April's Winning Story
She lived in one of
the tower-blocks on the ground floor – Abingdon Court. Hers was the
flat with a council-blue front door and a tiny, two-stride-long
garden. There was a ceramic snail in the window-box and a red plastic
windmill in one of the daffodil pots by the Home
Sweet Home doormat. Her name was Joan,
or June. Or maybe, Joyce – no one was sure. One morning, a
Monday, after her usual three laps, she was seen in the stairwell of
the twenty-story block. With a licked-tissue, she wiped graffiti. Crackers, that
one, voices said of her.
|
If you are a UK resident and would prefer to enter by post:
Malcolm, sit down. I just received a phone call from your teacher. He was crying. Can you tell me why? That’s right, it’s because of what happened to Brian. But he’s not very clear about what did happen to Brian. I was hoping you could tell me. Mr Fish said you were playing with Brian before it happened. He said you were playing with a toy. Which toy, dear? Don’t shrug, Malcolm, it’s most unsightly. Mr Fish said he asked you to give him the toy and you ran away. Is that true? I don’t doubt you were scared, darling. Mr Fish was scared too. And poor Brian’s mother, well, I can only imagine. But Malcolm, you must understand that the police will be here any minute. They will want to speak to you. So I think it’s better that you tell me what happened first. Let’s make it easier: tell me just one thing. What happened to Brian’s hands? Malcolm, where are Brian’s hands? If you shrug again, Malcolm dear, Mummy is going to get mad. We don't want to stop you playing with your toys. No, we won’t stop you making them, either. Have we ever? Even though, the filthy junk you bring home to make them, God knows where you get it from. Yes, I know you always wash your hands, of course you do, you’re a very good boy. What I’m saying, dear, is that we support you. No one is going to stop you making your toys. Yes, I promise. Remember Mrs. Fogerty’s spaniel? Oh, don’t give me that, young man, you remember very well. That strange contraption of yours, made of paperclips and batteries and smelly old twigs. Well, okay, whatever it was made of. Don’t make fun of Mummy’s ignorance. There’s a world of things that I do know about, don’t you worry about that. What? Oh, you fibber! That thing was certainly not harmless, not for that poor dog. I leave you alone in the garden with little Sparky for five minutes, and what happens? The dog mysteriously vanishes and we can’t get your clothes clean for love or money! And what did we say when Mrs Fogerty came round looking for Sparky? That’s right. Nothing. Because we love you. And the rest of the world can go burn in hell. You hear that car? It must be the police. Listen Malcolm, time is short. You know the rule about never taking out your toys when we have visitors? Forget that. And forget what I said just now about Mummy’s ignorance. Mummy’s not smart enough to take care of this by herself. Go on: open your toybox. Oh, so that’s the new one? Doesn’t look like much; but I know better. They’re here. Get ready. No house rules today; you do whatever you want. Just promise to help me clean up later. Here, give me a kiss. Just coming! Hello, officers. Come on in. Oh, I wouldn’t bother wiping your feet. Copyright (c) Jack Noble 2011 |
April's third-placed story
The House on Memory Lane
by
Brian G. Ross
She burns while she sleeps.
Crimson shutters cover her eyes; mouth is closed where screams once
escaped. Flames flicker like crazy orange tongues, licking old
wounds, whispering. Childhood ghosts talk to me: talk about
me. I listen, but all I can hear is the crackle of the reds and
yellows, the snap of wood and glass, and roof tiles like popcorn, as
my past begins to crumble under the night sky.
Soon those sirens will be here.
One window at a time, the street lights up, awakening to the lynching
of a past they do not even know. I see faces I have not seen for many
years. Most do not remember me, but some do, the little boy with the
cute smile.
I stare into the flames and lose myself in its golden embrace. I can
see the face of my father, perhaps aroused by the black smell, or the
approaching hooves of his own demise. I catch the stench of
daddy-sweat on the breeze, although the stink has never really left
my nostrils. The wind throws the blaze left and right, then back
again, in a dirty dance of power and rage.
My father’s tattoo of fists and feet against the front door becomes
the shriek of a thousand sleepless nights, that only now can I begin
to close my eyes upon. It is a sweet refrain to my sombre song. To my
ears it sounds like justice.
I cup the cigarette - my hand no longer trembling - and strike
another match. I drag long and hard, and exhale twenty-three years of
purple-hazed guilt.
People always tell me I am like my father - same wispy hair, same
thoughtful eyes.
Same loving hand.
Mrs Appleby tugs at my sleeve; Mr Bristow yells at me from across the
street. But it’s all too late now. I cannot hear their pleas as
many years ago they could not hear mine.
Sometimes the choices you make are not your own.
Sometimes all you do is light the fuse and watch it burn.
My eyes wet with tears for the last time, I drop the dead match to
the ground, and walk away.
I think about my own son, tucked up in bed, where only an hour
before I had given little Trent the same daddy-kisses my father had
given me all those years ago. I wonder if he will grow up as I have -
with fire in his heart and flames in his future.
Copyright (c) Brian G. Ross 2011
