This for Nortina’s #1MinFiction Challenge at
Just a reaction to the picture she posted.
Little socks on little toes
Beneath the coloured tree he goes
Little eyes of Christmas joy
How special is a little boy?
A little bit of me he seems
A little heart with precious dreams
The gift, December twenty-five
A gift to simply be alive
I’ve been trying to find some impetus (not with much success) and came across a few people who offer regular challenges.
It might work for you ….
Visit Laura
https://thesensitivebookishtype.com
Or Marquessa
The Neighbours
He had a secret. Or was it a lie?
Whatever the case he knew something that nobody else knew. He knew that he was not a good person.
The lie itself was proof enough of it. The deceit. The unwavering pretence.
He pretended to be good.
And he did so with such rehearsed precision that he was beginning to believe that even God was being fooled. And if not God then certainly the neighbours.
He hated the neighbours. Without exception. They had come from nowhere and robbed him of his angry isolation. But even during the invasion he had smiled at each and every one of them. They knew nothing of his alcohol induced nocturnal plans for revenge, of course.
And the children. The children were the worst of them. As they walked or ran or skipped past his front gate every morning chattering about games and dreams and birthday parties and other things that no longer had meaning to him. Their every waking moment transformed into careless joy and exhaled at full volume.
He despised them for their naïve happiness.
Today was the day. Today he had had enough. Today they had kicked a ball into his garden and flattened a tomato plant. And they had laughed about it. And so he had retrieved the ball and marched purposefully with it across the lawn to confront them.
“Who kicked this?” he had demanded.
The look in his eyes must have shocked them. The laughter had suddenly dissolved and they had fallen silent. Their little hands clung obediently to their sides and they shifted their weight nervously from one foot to another awaiting retribution. His menacing gaze remained fixed on them as he waited and tapped the evidence under his arm with his index finger.
“Who kicked this?” he repeated.
Eventually one of them could bare it no longer and had raised a hand to confess.
***
But he could not do it. He could not betray the secret. The broad smile of his pretended self invaded him and suddenly he found himself cheerfully handing back the ball and placing an arm around the offending child’s shoulders.
“Hey! I was kidding you,” he announced, “And wow! What a great kick!”
And off they went again skipping down the street throwing the ball to one another.
“You know,” he added, addressing no-one in particular, “I used to be able to kick a ball like that once.”
Simon looked at the phone as it rang and waited for the debate within his head to conclude. Should I answer it? Should I not answer it? In the end it was a question that he could not satisfactorily resolve with the incessant ringing in his ears so he picked it up and pushed a button with the intention of silencing it rather than communicating with it in any way. He was disappointed to discover that the action only partially solved the problem. Whilst there was a decrease in the higher frequency noise he quickly became aware of another of a lower frequency. It was the rhythmic thumping of his own heartbeat telegraphing to him the clear message that he was in the formative stages of a potentially life changing hangover.
And there were other questions to be answered. Where am I? was one that seemed important. He was in bed, he could tell, but he could see nothing familiar about the room. Clearly, he concluded, he was not in his own bed. And he was not alone. The naked woman sleeping beside him had her head buried in pillows and there were no obvious features visible to him that might identify her as having any particular significance. He had awoken in similar circumstances before and already the familiar chant was creeping into his subconscious. Never again. Never again.
Meanwhile the phone was still demanding his attention. “Hello? Hello?” it screamed, “Simon? Answer me you prick.”
He quietly slipped from beneath the covers and moved to the side of the room in order not to disturb the body beside him. Leaving the scene of the crime undetected was an option of increasing appeal. Though he suddenly felt vulnerable and slightly ridiculous in his own nakedness as he padded across the carpet like a thief.
He looked at the phone in his search for answers and eventually put it to his ear. “Huh?” he mumbled.
“Simon? Jesus, Simon ….. where the fuck are you?”
More questions. He looked around the room again searching for clues. “Can you give me a hint?” he asked the phone hopefully.
But the phone was clearly losing patience. “Listen to me, Simon,” it yelled, “I’m in trouble. We’re in trouble. I’m with Rebecca.”
Simon now recognised the voice of his flat-mate from within the phone. And the name of his landlady. He was having difficulty tying the two things together. “Oh,” he said, “lucky you.”
“She’s a dangerous woman, Simon.”
Simon looked over at the motionless nude on the other side of the room. “Aren’t they all?” he murmured.
The phone’s voice went quiet and assumed a secretive air. “Simon,” it asked, “do you have any money?”
It seemed, under the circumstances, unlikely. If he had money it would be in his wallet. If he had his wallet it would be in his pants. His pants were nowhere to be seen. “Not on my person,” he answered honestly.
“Simon,” the phone continued, “Listen carefully. When I say ‘trouble’ I mean big trouble. And when I say ‘dangerous woman’ I mean psychotic woman. And when I say ‘money’ I mean now. Rebecca has a gun to my head.”
The nude was stirring and soon enough he would have trouble of his own to deal with. He moved behind a cupboard and whispered to the phone. “And when you say ‘gun to your head’ …. in what sense do you mean ‘gun’?” he asked.
“I mean a loaded gun. To my temple. I mean that the landlady is about to blow my head off.”
“Oh,” said Simon, “not in a nice way, I take it. What are you expecting me to do?”
“I think that paying your fucking rent might be a good start.”
He heard a vaguely familiar female voice from behind him. “Simon?” the voice asked.
This was all too much. He could cope with only one thing at a time. So he extended his index finger and hung up the phone.
Richmond Road 