Flash Fiction - Issue 3
She's Saving it for Me
I love her; she’s here every weekday and I listen to her sing. She uses a
microphone, though I know she doesn’t need it. Sometimes I fancy she switches it
off but I don’t think she does because she won’t waste the best she has to offer
on these people, who, if she’s lucky, she may sell one or two CDs too.
She starts to sing, unchaining stars from their constellations for me,
rearranging them, capturing and caressing them. Oceans will writhe and the
mountains will crack under voice, yet this is nothing to what I know she can do
with her voice. She can make it all dissolve, I’ve seen her.
She doesn’t know I always watch her sing, wherever and whenever that
would be.
There’s polite clapping from a few individuals after she finishes the first song.
They think they’ve heard her real singing, thinking she’s pretty good, but they
haven’t heard her. No, not like I have; I like to think she’s saving it for me.
Like clockwork her concert is performed. Some bystanders drop change in
passing, some simply pass, and if I could reach down my throat and give her my
heart I would. She doesn’t sell any CDs again today so she packs her things away
and leaves.
I follow her down the other side of the high street and towards her house. I
perch near the post box, hidden by the foliage of the tree it’s by, and know in ten
minutes time she’ll hop into the shower and start singing again. From here I listen
as the real show begins.
microphone, though I know she doesn’t need it. Sometimes I fancy she switches it
off but I don’t think she does because she won’t waste the best she has to offer
on these people, who, if she’s lucky, she may sell one or two CDs too.
She starts to sing, unchaining stars from their constellations for me,
rearranging them, capturing and caressing them. Oceans will writhe and the
mountains will crack under voice, yet this is nothing to what I know she can do
with her voice. She can make it all dissolve, I’ve seen her.
She doesn’t know I always watch her sing, wherever and whenever that
would be.
There’s polite clapping from a few individuals after she finishes the first song.
They think they’ve heard her real singing, thinking she’s pretty good, but they
haven’t heard her. No, not like I have; I like to think she’s saving it for me.
Like clockwork her concert is performed. Some bystanders drop change in
passing, some simply pass, and if I could reach down my throat and give her my
heart I would. She doesn’t sell any CDs again today so she packs her things away
and leaves.
I follow her down the other side of the high street and towards her house. I
perch near the post box, hidden by the foliage of the tree it’s by, and know in ten
minutes time she’ll hop into the shower and start singing again. From here I listen
as the real show begins.
Carnations
Owen kept his head down and stopped at the cemetery gates. Cold rain
rolled off his umbrella and dripped down his back. The black railings, sharp and
unforgiving, reminded him of his wedding day.
Laura captivated Owen on their wedding day. Behind the veil she smiled,
her eyes glimmered, and she appeared to float down the aisle as if on clouds.
Even the rain couldn’t eclipse the way her face beamed. Owen’s lips still tingled
from their first and last kiss as a married couple.
The gravestone in front of him was covered with withered wet flowers. He
took them away and settled some pink carnations; her favourite. They seemed to
shine against the grey, much like Laura used to. He’d always remember the
headlights that extinguished the glow behind her eyes, the screech of the tyres
that shattered her smile, and the rain that fell on her silenced heart whilst his still
screamed.
rolled off his umbrella and dripped down his back. The black railings, sharp and
unforgiving, reminded him of his wedding day.
Laura captivated Owen on their wedding day. Behind the veil she smiled,
her eyes glimmered, and she appeared to float down the aisle as if on clouds.
Even the rain couldn’t eclipse the way her face beamed. Owen’s lips still tingled
from their first and last kiss as a married couple.
The gravestone in front of him was covered with withered wet flowers. He
took them away and settled some pink carnations; her favourite. They seemed to
shine against the grey, much like Laura used to. He’d always remember the
headlights that extinguished the glow behind her eyes, the screech of the tyres
that shattered her smile, and the rain that fell on her silenced heart whilst his still
screamed.
Santino Prinzi is currently an English Literature with Creative Writing student at Bath Spa University and was awarded the 2014/15 Bath Spa University Flash Fiction Prize. His website is https://tinoprinzi.wordpress.com
All That Glitters
The girls smile while waiting for the school bus. Their mother, standing in the
doorway, smiles looking at her girls. The husband/father scootches by the mother,
briefcase in hand, smiles and pecks her on the cheek as his car pool driver shows
up.
