A Short Story by AR, My Son, Pictured, Written at Age 12.
To Defeat a Monster in The HMV Store by A. R aged 12
Genre: Fantasy
I wouldn’t have done this if I knew I would encounter the creature again.
I boarded the 17:22 Guildford to Manchester Piccadilly earlier on that day and escaped with a film that I had to fight for. Walkers, The Movie.
We had just arrived at Birmingham New Street, the doors opened, and passengers traversed the station platform to head to the exit. I could smell the diesel fumes from the engines of the train; I checked my bag to see if I still had the DVD case. At this point, I believed that the creature hadn’t followed me, so I walked to the shopping centre above the station to get some food.
The crowd of people lessened after I had left the main section of the station, I took an escalator up to the shopping centre and looked for a place to eat. There was a thump, then everything went black.
The power had gone out. I knew that the creature must have found me, there was no way this would happen randomly. Whatever that creature had planned for me, it turned off the power to make sure that I couldn’t escape…
Murmurs, screams, sounds of terror thundered as people bumped into each other in the darkness. Hundreds trying to run in fear, but there was no hope.
Silence came, and then the sound of something rustling, I kept turning to see if I could see it as-
___________________________________
Meanwhile at Hams Hall power station…
“Sir! Sir!” “We’ve got a generator overload! Do we have the fire under control?” Worker#123 yelled at Worker#75 and #58, watching the main control panel as alarms blared. Worker#104 (Their actual names have no importance in the story) was on the phone to emergency services, smoke rushed into the main control room, it started to heat up and flames were viewed outside. They needed to escape.
#58 went to the secondary exit, and shouted at others to take this route out, #104 said that they needed to shut down the rest of the facility to prevent more thermal runaway and a possible major explosion from one of the generators.
“COME ON! WE HAVE TO LEAVE!” #58 Tried to persuade the workers that emergency services would arrive soon, and that they could stop the plant from exploding.
“Even if they come, who knows if they know where to look for the control room?” Said #75. Panicking but knowing if he could shut down the rest of the generators, but die in the fire, it would save hundreds of lives.
“SOMEBODY, GET A SHUTDOWN KEY!” “I’LL LOOK FOR THE OTHER!” #123 Hurried to look for one of the two emergency shutdown keys, both needed to be inserted into the control panel and turned to cut all fuel to the generators and shut them down.
The fire suppression system had been activated but was not able to stop the fire, only give a few extra minutes to cut power to the generators, if they could shut them down it wouldn’t stop the fire but would prevent an outcome nobody would want.
#58 was the supervisor at the time, an engineer had incorrectly repaired a generator in such a way that would lead to a fire without any early warning alarms sounding. It was too late now; they had done what they could, and he knew that. The other workers refused to listen, still trying to find the keys to shut down the generators…
In the darkness, I thought that I saw the creature, although I was not sure, I knew that if I was right and that was really the creature. Staying there would lead to certain loss of the DVD, and my own life.
Now, with only minutes to spare the engineers had to find the keys to shut down the generators.
“75! 75! I’VE FOUND A KEY!” #123 shouted in joy and desperation that one of the keys had been found by #75. #104 was nowhere to be seen. #123 thought that he was still looking for one of the keys.
Flames started to enter the room, the smoke already ploughing in as the workers coughed from smoke inhalation. #58 was already gone from the building, seeing emergency services arrive outside the power station he had ran.
Was this it? #123 inserted the key and held his hand on it, ready to turn it while #75 grabbed a fire extinguisher and tried as best as he could to hold back the fire.
#123 Shot to the main control panel and watched as lights flashed and alarms wailed. “Generator integrity 0%.” “Estimated full facility failure in T-2 minutes...” Read the control panel.
“WHERE’S 104?” “HE’S GOT TO HAVE FOUND THE KEY BY NOW!” #75 was trying his best to hold back the fire, but he knew that he couldn’t hold the fire back much longer. Just then, there was a figure from the smoke, from the flames, was it #104? “LOOK!” “LOOK! SOMETHING’S THERE!” Yelled #75. He looked towards the smoke, just as the figure rushed out from the flames. “104?” “104?” #123 shouted into the fire, hoping for a response-
_______________________________
The rustling turned to screeching, it got closer and closer, I jumped underneath a table, hiding from the creature. I saw what looked like a thick black coat with a furry hood, underneath that was a blue hoodie. Or so I thought. Was it the creature? I fell silent, just hoping that it wouldn’t be able to see me.
