Contest #200 shortlist ⭐️

39 comments

Drama Fiction

“I tink I saw one in the attic, Da.” Bobby said.

“Aye, go on up dare, and have a look will yer? One more should do it then.” Patrick instructed his eldest son. A chair pushed against the linoleum scratched black beneath the feet, freeing Bobby to the attic for a suitcase hidden under a hundred years of dust. They were packing for America.

“Da, are we going to leave everyting else?” Mikey asked. His eyes wandered around the sitting room. The ratted carpet he and Bobby rolled around on, bare in the spot where some feet, shoved in shoes and others stretched naked, rested in front of the sofa. Three burn marks in front of the stove. Carpet charred black before his ma managed to snuff out the sparks that escaped. Mikey remembered that day. He could still hear the sound of her voice as she cussed them out with her foot.

“Yes Mikey, we will take only what we can carry in suitcases. Go on now, help yer brother.”

Bobby was already dragging the beat-up case down the narrow flight of stairs. It dropped dust on every step. “I got it, Da.” Bobby proclaimed and he swung the box onto the carpet, it straddled the char marks.

Bobby leaned forward and wiped the dust on his hands down his jeans simultaneously before he dug his thumb into the brass buttons. Click. Up popped the right latch. Click, the left. The lid gave and Mikey pulled a corner up. It was empty with the exception of a wooden slingshot, the handle free of bark and aged. Leather hardened over the years. A stiff pouch waiting for a rock. Yellow rubber, cracked, yearning to be pulled but wisdom rested on its skin, pull me and I’ll crack, like aged bones, dry and brittle.

Patrick lifted it out of the case and sighed out a memory, long and slow and deep.

****

He was born mean and had the teeth to match, blighty and crooked, like his soul. They were clenched. Behind thin grinning lips, clenched tight.

“Well Miss Doyle?” he hissed. His breath wafted. Strings of stench wrapped around Gracie’s face. Her bad eye remained motionless, and her good eye watered. Instinctively she moved back. Forcefully he leaned forward. There was no escape. His breath held her prisoner. She gagged. Her white dress dotted with daisies climbed up her thighs. She pushed it back into place with sticky, sweaty palms.

“What does it say?” Mr. Crubs’ hot breath hovered, waiting for a response.

“I….” Gracie looked down and ran the tip of her fingertips across the big H engraved on the desktop ‘Harold’ with a crooked H. The rest of the letters held the dirt from the hands of schoolchildren rubbing on the name years before. “I….” Gracie whispered again.

“I… What? Miss Doyle?”

“I don’t k k know…” she whispered.

“Stupid. Stupid. Little. Ignorant. Wretch.” Mr. Crubs gusted from his gut. Decay draped on each word.

Gracie shriveled small.

“Hold out your hand.” Mr. Crubs demanded.

Gracie stopped rubbing the big H with her fingertip. Her hand shivered uncontrollably as she turned it upwards exposing the soft flesh of her palm toward her teacher. Terror of a six-year-old comes out in tremors and trembles. A tear escaped her good eye and rolled. Her throat constricted. She squeezed her lids tight. A bird, a robin was singing just outside the window, She jumped on its back and flew away as Mr. Crubs brought the whip down. One. Snap! Two. Snap! Three. Snap!

She returned when four didn’t come. She opened her eyes when she heard his feet slide across the wooden floor hammering his steps to the beat of her breath, right back to the chalkboard. He started erasing the word she didn’t know. She didn’t know it because she couldn’t see it. Her one good eye wasn’t much good, and the bad one saw black.

The welts rose red and hot. The burning forced her palm to stay open. Tears stopped. The trembling did not.

Patrick was in the back chewing the side of his cheek. Hot hatred glared, smoldering from behind blue eyes.

In six months Patrick’s blue eyes would be red-rimmed and puffy. He would be sitting on Gracie’s bed holding her pillow, a down-filled gift Nan had given her last Christmas. He would be squeezing it so tight his fingers would freeze into that position even when Ma pried the pillow free.

“Patrick, love. We want Gracie to rest her head on it.” Ma whispered gently, sadly, pulling back sobs of her own as she did so.

And Gracie’s head did rest on it. For all eternity her little head rested on it. In that dark wooden box, her head rested on it.