The father is in his last day of work due to layoffs. The girls will be bullied on
the bus and in school and the house is under foreclosure due to their bankruptcy
filing for the mother’s cervical cancer bills.
The neighbors wave and smile to the mother and she back to them. One
calls her for coffee but she begs off saying another time.
The scene repeats itself the next day except the father stands next to his
wife smiling and waving to his girls. They go back into the house.
After lunch the police and ambulances arrive and the sheet-covered
parents are wheeled out as the neighbors gather and watch not understanding
what could cause a happening like this in such a happy, smiling family.
doorway, smiles looking at her girls. The husband/father scootches by the mother,
briefcase in hand, smiles and pecks her on the cheek as his car pool driver shows
up.
The father is in his last day of work due to layoffs. The girls will be bullied on
the bus and in school and the house is under foreclosure due to their bankruptcy
filing for the mother’s cervical cancer bills.
The neighbors wave and smile to the mother and she back to them. One
calls her for coffee but she begs off saying another time.
The scene repeats itself the next day except the father stands next to his
wife smiling and waving to his girls. They go back into the house.
After lunch the police and ambulances arrive and the sheet-covered
parents are wheeled out as the neighbors gather and watch not understanding
what could cause a happening like this in such a happy, smiling family.
Paul Beckman is a frequently published author of short stories & flash in both print and online magazines. Info on his new collection “PEEK” & his website can be found www.paulbeckmanstories.com
Hokey Pokey
Ray Anthony’s mama had been after him to change---quit smoking and
drinking and frequenting Ms. Greer’s piano bar downtown. She didn’t know about
the marijuana and sex.
“Need to get it together before it’s too late,” she said. “I’d like to see your
sorry ass in heaven. I’d hate for you to go to hell with all them Muslims and other
heathens.”
“You reckon they let you talk like that up there?”
“Damned right they will, if you’re saved. That’s what matters.”
Ray Anthony knew he needed to change. He was always coughing up
phlegm and it was nasty. He also knew the hard liquor he knocked back at Ms.
Greer’s made him crazy. There were nights he’d gone home with others, smoked
pot, woke up in strange places, and knew he’d sinned. He knew the fun-filled
feelings were temporary and meaningless, when he remembered them.
He knew Jesus lasted a lifetime. He’d seen his mama change when he was
a young boy--her own smoking and drinking turned to getting saved and
dragging him to church every time they opened the doors. She’d dance around
the living room while cleaning and sing gospel songs, holding a white
handkerchief just like Vestal Goodman. For ten year old Ray Anthony, it was a site
to behold. He felt like she was an angel; she certainly had the voice of one.
On Sunday, Ray Anthony went to church with his mama for the first time in
many years, went down the aisle and got saved. A week later he was baptized
and the following week, his mama was diagnosed with terminal pancreatic
cancer, stage four. They gave her two months.
Ray Anthony was glad his mama got to see him turn himself around, and
when he buried her, he decided to give up painting houses and go after a more
stable job with the government. After testing, he finally landed a job delivering
mail for the U.S. Postal Service. When he’s running short on delivery time, he takes
the mail home and piles it up in his spare bedroom. He wants to be on time and
stay in good with the government. He believes what they don’t know won’t hurt
them or him. Plus, it’s mostly junk mail. He tries to sort through it and deliver what
he thinks might be important the next day. Most days, after he has sorted mail
and eaten supper, Ray Anthony sits in a chair in the living room, listening to old
gospel music. He no longer drinks alcohol, but sometimes he imagines his mama
cleaning, humming, holding her white handkerchief, and turning herself around
and around.
drinking and frequenting Ms. Greer’s piano bar downtown. She didn’t know about
the marijuana and sex.
“Need to get it together before it’s too late,” she said. “I’d like to see your
sorry ass in heaven. I’d hate for you to go to hell with all them Muslims and other
heathens.”
“You reckon they let you talk like that up there?”
“Damned right they will, if you’re saved. That’s what matters.”
Ray Anthony knew he needed to change. He was always coughing up
phlegm and it was nasty. He also knew the hard liquor he knocked back at Ms.
Greer’s made him crazy. There were nights he’d gone home with others, smoked
pot, woke up in strange places, and knew he’d sinned. He knew the fun-filled
feelings were temporary and meaningless, when he remembered them.