It made a humming sound as it got closer. It became so dark that I lost sight of it, only the hum guiding me to its location. I saw a glint of green, were those the creature’s eyes? I shuddered as the creature drew closer to me. It must have seen me. Holding the bag with the DVD case inside it, I decided to run away from the creature for my safety. It ran after me, luckily, I was able to buy a ticket to Milton Keynes from a ticket machine that had been powered by a car battery because it had been placed seventy-two meters from the nearest power socket, I then ran to the station platforms and boarded the 22:07 service to Euston.
The announcements started as the train pulled away from the platform. It was so dark, I saw the creature trying to enter the train, although it was too late for it to enter. It scraped on the window, but never got in.
So, I had escaped. Today, I still enjoy Walkers in peace, happily knowing that I will never see that creature again.
A flash Fiction by AR, who's neurodivergent, fixated on trains and loves travelling on them.
The Dream Sharer
Copyrighted Lergon Parris
Kiara was amazed at the fact that she had accepted the warped reality so easily, adapting to its rules without question. But here she was, floating above her house and looking down at her roof. The soft crisp air of the night caressed her, sending ripples through the fabric of her nightgown as she flew higher. This felt too real, yet it was impossible – wasn’t it? Kiara slowly accepted that she had to be dreaming. It was a lucid dream, but a dream, nonetheless.
Suddenly, the young woman saw a man above her, suspended in the night sky. Something about the man compelled her to float towards him like a proverbial moth to a beckoning flame. He wore a black gown adorned with elaborate silver patterns. His back was turned to her.
“Hi!” she called as she floated near to him. But the man seemed not to notice her, remaining motionless without a hint of acknowledgement. Then, he spoke, his voice coming in a deep and soothing tone.
“Yes, you are dreaming,” he said simply, his back remaining turned to her. “And you will not see my face.”
“W-what?” came Kiara’s response. “Who are you?”
“I will tell you,” the man replied. “But I will also tell you that you will not remember this encounter. I am called by many names across many different cultures, but for your sake, you may refer to me as Dream Sharer.”
“Dream Sharer?” droned Kiara.
“Yes, Kiara,” the man replied, half shocking the woman that he knew her name. “I share dreams but let me explain. There are two types of people in your world, Kiara. These are the Creatives and the Practicals. You fall in the category of a Practical. This is because you are tethered to a life of reality. You go to work every day, riveted to what you call a nine-to-five job. You receive your pay check at the end of your pay cycle, and you assign it to your expenses. Such is the life of a Practical. The Creative thinks differently. The Creatives are the ones responsible for harnessing inspiration and turning it into songs, poems, stories, film scripts. But there is a problem.
Sometimes the Creatives experience a blockage, a stagnation of imagination. That is where I come in. I harvest the dreams of Practicals like yourself and introduce them to the blocked Creative. As I mentioned, you will not remember this dream, but you may see it in some form of media soon.”
“I-I understand,” Kiara said simply, and she did.
“Good,” replied the Dream Sharer. “The logical mind of a Practical does have its merits. I have enjoyed speaking with you, Kiara. I rarely speak to dreamers. It is however time to awaken. Dawn is breaking in your world.”
She was about to mouth another question, but the Dream Sharer clapped his hands, and suddenly, there was darkness. Kiara’s mind wrestled to keep the dream, but it had already floated beyond her grasp.
The Plot
Copyrighted, Lergon Parris.
The uncut grass of her yard was a stage, and the two butterflies danced among the blades, a minuscule courtship in the vast urban jungle. Rhianna, on her way to work, would normally ignore the dance of the butterflies, but that morning, it spoke to her. She found herself with an induced longing – a need for a personal story.
It was not just the butterflies and their mating dance. As she walked towards her bus, the day seemed attuned to her mindset. A blaring love song from a passing taxi was a covert nod of understanding, with words making more sense than they ever did. Rhianna, who rarely sang, found herself humming and smiling as she climbed onto the waiting bus and found an empty seat. Several bus stops later, amid the packed ‘sardines’ and the jarring turns from the driver’s erratic traffic and pothole dodges, she saw him.
