The Super Hero

Protected by the impenetrable shield of self-absorption the dark-haired young boy strode around the garden dispensing justice with his thumb-cocked finger-gun. He paused to mutter warnings to his foes and comfort to his friends before dashing ten yards or so to the other end of the universe to repeat the process. Hands on hips, the pigeon-breast chest of his red and blue costume thrust proudly out, the boy manfully defended his domain from the evil that men do.

His domain was the garden of a semi-detached house in the suburbs of the city. The house was around fifty years old but sturdily built and in reasonably good repair, with a tiled roof and a central door accessed by a small set of concrete steps. Built just after the war, like most of the other houses on the street the house was somewhere to live rather than somewhere to love. It had been designed to shelter an average family in slightly cramped comfort but it wasn’t a pretty building; the porch was made of pre-cast blocks, the road out in front was made of badly laid and broken concrete, and the old metal-frame windows that failed years ago had recently been replaced with white uPVC. It stood on an outside corner plot, with a large garden to the front and side and a small rear yard that was littered with plant pots and toys and bicycle parts. It was a new domain to the boy. The family had only moved into the house a few weeks ago and before that time the garden had been tired and unkempt. Now it had startled new flowers around sawn-edged lawns to accompany the incumbent rose and forsythia bushes. The flowers had been placed in positions where they would not always be trampled by heroic feet, but occasional collateral damage had to be expected when trying to save the world.

The old woman sat and knitted while she watched the boy play. Her seat was a light metal fold-up chair of the kind people take on picnics. It was positioned beside a low wall at the front corner of the house so that she could see almost all of the garden area. The tic-tac of knitting paused for a moment as she sipped her tea. She smiled as she looked at the needles in her hand and wondered what her first, wild love would have made of her hobby. She noticed the veins and wrinkles and liver spots on the back of her hand. It was the hand of an old woman. She wondered what her last love would have made of these hands and wished again that he was still here to ask. The woman took another sip of her tea. She looked up at the sky and then resumed her hobby.

The sun was bright this afternoon and the brightness bloomed on her pure white hair and white blouse, which contrasted with her thin black cardigan and black cotton trousers. She got up occasionally to make cups of tea and her movement was easy and smooth, an easiness for which many of her contemporaries quietly envied her. It was one of the few things that they did envy about her life.

The woman was the grandmother of the young boy. A madman with a knife had also made her the boy’s guardian. A pensioner, she now had to worry about getting up every morning in order to make sure he got to school on time. She had to be there to pick him up from the school gates and to take him to the evening and weekend activities that were organised by the school or his friends. She had to try to help him with homework, had to do things she hadn’t even thought of for over forty years. She had only been doing this for nine months but she was already tired enough to be asleep before the news every night. Too tired to stay awake but too worried to stay asleep, she often lay in bed in the middle of the night thinking about what she needed to do for the boy in the day to come. Sometimes she wondered what she could do for the boy for the years to come.

Young children are innately clumsy. The rate at which their bodies are growing means that each day what could be jumped on or climbed up or leaped across on previous occasions is subsequently attempted with a body of slightly different dimensions to the one used before. The young boy now demonstrated this fact by jumping from the wall and not quite hitting the flat rock he aimed to land on and tumbling forward and skinning his knees on the asphalt path that ran from the pavement to the doors of the house. The super ego gave way to the alter ego and tears eased into the boy’s eyes.

The old woman didn’t jump to help. Rather, she raised herself quickly but calmly from her chair and walked up to the boy and lifted him to his feet. She didn’t chastise the boy, nor did she mollycoddle him. She spoke firmly but fairly while she examined the wounds, describing the bloodied knees to the boy in a matter-of-fact way, explaining what she was going to do about them, and telling him how this had happened and how to avoid it happening again in the future. The boy nodded and sniffled and sobbed a little but listened all the while. This small lesson was given with love and was acknowledged and registered and retained for future use by the boy. It was a gift from the old woman to her grandson and for that he wrapped his arms around her neck and hugged her and said nothing.

The old woman placed her hands protectively around the back of the boy’s head and drew him to her and stared up at the clear blue sky again so that he couldn’t see her shining blue eyes. She thought of her daughter and of her absence, of the too little time that the boy had with his mother, and of the too little that she herself could now do for him.

She thought too of the evil that men do.

The Big Game Hunter

It was dress-down Friday.

When Colin walked in, she thought of Donald Trump. He was wearing a beige safari shirt and matching combat trousers. His blond hair had fallen to one side, like that combover that the Donald has. It looked like he was wearing a dead pale beaver on his head.

This made her laugh.

Colin was her boss. He was as far up himself as the actual Donald.

“You look like a big gay munter,” she said.

Colin smiled.

“Thank you,” he said.

There, by Ricky A. Kay

This story made the long list for the Sheffield Author’s Short Story Competition 2019. If you’d like to have a read, you can find it on the Portfolio page, or just click here.

Congratulations to Jess Said for her winning entry, Bullet, which I’m sure will be published somewhere on the Sheffield Author’s website in the near future. Congratulations too to the other long-listers for making it through. There was some good work in there last night.

Division Street

She was like a balloon that was too pumped up.

She even felt tense, her skin too taut when he accidentally touched her as they passed each other in the small kitchen of the small apartment. He could feel himself stiffening and tightening in response. He noticed that he had unconsciously planted his feet, anchoring himself.