He knew Jesus lasted a lifetime. He’d seen his mama change when he was
a young boy--her own smoking and drinking turned to getting saved and
dragging him to church every time they opened the doors. She’d dance around
the living room while cleaning and sing gospel songs, holding a white
handkerchief just like Vestal Goodman. For ten year old Ray Anthony, it was a site
to behold. He felt like she was an angel; she certainly had the voice of one.
On Sunday, Ray Anthony went to church with his mama for the first time in
many years, went down the aisle and got saved. A week later he was baptized
and the following week, his mama was diagnosed with terminal pancreatic
cancer, stage four. They gave her two months.
Ray Anthony was glad his mama got to see him turn himself around, and
when he buried her, he decided to give up painting houses and go after a more
stable job with the government. After testing, he finally landed a job delivering
mail for the U.S. Postal Service. When he’s running short on delivery time, he takes
the mail home and piles it up in his spare bedroom. He wants to be on time and
stay in good with the government. He believes what they don’t know won’t hurt
them or him. Plus, it’s mostly junk mail. He tries to sort through it and deliver what
he thinks might be important the next day. Most days, after he has sorted mail
and eaten supper, Ray Anthony sits in a chair in the living room, listening to old
gospel music. He no longer drinks alcohol, but sometimes he imagines his mama
cleaning, humming, holding her white handkerchief, and turning herself around
and around.
Niles Reddick is the Author of the collection Road Kill Art and Other Oddities and the novel Lead Me Home. Niles’ newest Drifting too far from the Shore is forthcoming. His website is www.nilesreddick.com
The Prisoner's Tale
The puddle didn’t smell like water and the rats weren’t chewing on candy.
Sven was glad it was dark and both substances remained a mystery. He’d
spent the last hour trying to calm the other prisoner. The man’s screams had
continued until they took him away.
Sven didn’t miss him. The nutcase had been convinced they were both dead.
So what if Sven’s last recollection was the semi crashing headlong into his bus?
That didn’t mean he was rotting in Hell. The chains, the screaming and the rats
meant it certainly wasn’t Heaven, but that didn’t make it Hell.
Footsteps splashed through puddles and a key clicked in a lock. The toe of a
hard boot jabbed Sven in the ribs. Rough hands hauled him to his feet.
“Your turn,” the guard said.
She led Sven down a dim corridor and up some stairs into cold night air. They
walked down a dock and boarded a wooden raft. Water surrounded them as far
as the eye could see, which was farther than Sven would have expected given
the darkness.
Sven glanced back at his prison, and with shock realized they’d been holding
him prisoner in a 50s style diner.
His jailors took up oars and began to row.
“I’d offer to help if you unchained my hands,” Sven said.
The second guard snorted.
“What? I’m serious.” His mother had always taught him to be polite. “It’s not like
I have anywhere to escape to.”
“Quiet,” the first guard said.
They rowed for ages before the scenery changed. The dark outline of a tower
finally appeared, rising out of the lake like a cold glass sculpture of loneliness.
“Freud would get a kick out of that,” Sven said.
“No talking!”
“Geez Guard One. You’re strict.”
She raised an arm to hit him. He stopped talking.
They docked at the tower, crossed the dock, and went down the stairs into a
smelly dungeon. It looked exactly the same as the prison he’d been taken from.
He heard more rats chewing on more not-candy.
“I’m in a coma, right? My subconscious is punishing me for something.”
Believe he was dead would be crazy, but a coma made sense. All the crazy
things that were happening could be explained away by a dream.
“No talking,” Guard One said.
She locked the door and left. In the distance Sven heard the screams of his
friend the panicked prisoner.
“Come on! Tell me the truth. Am I dead?”
Sven’s shout had good volume, but there was no reply. That was fine. If this was
his dream, his nightmare, he should be able to shape it to his will. He closed his
eyes and wished really hard so that when he opened them, he would turn out to
be the master of this place. The guards would grovel at his feet.
When he opened them, he was still the prisoner of a story that began but didn’t
end.
Sven was glad it was dark and both substances remained a mystery. He’d
spent the last hour trying to calm the other prisoner. The man’s screams had
continued until they took him away.
Sven didn’t miss him. The nutcase had been convinced they were both dead.
So what if Sven’s last recollection was the semi crashing headlong into his bus?
That didn’t mean he was rotting in Hell. The chains, the screaming and the rats
meant it certainly wasn’t Heaven, but that didn’t make it Hell.
Footsteps splashed through puddles and a key clicked in a lock. The toe of a
hard boot jabbed Sven in the ribs. Rough hands hauled him to his feet.