Standing at the front of the bus and rocking to the whims of the erratic turns was a handsome, professionally attired man, the epitome of her elaborately cultivated fantasy. The moment her gaze became fixed upon him, her eyes refused to dart away. It was only when her brain jolted her with the notion that her awe-fueled stare was too obvious and could become fuel for the ridicule and mockery of judgmental extroverts, did she manage to avert her eyes. Still, she stole glances, filling her mind with images of him like a smartphone’s memory.
Suddenly, there was no bus, no other passengers, and no abrasive dancehall music. It all melted away leaving Rhianna and this man. There was silence and bliss. If only he would meet her gaze, see her beauty, and look beyond her perceived flaws.
Was my blouse wrinkled? Did I overdo my makeup? What about my hair?
She stayed in the fantasy despite the protesting thoughts rendering her heartbeat an unhinged sprint, and her breathing a labored effort.
Then his gaze finally met hers! This was it! This was the beginning of her own movie’s plot!
He looked away after an exaggerated eternity, but the stare from those eyes…those intense eyes. It spoke desire without the need for mortal words, and she shuddered so violently that the person in the seat beside her seemed affected by the vibration.
There was something there…a connection. There had to be! The movies did not lie.
He was doing…something. Her prince fidgeted against the restrictions resulting from the tightly packed bus. Was he…? He was fishing out his phone from his pocket.
This is it! This is the part where he cleverly asks for my num...
“Yes, baby?” he started speaking as the phone graced his perfect ear. “No, soon reach work. I’m in a bus heading to Half-Way-Tree. Yeah…yeah… Okay, love you too.”
Her heart sank at the reality of the brief phone call. This was not the plot of her movie. This was a one-sided pain. As it festered, it became a one-sided anger. Throughout the day at work, Rhianna fought a one-sided war.
Lergon Parris is a national award-winning writer from Jamaica. His short story won a Short Story competition run by Ella’s Writing School in 2023.
A Flash Fiction
Copyrighted, Lergon Parris
Fear gripped my throat with icy hands, restricting my ability to form words in the darkness. Perhaps the fact that the elevator was dark helped to mask that fear. Or perhaps it was the fact that the other members of my party were huddled in the centre of this steel box whimpering and shivering, too preoccupied with their fear. The teacher, Ms. Edwards was also immobilized by fear, as she was the centre of the huddle. I stood to the side, trusting myself to the body’s natural method of calming itself as I assessed the situation. We were stuck in an elevator in Cuba. I had a less-than-basic grasp of the Spanish Language, and as the only male of the party, it behoved me to exercise some semblance of bravery. Yet the steel box was dark and menacing. The grip on my throat was slightly released, and I swallowed hard.
Our evening had started as routine as every other since we embarked on this school trip. This time, we had visited a ceremonial cannon firing, and I marvelled at the dominant sound of the old weapon as it fired its projectile across the sea. So far, there were no regrets on this trip. Cuba held its beauty with dignified and individualistic hands as its unique culture impressed our eyes, ears, and taste buds at every turn. Surely the camera roles were ripe with indelible memories.
Ramon, the tour guide, and bus driver was an expert storyteller, adding to the majesty of each landmark with insightful facts. All of this resulted in hours feeling like minutes, and days seeming like fast-forwarded VHS movies.
So, when the sun was exiting the stage on that day, my mind had groaned derisively. Because this meant we were going back to the hotel for dinner, then sleep. Twenty-four hours were just not enough.Making our way into the hotel lobby, we were immediately entranced by the now familiar soft guitar strings of live Cuban music, the melody ordering our steps as we moved towards the lift.
Carla, jokingly described as the slowest member of our little group, was true to the description. As we assembled in the elevator and the door began to close, the straggler made a desperate sprint, grabbing the metal frame of the door and upsetting the sensors. She achieved her goal of joining the group, but the elevator now protested with darkness and immobility. I stood in the corner closest to the door steeling myself against fear as I occupied my eyes with the faint movements of my huddled group. Ms. Edwards had still not recovered. I knew that it was up to me, a fourteen-year-old boy tasked with one day becoming a man to take charge of the situation. It was me against the menacing elevator. I could feel the steel box taunting me, discouraging me, closing in to suppress my will. But I fought with desperation as my mind rifled through a metaphysical rendition of my Spanish notebook.