They stood near each other, him at the sink, her at the hob. The only sound was the dull clink of cups in water and meat frying in the pan. The only light came from the grey winter sky outside the window. It seemed to enter the room horizontally. She was staring thin-lipped through the window and he thought the setting suited her. He thought it made her look like an actress from an old film.

He stacked the pots and put the cutlery on the drainer and sat down at the table. He picked up the newspaper and began reading. Something banged behind him and he raised his head. He heard murmured words and another bang and he asked if there was anything he could do. There was a cat-fight sizzle as she poured the passata on top of the meat. She said something else. He said I’m sorry and she said no you’re not. He said no, I mean I didn’t hear what you said.

She walked out of the room.

He stared at the door for a few minutes. The meat sauce had been left on a high heat so he got up and turned it down. He turned on the extractor fan and the overhead light and stirred the sauce and then he boiled the spaghetti and cut some bread. He laid the table and opened the wine and then put out the meal. He opened the door and shouted that it was ready. He waited for a few minutes and then called again.

He sat down and looked at the food. He poured out two glasses of wine and took a big mouthful from one of them. After a couple of minutes he began eating. He finished his meal and his wine and then poured out another glass. He stood up and clasped his hands on top of his head and looked out of the apartment window as the day died outside. He saw people walking along the wet pavements of Division Street. He wondered how they lived.

After a while she came back into the kitchen. She had been crying and her eyes were red. She sat down in front of her food and folded her hands in her lap. He stood up and took her plate and warmed it in the microwave and put it back in front of her. She took a sip of wine and said I’m too upset to eat and he said what are you upset about. She said you know what and he said I don’t. I don’t.

They sat together for a long time without speaking.

Later, when the police asked her why she did it, she just couldn’t find the words.

From Steel Works, a collection of short stories by R. A. Kay set in Sheffield.

Find it on Amazon at https://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B07QTCQ896.

Watching The World Go By

The cafe window was a large single sheet of glass. It was streaked with smears on the inside and streaked with dirt on the outside. Joe Bowden sat in the chair at the far and of the bar that ran the full length of the window. He always sat there. It was his place.
The window looked out on to a parking area. There was room for two cars, side by side. Hardly anyone ever parked there. The owner of the cafe used the space to put out a couple of tables and some chairs whenever the weather was fine. Hardly anyone ever sat there. The parking space was accessed by a dropped kerb at the edge of a pavement on a busy through road. Across the road was a pub. The pub was up for sale. It had been for sale for a long time. Hardly anyone ever went there.
Joe lived by himself. His wife had passed on years ago. The cancer took her and left him alone. Joe was a good age now. He was old enough to have seen all his brothers and sisters and most of his friends buried. Most of the friends who were still alive didn’t know him these days. The few that were still sensible didn’t want to know him. Joe was sensible enough to accept that. He was happy in his own company anyway. That was all the company he got.
Soon after his wife had died, Joe had moved out of the big old family house into a small flat around the corner from the cafe. He’d chosen the location for convenience. It was close to shops and bus stops and the pub. He didn’t go to the pub these days, though. He’d just decided one day that he didn’t like the taste of alcohol any more. So he came to the cafe instead. He liked their tea. It was hot and strong. And the waitress, Kylie, she didn’t mind if he just stayed there after he’d finished his drink. Joe supposed it made the place look occupied, which it usually wasn’t. 
Joe liked his seat. He liked watching the world go by. Little old ladies shuffled past pulling trollies with nothing in them. Schoolchildren appeared at lunch time, grouped together, dropped their litter and moved on. Workmen came in the morning and ordered bacon sandwiches from the cafe. They parked their vans across the pavement, and the little old trolleyed women had to totter around their vehicles. Young mothers with small children promenaded up and down the road on their way to and from the nearby park. The way they dressed these days, Joe had to turn his gaze away from the window sometimes. 
One young mother stopped outside the window to talk to a friend. Her daughter was a round, smiling, blonde thing at the end of a halter. The daughter became quickly bored. She turned around and saw Joe. She saw Joe smiling at her. What she did next made him cry.
The girl didn’t shy away and hide behind her mother as most small children do. She just stood there, looking at him. She tilted her head to one side. And then she smiled. Her smile was perfect. Small dimples appeared in her cheeks. Her eyes squeezed up a little, making them twinkle. The girl inclined her head forward just a degree or two. She looked up from under an angelic brow, a picture of beauty. But the most touching thing about the smile, the thing that speared Joe’s heart, was that it was so pure. She had smiled at him just because he was smiling at her.
A minute later her mother finished her conversation and walked on. The little girl was gone.
Joe didn’t move. Tears rolled slowly down his face. He did nothing to wipe them away. He just kept looking through the big glass window. After a while Kylie appeared at his side.
“What’s the matter, Joe?” she said. “You all right?”
Joe looked at her. He didn’t see her, though. He knew she was there but he wasn’t with her. He wasn’t in this moment.
“I’ve just realised something,” he said, to all the world. “All these years, the way I’ve been with everyone, what I’ve done, what I should have done. It could have been so much better. I could have been better. But I wasn’t, and what’s worse is that I don’t really know why. I know this, though, and it’s breaking my heart. Now, finally, two steps from death’s door, I’ve realised that I’ve wasted my whole life.”