Ron

Short story exercise, week FOUR. Prompt: Ambition. I wanted to parallel the ambitions of a young autistic boy with that of a Fox.

We live on a farm. Dad always says, ‘Living on a farm is something to be proud of.’ I’m not sure I agree. I tell the children in my class I live on acreage or a demense, because they have no idea what I mean by that. I used to tell them I lived on an estate because it sounded posh like in Monarch of the Glen, but they thought I meant a council estate.

I like to pretend I’m a fox. I silently skulk around the house in the dead of the night, tip toeing all the way. I know where every creaking floorboard is and exactly how quickly to turn each door knob. The only tricky part is the latch on the kitchen door, it always rattles despite my steady hand. This is where musical statues comes in handy, I always win. Listening out for a single sound, but the only noise I hear is the low grunting of the pigs as they try and sniff out their late night snack. Mum says ‘If you have milk and cheese before you go to bed you’ll have nightmares. I do not want you waking your father!’

Sometimes I wish I was a fox. I like to watch them from my bedroom window. There’s one that comes every night at the same time, when the big hand is on the twelve and the little hand is on the one, I’ve called him Ron. He cautiously comes in from the hole in the bush I made when I was hiding from Mum. Then he runs along the length of the bush to avoid the security light, behind my swing set and back down behind the chicken coup. I watch him with the great anticipation I have when watching the dog shows Mum takes me to. He’s perfected his route and he’s onto the last hurdle. He pushes the mesh that surrounds the chickens house, prodding it to see how much resistance Dad has troubled him with; quite a lot. Then he starts to dig at the ground, but this takes too long and I fall asleep.

Dad is angry. ‘Those bloody (he says a word I’m not allowed to repeat) vermin, they’ve only gone and slaughtered the whole bloody lot of ‘em. Every single bloody one,’ he kicks over a bucket of water which goes everywhere, but most falls through the gaps in the floorboards. I think Ron might have got in this time, I know I shouldn’t smile, but I can’t help it.

I didn’t know if Ron would come back. Mum said, ‘All the chickens have been killed by those rodents, those bloody rodents that are good for nothing except hats.’

I thought of Ron sitting on top of Mums head and started to laugh. ‘Mum,’ I said, ‘Foxes aren’t rodents, they are part of the dog family, even though they are more like cats,’ and was sent to bed early.

That night I woke to a flood of lights attacking my room, for a minute I thought I was about to be abducted, but after a while nothing happened so I got out of bed and went to the window. It was Ron. He was staring up at my window, his eyes looked like the marbles I get every Christmas, but have no idea what you do with them. He stood there frozen, his chest as white as a ghosts. I heard a loud thump next door and Dad shouting in-between yawns ‘They’re back yawn again, I’m not having this any yawn more.’ I heard his door slam and the sound of his feet pounding the stairs. Ron must have gone off course.

Mum came in, sat on my bed, pulled me close and put her hands over my ears. It was then, and only then I realised what Dad was about to do. ‘Ron!’ I screamed, ‘Ron!’ I kept screaming his name until my head hurt. Mum wouldn’t let go as much as I fought her off. ‘He was only feeding his family, let me go! Dad kills the chickens for us to eat, why can’t Ron have one?’ I wriggled, scratched and tried to bite her arm. ‘Fucking!’ I shouted as loud as I could. Her palm came swinging from a height and landed right on my cheek sending a burning sensation through my whole body. I fell asleep.

I’ve decided I’m moving to the city when I’m older. It’s where all the foxes go when they don’t like the farms and the country side. I don’t want to be a farmer and I don’t want to live here any longer. I don’t want to sound like my parents either, the other children at school don’t sound the way I do. They sound like Fantastic Mr. Fox. I want to talk like Fantastic Mr. Fox, not a farmer.

My Life in Briefs

Short story exercise, week THREE. Prompt: Life in Brief. I decided to interpret the prompt childishly, but make the story serious.

The black and gold dressing gown gliding over my body, caressing my skin, supple and soft, was the highlight of my day. It made me feel luxurious, it made me feel invisible, draping my body like a piece of Japanese art. The black trim, absent of all colour, conceals me within its protection, keeping me away from the fearful experiences I’m susceptible to. The gold, guarded by the black, was my outlook on life; optimistic and healthy, but safe. Patterned with lanterns and feathers, but secured by blossom and its trawling branches, curving inwards to keep them from floating away.

