A shelfful of small fictions
“Day 112: still shipwrecked. It’s Christmas today. Back home, Mum’s ordering everyone out of the kitchen, Uncle Clive’s yelling at the TV, the cousins are fighting over the presents…”
Joe carefully erased the ‘HELP’ spelled out in the sand, then cracked open a coconut. Almost time to watch the sunset.
“Master, they say you know the Answer. They say you reveal it to those who ask.”
“Do they? Must be Second Apprentice again, he’s always gossiping.”
“But you are so wise, surely you Know?”
“Those who know, don’t accidentally set their robes on fire lighting incense.”
“Pardon?”
“Ancient proverb.”
“Master, please, I’ve come so far…”
“Consider the lilies of the field.”
“I don’t think—”
“Alright, consider the begonias, then.”
“Look! If you don’t know, just bloody well say so, life’s short and there’s much to do, I can’t waste time on pointless… navel-gazing… Oh.”
“It’s nice, Knowing, isn’t it?”
“My pa said your daddy’s firing were down to consumption.”
“That’s a damn lie, Zeb Potter.” Lily-belle stomped her sooty foot upon the slats.
“Children, that’s enough,” said Miss Henshaw, flashing perfect pearl teeth. The youngsters sat, enraptured by their new school teacher. The whole mining-camp was.
Miss Henshaw felt the envelope amongst the folds of her petticoat, nestled next to the derringer. Inside, a map told of a cave. Mr Ben had shown her where; right before she killed him. After all, a woman had to make her own way in the world.
It is a truth universally acknowledged that a lady reading a novel at a house party will get absolutely no peace.
“There you are, Miss Wilson!”
I lower my book, cursing Mr. Barstow’s persistence. To my mortification I notice Lord Ashford watching us, a wry smile on his handsome face.
“Barstow,” he says suddenly. “Your aunt sent for you just now. Better hurry.”
His voice brooks no argument. Barstow scuttles out, glaring.
“Thank you,” I say warmly, blushing as his gaze lingers on me.
“I wouldn’t want to disturb your reading—” he murmurs.
I shut my book with a snap.
“Harold, are we going the right way?”
Harold looked at Amelia reproachfully and continued trudging uphill.
“You wanted a holiday,” he muttered. “On an island, you said. Where it’s green and lush. You specified.”
“I can hear you grousing,” called Amelia. “At least stop for a snack.”
They reached the hilltop. Grudgingly, Harold paused and bit a tuft of grass. It was indeed lush.
“All this ‘baa baa baa’,” said Amelia. “Do try to enjoy the holiday. Look — humans.”
They watched the humans for a while, then ate some more grass. Harold nuzzled Amelia, his grumpiness melting in the sunshine.
In the old laundry room, James quickly threw his bedding into the washing machine. He never liked this place, with its dodgy lights, electrical hum and strangely active pipes that banged and rattled. He swore as he got to the bottom of the basket. Where was his sheet?
A dragging sound. Turning, he saw nothing – was that movement behind the row of driers? He slowly stood up and walked around, and saw his plain white bedsheet, hanging on a drier. He stepped closer, the fluorescent light flickered. The sheet was gone. He felt a fabric tickle on the nape of his neck.
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Billy always dragged me outside to build a snowman after the first decent snowfall.
He would be over the excitement in a few months, moaning instead for snow melt and sunshine.
I placated him, but I only did it for the hot chocolate Mom made.
The light was fading, and Billy had just put the black button eyes on the snowman.
I looked over to see those black buttons tracking me.
I’d been playing too many virtual reality games, for snowman eyes don’t move.
Mom called. Billy ran off.
I felt a gloved hand gently touch my hair.
The monster rose from the ocean depths, its screech shattering the salty air.
Ronald fed it a chip. Its tentacles writhed happily.
“So this is what you do on Saturdays?”
His date frowned, further increasing her resemblance to a duck. Ronald shrugged.
“He’s friendlier than the seagulls. Bigger appetite, though.”
“Actually, I should get going…”
Ronald watched her waddle away down the pier, feeling slightly relieved. He turned back to the water and flung the chip packet in a graceful arc, landing it squarely in the monster’s maw.
“Thanks man,” he said cheerfully.
The tentacles undulated, as if saying, anytime.
The Tiny Library