at the back of the aisle and he has nowhere else to go. "My name is Kevin," I say, extending my arms to him, palms up. "I'm afraid I'll have to confiscate the muffins."

He abandons the trolley and rabbits it, moving at speed unexpected from pink fluffy slippers. I don't follow. My job here is done.

End of shift. The rain's done, everything is clean inside and outside. As I jump into my old beat-up Corolla, I see Savanna wave at me from her small Kia parked on the opposite side of the lot. I wave back and off I drive, damsel saved, criminal apprehended, muffins procured. All in all a good —

Fuck, forgot the ice cream.