It grew. Slithering its tentacles and silently squeezing. It was alive inside. Reaching deep, like roots searching for water to feed on. It fed on her, it sucked and gnawed and chewed. It feasted since she was four and by the time it was licking its lips in satiated satisfaction, Gracie was blind and dead. She had just turned seven. Gracie blew out the birthday candles she couldn’t see and the cancer fed on the cake. A handful of crumbs were still visible on the floor the day they lay her head on the pillow.

But Patrick didn’t know this yet.

Patrick was still sitting at his wooden desk, in the little classroom glaring daggers into the heart of Mr. Crubs. A robin at the window twisted its head abruptly, ruffled the feathers down his back to the tip of his wings, lifted them both, and glided off the ledge.

****

The street wasn’t very long, cobbles laid a hundred years ago pushed against his feet. Mr. Pills’ Pills and Sweets shop was on the right. Sometimes Patrick bought a tar baby licorice there from the jar on the counter that held other colored sugar in the shapes of balls, and berries, and sticks. Kerry’s pub was beside it on the corner. People walked past in no rush to get home fast. A mother carried a boy of two on her hip. A baby was crying in the pram she pushed. A loaf of bread peeked out from a bag in the buggy. Patrick paid no notice. He was mindlessly fingering the slingshot in his hand. Pulling back the empty leather pouch, one, two, three inches, then he would release it into a gush of air. Thwack. The rubber snapped to attention. From the corner of his eye, he saw Mr. Crubs come out of Mr. Pills’ Pills with a newspaper under his arm and a scowl on his face. Patrick seethed from the stoop of the pub.

****

A wisp of wind, a puff of smoke, a vapor of heat rising to catch the sky. Where does an idea come from? A dream once dreamed and forgotten to return? An invisible angel kissing the edge of the earlobe? A suggestion from the sinister? The breath of God?

Patrick was just sitting on the stoop with his feet resting on the cobbles pulling the leather of the sling shot back when the idea peaked through. He allowed the thought to continue. It then permeated his mind. He grinned. He went home, ate dinner, brushed his teeth, kissed his ma and da good night, and slept.

Morning was consumed in a bowl of oatmeal and a glass of milk. Patrick climbed the narrow stairs to the attic and opened the window. Daylight bounced its greeting between the rows of buildings built before the cobblestone were set. Mr. Gacy was standing behind the morning papers in the newsstand to the left. The pub, unbathed and snoring on the right. Early risers had already bought their bread and were in their kitchens wiping their knives filled with butter and jam across the tops. Patrick lined up five pebbles on the window sill and breathed deeply, Irish sea air filled his lungs strengthening his resolve. He raised his slingshot, loaded the leather, pulled the rubber taught closing his right eyelid as his left opened to scoped the lane below. His heart quickened. His breath along with it. A rule follower that considers breaking a rule even for a good reason still suffers the effects. Patrick’s hands turned a shade of cold. Drips of perspiration dribbled off his hot forehead. His fingers left a dark sweat mark on the leather pouch. His bowels turned. He shivered. He pulled another deep breath into his being. Like the conductor raising his baton to redirect the anticipation. Calming the apprehension. Patrick steadied his arms on the sill of the window and waited.

Mr. Crubs opened the door from Pills’ Pills & Sweets. Summoned by serendipity, he stepped towards the newspaper stand to buy his paper then turned. A bowler hat covered his head, and a sweater covered his shoulders. He tucked the paper under his arm and started his walk home.

Patrick, from his perch two stories above, lifted the slingshot and loaded the first rock. He steadied his hand on the window ledge and pulled, slowly, deliberately. The rubber responded. He released.

Thaawhack.

Mr. Crubs cried out in shock as he felt a sting on the back of his neck, his hand went up instinctively to the back of his neck knocking his hat off as he did so…

Patrick put the second stone in the pocket and pulled. Mr. Crubs’ bald head was exposed and called to the slingshot, a perfect target…

Thaaawack,

And it cracked.

He went down.

The shopkeepers came running out.

Patrick was stunned that he did that, and started shaking in fear.

Good boys are always good boys even when they do bad.

Hide it, he thought… Hide it, hide it.

He saw the suitcase dusty in the corner, pressed the brass buttons to pop the latches, and threw the slingshot inside.

***

Patrick turned the slingshot over in his hand, rubbing the stiff leather soft between his thumb and index finger.

“Is it yours, Da?” Bobby asked.

“Ahh…” he winked. “My lips are sealed.”

June 01, 2023 23:14

You must sign up or log in to submit a comment.