“Your turn,” the guard said.
She led Sven down a dim corridor and up some stairs into cold night air. They
walked down a dock and boarded a wooden raft. Water surrounded them as far
as the eye could see, which was farther than Sven would have expected given
the darkness.
Sven glanced back at his prison, and with shock realized they’d been holding
him prisoner in a 50s style diner.
His jailors took up oars and began to row.
“I’d offer to help if you unchained my hands,” Sven said.
The second guard snorted.
“What? I’m serious.” His mother had always taught him to be polite. “It’s not like
I have anywhere to escape to.”
“Quiet,” the first guard said.
They rowed for ages before the scenery changed. The dark outline of a tower
finally appeared, rising out of the lake like a cold glass sculpture of loneliness.
“Freud would get a kick out of that,” Sven said.
“No talking!”
“Geez Guard One. You’re strict.”
She raised an arm to hit him. He stopped talking.
They docked at the tower, crossed the dock, and went down the stairs into a
smelly dungeon. It looked exactly the same as the prison he’d been taken from.
He heard more rats chewing on more not-candy.
“I’m in a coma, right? My subconscious is punishing me for something.”
Believe he was dead would be crazy, but a coma made sense. All the crazy
things that were happening could be explained away by a dream.
“No talking,” Guard One said.
She locked the door and left. In the distance Sven heard the screams of his
friend the panicked prisoner.
“Come on! Tell me the truth. Am I dead?”
Sven’s shout had good volume, but there was no reply. That was fine. If this was
his dream, his nightmare, he should be able to shape it to his will. He closed his
eyes and wished really hard so that when he opened them, he would turn out to
be the master of this place. The guards would grovel at his feet.
When he opened them, he was still the prisoner of a story that began but didn’t
end.
Holly Geely is a Canadian bookkeeper. She likes bright colours, bad puns, and
cake. She started writing as a kid and forgot to stop.
The Connection
The phone buzzes. You say hello and the telephone cord stretches across
the north of France, throws itself into the channel, climbs up the harbour and skims
the tops of trees and houses until it reaches my ear here in the city by the sea.
The second your voice hits my eardrum I no longer care. I no longer worry about
the beggar by the bus stop and the fact that I spent my one pound fifty on the
bus fare instead of his evening meal. I no longer remember that Katie cries in the
office toilets. I don’t need to tell myself that it’s because I’m so busy with work that
I can’t spare five minutes to sympathise. The children on TV with bellies swollen
under their fragile rib cages, flies settling on their eyes, ears, mouth and nose - all
of them disappear. Your voice - it saves the world. Better still - it makes me feel like
I've saved it.
That’s how it’s been. You’ve always had that air about you, as if any differences
we had were already addressed, everything we would ever need to discuss –
already understood and accepted. There was really nothing else to do but to
enjoy each other and be at peace.
‘Come home,’ I say into the receiver, my voice - a pebble that skids back across
the channel and into your hotel room with seventies wallpaper and a large
painting of Audrey Hepburn's face.
‘Soon,’ you say. ‘Just a few more days.’ And I believe you.
At night my arm follows the familiar trajectory: over the fields and towns in the
British suburbia, off the shore and into the waves, past the vineyards and into the
German city where you lay wrapped in cotton bed sheets. I trace your face
contours with my fingers, feel the warmth in the crevice by your neck, smooth
your hair and that makes me feel like you are right here, next to me.
A few days later I feel the pang of loss again and ring, but the phone cord springs
back. At night my hand feels the place in your bed where you’ve laid, still warm,
but empty.
I wait and make weak chai tea, just how you like it, leaf through your old
magazines. I throw the phone cord back over the channel in search for you. It
feels its way in pulsating heat, your mobile going to answerphone every time. But
the voice is different - the voice of the universal woman who doesn’t care about
starving children or beggars. She doesn’t care, which means that I have to.
the north of France, throws itself into the channel, climbs up the harbour and skims
the tops of trees and houses until it reaches my ear here in the city by the sea.
The second your voice hits my eardrum I no longer care. I no longer worry about
the beggar by the bus stop and the fact that I spent my one pound fifty on the
bus fare instead of his evening meal. I no longer remember that Katie cries in the
office toilets. I don’t need to tell myself that it’s because I’m so busy with work that
I can’t spare five minutes to sympathise. The children on TV with bellies swollen
under their fragile rib cages, flies settling on their eyes, ears, mouth and nose - all
of them disappear. Your voice - it saves the world. Better still - it makes me feel like
I've saved it.