The scent of honey and chocolate flickering often frees me, taking me to that other place, that place where I can enjoy life’s pleasures. I would lie against a tall tree, surrounded by blossom with a trail of thick amber slowly making its way down the length of my body, filling my naval en route. I would take bites out of my finger nails which were made of the darkest, richest cocoa you could imagine, crumbling on my lips and falling into the flowing sweetness that made me tingle in the right places.

‘Cynthia, you got five minutes girl, don’t you be late!’ bellowed the door as it shook, testing its hinges. Reality resumed.  I blew out the candle, tightened my gown with another knot and made for the door. The stickered mirror, stained walls and worn carpet crept back in as a constant reminder of my life.

As I opened the door I was blinded by a foray of lights dancing across my face. ‘Honey, clean up your face, you can’t be going on like that! You heard what Danny said: “No nose candy!”’ ordered Shuga-Eve.

I made my way to the top of the stairs as my song started, three, two, one ‘You let me violate you, you let me desecrate you’.  I’ve performed it a million times; the moves are a thoughtless process. The knots come undone, my shield slumps to the floor in a golden heap. I’m left, as I always am, in my leather underwear; exposed and forever frightened. The only positive being that the lights are so bright I can’t see the swine that surround me, snorting, whistling and shouting things they’ve picked up from their dirty habits.

I tease the chrome bannister with my leg, polished to perfection with that phallic motion, and squat. Down a few steps only to crawl back up so that everyone can see what a nice tight ass I've got. The rest becomes a blur. I feel the occasional hoof wedge a dirty twenty in my panties, but I don’t see it. I am their trough and they are hungry. It’s just the way it is.

This is only the beginning of my shift, next I’ve got to see if my John[1] is in, otherwise I have to work the room. I put on my seductive eyes. ‘Want some company?’ I’d say, or, ‘Buy me a drink?’ I tend to end the night slumped over the bar with one hand still clutching an empty glass and the other in someone’s zipper. Every night is the same: the people, the music, the abuse and the lack of self-respect.

I've saved my tips for as long as I've worked here. At least they're safe, clean and secure.

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[1] John – a patron of a hooker.

Burnt Toast

Short story exercise, week ONE. Prompt: Accidentally. I wanted to start with a trivial act and turn it into some sort of melodramatic scene.

I awakened to a flood of bells filling my ears. I knew that sound too well for it to be anything other than the smoke alarm. I must have dozed off for a couple of seconds, not much longer. But with that sound, that awful dreaded sound, I knew what came next. It was hard to decide what was worse, the beacon of sound smashing against my skull, delivering a deafening blow or the heavy thuds I heard from above. I feared them both.

I ran to the kitchen, opening the door to a cloud of black and white swirling in on each other as it danced around the kitchen. My vision was blurred and my eyes were crying, they could feel the weakness in me, they cried for the smoke and they cried for me. I opened all the windows and doors hoping the cloud would be my nine and vanish through the escape route I had so desperately provided, but instead it lingered and laughed as it waited for my misfortune.

The thuds became louder; the door over head was slammed. I clung to the tea-towel waving it about frantically to stop the bells, to stop that ugly little man from pulling those ropes. The smoke never made its way upstairs, it always hung about in the kitchen teasing me with the possibility. It was always the bells that gave me away.

‘Just close your eyes, everything will be alright,’ I told myself. ‘It’ll all be over soon.’ I repeated over and over.

Thud, thud, thud came the rage. I panicked not knowing what to do next, paralysed by fear, tormented by memories. I could hear my mother’s voice ‘Don’t you fret my dear' she would say, ‘run, run, run away’.
I turned to run but instead collided with a wall. It grabbed my arm like a vice. Still deafened by the piercing ring of the bells I could only make out a mountain of abuse that encumbered me, rendering me incapable of movement.

He shoved me to the counter, pushing my face towards the source of all of today’s problems.
‘Smell it!’ he bellowed. ‘Fucking smell it! That burnt and bitter smell sums up this bloody marriage! Can you smell it?’ pushing my face closer.
He forced me over so that the back of my head was now against the counter surface. The only thought going through my head was one of being an observer to this scene.
‘Taste it! Open your fucking mouth,’ he wrenched it open with what felt like claws for fingers. He smashed the blackened bread down and it broke into honeycomb like pieces. I could hear what sounded like gravel being walked across as he crushed the combs into smaller pieces with his fist. As he stuffed them into my mouth I tried to swallow  quickly and think of honey so as not to taste it, but the crumbs acted like a sponge and my mouth became dry, the metallic taste took over as I gagged.

‘Catch the crumbs my little toaster. You’ll learn one day,’ he taunted.