39 comments

Michał Przywara
20:08 Jun 04, 2023

There's nothing quite like getting away with a crime, especially when it was for a just cause :) Seems the suitcase was the ideal spot to hide the evidence. That's what it really is all about, isn't it? Injustice. Gracie was dealt a terrible hand, being afflicted with a horrible disease that not only harmed her quality of life, but ultimately took that life far too early. And then there's Crubs, who cares not at all, and makes her short life needlessly, sadistically hard. Patrick saw this and just had to act, and he lashed out in the onl...

Reply

Glenda Toews
00:37 Jun 05, 2023

Thanks for taking the time to read it Michal, I appreciate that. I did place a *** to indicate a change of scene/pov to point the reader along Crub's blightly teeth but your idea would have worked as well, thank you for the suggestion. I think Patrick forgot about the whole slingshot thing until Bobby found it. It happens a lot with kids, we do things we feel guilty about, wait to be punished even, and when nothing is forthcoming... we forget.. Maybe Bobby will bug Patrick (as children do) to tell him more about the slingshot but at the en...

Reply

Michał Przywara
20:51 Jun 09, 2023

Congrats on the shortlist, Glenda!

Reply

Glenda Toews
01:48 Jun 10, 2023

Thank you Michal! It made my day 😁

Reply

Show 0 replies
Show 1 reply
Show 1 reply
Show 1 reply
Mary Bendickson
01:58 Jun 02, 2023

Glenda, you amaze with your turn of a word...over and over again. So many can't call attention to all! Love your writing. Please do more.

Reply

Glenda Toews
12:53 Jun 02, 2023

Oh Mary! I love you! You're like my own personal cheerleader 🤗 Thank you for taking the time to read. Did you post a story this week?

Reply

Mary Bendickson
13:10 Jun 02, 2023

Did two in a row very personal true stories. The one for #200 is total silliness. Oh so pleased to see one of yours at least shortlisted. So well deserved! Congrats 🎉🎉🎉👏👏👏

Reply

Show 0 replies
Show 1 reply
Show 1 reply
Wally Schmidt
23:40 Jun 06, 2023

What a heart wrenching story. Patrick, himself so young to be trying to tip the scales of justice by righting the wrong that was done to Gracie. And poor Gracie. I loved how you wrote about Gracie's mind leaving as she endures the whipping. You can just imagine that tiny act of self-preservation. The cruelty that is done to children never ceases to amaze. I feel sad now, but you are an amazing storyteller

Reply

Glenda Toews
02:07 Jun 07, 2023

It was a bit of a runny eyes/ runny nose kind of tale wasn't it Wally. Thank you for reading it and taking the time to comment. I'm happy you pointed out her escape, it made the whole ordeal a tad more bearable, that she was able to 'leave' even for a few moments. I bow humbly to your final comment and truly say 'Thank you'.

Reply

Show 0 replies
Show 1 reply
David Sweet
16:20 Jun 06, 2023

Such a wonderful piece! I loved it. I am partial to family tales. Thank you so much for sharing it. I am looking forward to reading your book in July. How exciting! I am also looking forward to reading some of your other Reedsy pieces.

Reply

Glenda Toews
17:20 Jun 06, 2023

Ahhh, thank you for taking the time to read and comment David! I also feel like you're my very first author stalker🤣...you found out about my book AND that that it's coming out in July😁..Im impressed Sweet detective 😆.... If you like true stories this on will knock you off your rocker (or your barstool) depending where you park it! I'll be popping by your site tonight to peek at you...im expecting to be impressed!

Reply

David Sweet
17:33 Jun 06, 2023

Haha. Prepare to be disappointed . . . .

Reply

Glenda Toews
02:08 Jun 07, 2023

I wasn't!! :D

Reply

Show 0 replies
Show 1 reply
Show 1 reply
Show 1 reply
Amanda Lieser
03:58 Jun 24, 2023

Hi Glenda, The way that you wrote, the story felt like poetry. I loved how you introduced it with a little bit of mystery at the very beginning, and I loved these characters so much the way you described Gracie was absolutely hunting and it made me think of my childhood Blankey, who I called Gracie after the little house on the prairie book. Both your character and that blanket invoked a sense of pure innocence for me, and the twist that you gave her was heartbreakingly tragic. Nice work and congratulations!!

Reply

Glenda Toews
19:47 Jun 24, 2023

Amanda, thank you for taking the time to read and to comment I truly appreciate it!