That’s how it’s been. You’ve always had that air about you, as if any differences
we had were already addressed, everything we would ever need to discuss –
already understood and accepted. There was really nothing else to do but to
enjoy each other and be at peace.
‘Come home,’ I say into the receiver, my voice - a pebble that skids back across
the channel and into your hotel room with seventies wallpaper and a large
painting of Audrey Hepburn's face.
‘Soon,’ you say. ‘Just a few more days.’ And I believe you.
At night my arm follows the familiar trajectory: over the fields and towns in the
British suburbia, off the shore and into the waves, past the vineyards and into the
German city where you lay wrapped in cotton bed sheets. I trace your face
contours with my fingers, feel the warmth in the crevice by your neck, smooth
your hair and that makes me feel like you are right here, next to me.
A few days later I feel the pang of loss again and ring, but the phone cord springs
back. At night my hand feels the place in your bed where you’ve laid, still warm,
but empty.
I wait and make weak chai tea, just how you like it, leaf through your old
magazines. I throw the phone cord back over the channel in search for you. It
feels its way in pulsating heat, your mobile going to answerphone every time. But
the voice is different - the voice of the universal woman who doesn’t care about
starving children or beggars. She doesn’t care, which means that I have to.
Anna Nazarova-Evans has been published by the Word Factory, National Flash
Fiction Day anthology and Bibliophilia magazine. She is due to appear in Spelk
Fiction on April 16.
A Mistake
The switchblade trimmed my bearded left cheek then continued slowly
on, past the skin, flesh and muscle. When it hit the gum I flicked my screaming
tongue to taste the blood but danced over the steel edge instead. His eyes
burned as the tip caught on my lower pallet, and then continued on through to
the right side and beyond.
I stifled a terrific call in favour of a demented, firm grin. There was surely
more to come. I passed out.
He left me and that dilapidated factory to the complementary sounds of
whimpering and rusting scaffolds. My jaw held fast without need of
encouragement as my eyes shot a frenzied, desperate stare. The aged plastic
chair creaked under the rigour of my weight and as the sun began to set past
the brick-broken panes, my hope sank too.
I’d been there since the night before and while my sleep had been
tortured through concern; my morning had found other agonies. The rats had
begun on my feet and would surely move more northward. I’d managed to
tuck “myself” under and sat awkwardly, but was now or never.
Endless scraping had seen the bonds fray underneath and with a waned
tug, my right arm flew free.
I steadied myself for the extraction, worse than the dentist, far worse.
I thought of my family. I thought of their eyes. I firmed my face and slowly
pulled. The dip of the tip onto my amalgam filled tooth released an involuntary
reflex and short of tremendous will I would have swallowed. My eyes bled clear
and then red. The final move freed my mouth and drew my right hand to the
gaping holes with tentative dread.
The knife loosed the ropes at my feet and with a cautious, silent step I
staggered to the door. Beyond laid the dwindling sun and a silhouetted
factory-scape.
The ride in had sounded hollow from the boot of the car and the
gravelled tracks shivered under the tyres. There’d been two men in my car – I
had heard their chatter and one in the follow. I remembered a lead pipe
earlier in the morning and reached for the rear of my head. The throbbing had
been replaced by the searing in my cheeks and while I stood by the door I saw
the offending implement.
Pipe in one hand, handle in the other, I steadied myself and gulped,
trying not to spit the iron liquid from my mouth and thus alerting any awaiting
malcontents on the other side.
I took a deep, considered breath through my nose and then one more.
With a tug the double-door slid along its rouged rungs and off the end, falling
to the floor and pummelling the dated dust.
Two men turned from a portable black and white and stared. Their pause
was enough. My facial injuries did little to slow my feet and I was on them in a
split. The iron makes a cringing; wet sound when you’re on the receiving end
but when you’re wielding it it’s a whole different feeling. The impact rings in
your hand and bounces free from the target, as if ready for another. I gave it
one more.
The men lay crumpled and sad.
There was one more.
I was surprised with the noise he hadn’t joined the fight. He had to be far
away. I dropped the pipe on the concrete and flicked a glance at the TV. I
love Lucy; don’t we all.
Opening a smaller wooden door I peered out. The wind was blowing and
a car sat idling in the car park, facing away from the building. The driver had a
phone to his left ear and a finger in the other. I strode purposefully forward.