Reply

Show 0 replies
Show 1 reply
02:23 Jun 13, 2023

This is beautifully written. I was especially touched by the description of the cancer and the robin she escaped on. Congratulations on being shortlisted for this gem.

Reply

Glenda Toews
03:32 Jun 13, 2023

Your words are very kind Anne, thank you :D

Reply

Show 0 replies
Show 1 reply
Philip Ebuluofor
14:19 Jun 12, 2023

If you kill a man, or intended to but failed, that is called murder. Congrats.

Reply

Glenda Toews
03:32 Jun 13, 2023

Thank you for taking the time to read the story and comment Phillip :D

Reply

Philip Ebuluofor
05:08 Jun 15, 2023

Welcome.

Reply

Show 0 replies
Show 1 reply
Show 1 reply
Anna W
01:38 Jun 10, 2023

Oh man, this one broke my heart! What beautiful, visceral descriptions and a moving story. Thank you for sharing Glenda! Congratulations on being shortlisted!

Reply

Glenda Toews
01:50 Jun 10, 2023

Anna, thank you so, for your kind words and for taking the time to read the story.

Reply

Show 0 replies
Show 1 reply
Ellen Neuborne
19:18 Jun 09, 2023

"Good boys are always good boys even when they do bad." Great line. It really delivers the theme of this story and hits the reader with the realization that life is full of morally grey moments.

Reply

Glenda Toews
01:51 Jun 10, 2023

Thank you for reading the story Ellen, and for taking the time to comment. You are absolutely correct to pull that out. Morally Gray. Everyday we dip into the morally gray,

Reply

Show 0 replies
Show 1 reply
J. D. Lair
16:00 Jun 09, 2023

Congrats on the shortlist Glenda! Well deserved. :)

Reply

Glenda Toews
01:52 Jun 10, 2023

Thanks J. D. (P.S. I live in a forest, your story is clinging on like a drier sheet... bloody hell!)

Reply

J. D. Lair
03:01 Jun 10, 2023

Oh gosh, my bad! 😅

Reply

Show 0 replies
Show 1 reply
Show 1 reply
Viga Boland
15:33 Jun 09, 2023

CONGRATULATIONS on being shortlisted Glenda. Bravo! 👏👏🙄

Reply

Glenda Toews
15:44 Jun 09, 2023

Thank you, Viga! I'm quite honored! 😁😁 It feels kind of... well it feels GREAT! What a fantastic start to my day!

Reply

Show 0 replies
Show 1 reply
David Hudson
17:01 Jun 08, 2023

Hello Glenda, I enjoyed reading your story. I love flashbacks in many forms. I liked your uses of personification and hyperbole to paint a picture with your words. Great job!

Reply

Glenda Toews
01:49 Jun 10, 2023

Thank you for taking the time to read and leave a comment David, I appreciate that!

Reply

Show 0 replies
Show 1 reply
Unknown User
12:54 Mar 11, 2024

<removed by user>

Reply

Glenda Toews
14:59 Mar 11, 2024

Thank you for taking the time to read it Dustin!☺️

Reply

Unknown User
17:27 Mar 11, 2024

<removed by user>

Reply

Glenda Toews
21:10 Mar 11, 2024

I'll take Rockstar!!😬🥳

Reply

Show 0 replies
Show 1 reply
Show 1 reply
Show 1 reply
C. Charles
20:31 Jun 14, 2023

Congratulations on the shortlist! Very deserving. I loved the way you ended it. I can hear just how the father would say it with a lilt. What is so interesting to me is that you let us wonder why Patrick’s lips are sealed. Shame? Guilt? Sadness for Gracie? Or is it said with maybe a twinkle in the eye? The ambiguity of Mr. Crubs’ fate feeds into that as well. Could be that I’m way off but that’s how I read it. Great read nonetheless!

Reply

Glenda Toews
00:04 Jun 15, 2023

My lips are sealed😉

Reply

Show 0 replies
Show 1 reply
Zack Herman
14:21 Jun 10, 2023

I usually enjoy stories where an adult remembers a childhood incident and this one was excellent.

Reply

Glenda Toews
14:49 Jun 10, 2023

Thank you Zack! And thanks for taking the time to like and comment😃

Reply

Show 0 replies
Show 1 reply
RBE | Illustrated Short Stories | 2024-06

Bring your short stories to life

Fuse character, story, and conflict with tools in Reedsy Studio. 100% free.