Pausing at the door I waited a moment for the man to notice and turn. The
wind shot through my face and made a tune not dis-similar to a woodwind
instrument. I’d never been musical before. My boot shattered the fractionally
open window and with a thrust my newly acquired knife perforated his smokesullied
cheeks.
I held it there and waited for him to hold fast. His eyes struggled to turn,
but turn they did. I think it was my calm that scared him more than anything.
I tilted my head and found what I was looking for.
“Pick it up.”
His brow dripped with perspiration and his stained left hand blindly
scoured the driver’s floor for the mobile phone. It was still connected.
He made to hand it to me, but I shook my head and spat on the gravel.
“Tell him, I’m coming.”
The eyes pled.
Then the lips moved.
Then the cheeks tore.
on, past the skin, flesh and muscle. When it hit the gum I flicked my screaming
tongue to taste the blood but danced over the steel edge instead. His eyes
burned as the tip caught on my lower pallet, and then continued on through to
the right side and beyond.
I stifled a terrific call in favour of a demented, firm grin. There was surely
more to come. I passed out.
He left me and that dilapidated factory to the complementary sounds of
whimpering and rusting scaffolds. My jaw held fast without need of
encouragement as my eyes shot a frenzied, desperate stare. The aged plastic
chair creaked under the rigour of my weight and as the sun began to set past
the brick-broken panes, my hope sank too.
I’d been there since the night before and while my sleep had been
tortured through concern; my morning had found other agonies. The rats had
begun on my feet and would surely move more northward. I’d managed to
tuck “myself” under and sat awkwardly, but was now or never.
Endless scraping had seen the bonds fray underneath and with a waned
tug, my right arm flew free.
I steadied myself for the extraction, worse than the dentist, far worse.
I thought of my family. I thought of their eyes. I firmed my face and slowly
pulled. The dip of the tip onto my amalgam filled tooth released an involuntary
reflex and short of tremendous will I would have swallowed. My eyes bled clear
and then red. The final move freed my mouth and drew my right hand to the
gaping holes with tentative dread.
The knife loosed the ropes at my feet and with a cautious, silent step I
staggered to the door. Beyond laid the dwindling sun and a silhouetted
factory-scape.
The ride in had sounded hollow from the boot of the car and the
gravelled tracks shivered under the tyres. There’d been two men in my car – I
had heard their chatter and one in the follow. I remembered a lead pipe
earlier in the morning and reached for the rear of my head. The throbbing had
been replaced by the searing in my cheeks and while I stood by the door I saw
the offending implement.
Pipe in one hand, handle in the other, I steadied myself and gulped,
trying not to spit the iron liquid from my mouth and thus alerting any awaiting
malcontents on the other side.
I took a deep, considered breath through my nose and then one more.
With a tug the double-door slid along its rouged rungs and off the end, falling
to the floor and pummelling the dated dust.
Two men turned from a portable black and white and stared. Their pause
was enough. My facial injuries did little to slow my feet and I was on them in a
split. The iron makes a cringing; wet sound when you’re on the receiving end
but when you’re wielding it it’s a whole different feeling. The impact rings in
your hand and bounces free from the target, as if ready for another. I gave it
one more.
The men lay crumpled and sad.
There was one more.
I was surprised with the noise he hadn’t joined the fight. He had to be far
away. I dropped the pipe on the concrete and flicked a glance at the TV. I
love Lucy; don’t we all.
Opening a smaller wooden door I peered out. The wind was blowing and
a car sat idling in the car park, facing away from the building. The driver had a
phone to his left ear and a finger in the other. I strode purposefully forward.
Pausing at the door I waited a moment for the man to notice and turn. The
wind shot through my face and made a tune not dis-similar to a woodwind
instrument. I’d never been musical before. My boot shattered the fractionally
open window and with a thrust my newly acquired knife perforated his smokesullied
cheeks.
I held it there and waited for him to hold fast. His eyes struggled to turn,
but turn they did. I think it was my calm that scared him more than anything.
I tilted my head and found what I was looking for.
“Pick it up.”
His brow dripped with perspiration and his stained left hand blindly
scoured the driver’s floor for the mobile phone. It was still connected.
He made to hand it to me, but I shook my head and spat on the gravel.
“Tell him, I’m coming.”
The eyes pled.
Then the lips moved.
Then the cheeks tore.