Then finally, with lion-like triumph, I banged on the steel doors and shouted.
“Ayudame! Ayudame!”
Lergon Parris is a national award-winning creative writer and author. As a Jamaican native, he often pulls inspiration for his pieces from the culture, crafting unique stories for all ages. He tends to utilize anthropomorphism in his more popular works, telling stories from the perspective of animals. These narratives are often used as metaphors for human conflicts.
My Dearest Elliot
A Historical Romance Fiction by Lergon Parris from Jamaica
A The floral curtains danced modestly and gracefully as they entertained the flirtatious breeze from outside bringing romance on its breath. Blinded by their passion, the curtains failed to see the apple tree just outside the window also dancing as it was the recipient of the trickster's magic words. Having captured the hearts of the naive curtains, the breeze moved through the window and onward to its next conquest leaving the nubile curtains now dancing like harlots.
The woman in the room closed her eyes as the breeze caressed her soft face, inviting lingering memories to the forefront of her mind. She rose from her desk, the soft frills of her expensive gown brushing the bottle of ink and spilling it on the letter that she had been writing. Nimbly, she grabbed the bottle, saving most of its contents. With a frustrated sigh, she fulfilled her initial reason for rising and closed the window, rejecting the breeze's advances. The woman then retreated to the desk and looked down at the now ruined letter which she crumpled between her hands. She then reached for another sheet of paper, dipped her quill in the remaining ink and started her new letter.
My Dearest Elliot,
How are you, my love? I hope this letter finds you well. I see that you have not responded to my previous letters but that is alright. I will continue to pour my heart into each one and hope that they provide you comfort on your harshest days.
How fares the war sweet Elliot? I ask not for its outcome, but I wish you back to me. I do miss you, Elliot. I miss you as any devoted wife misses her husband. We were freshly married right before fate's cruel hand took you to war. Such is the nature of our world; it is however a cruel outcome. A husband should be with his wife, and a wife her husband.
I have to resign myself to your memory. The cherry blossoms have started to beautify the tree, our tree. That beauty however does not hold a candle to the symbolism of the 'M' and 'E' letters so lovingly carved on its trunk...
"Margaret! Margaret!" the girl's attention was arrested from her letter by the shrill voice of her mother calling from the room's door.
"I have brought your supper, my dear, oh please try to eat something." This was followed by the clatter of crockery as the tray was placed by the door. Mother had long since given up on trying the handle of the door as it was never open.
"Oh Margaret, I pray that you find the conviction to eat my dear. Your flesh will wither away with this sadness." After a long unanswered silence Mother exhaled in defeat and turned away from the locked door. Margaret dipped her quill once more and continued her letter.
Oh Elliot, I preserve myself for you and live for the day when I hear a knock at the front door and open it to find your cheerful face looking back at me. As I write this, as always, I am wearing 'the' dress, you know, your favorite. This is the dress that I was wearing when you first asked me to be yours. Do you remember?
Sweet Elliot I end this letter now my darling, but I will write again. I will write to you every day until you answer, or I see you walking up to our porch.
Yours now and forever,
Margaret.
She picked up the paper and scanned its face for a few seconds, then she neatly folded it and placed it in an envelope from the desk's drawer. The woman then gently rose from the desk and walked over to a table in the far corner of her room, where she placed the envelope on a neat stack of similar envelopes. Margaret then proceeded to reopen the window.
The rejected breeze was no longer there. It had licked its wounds and was now travelling out over the farm as the cows grazed contently in the pasture. It touched the cheeks of Margaret's mother who scarcely noticed it as she pulled the latch on the wooden gate and exited the yard, her face a mask of worry. She walked up the little hill to the lone cherry tree and spoke to the solemn looking man standing there looking down at the grave.
"She still refuses to leave her room, and she seldom eats." she was addressing the man.
"It is sad." he never averted his eyes from the grave as he spoke. "Such is her grief for my son that it begets denial."
He sighed then turned to the woman. "So young and deprived of the joys enjoyed in a youthful marriage." he placed a comforting hand on her shoulder. "While I too grieve as a father who lost a son, I will also say a prayer for my daughter-in-law." He turned and descended the hill with Margaret's mother following shortly after.
The breeze in its empathy put its lustful urges aside and flew to touch the modest gravestone. it read:
Here Lies Elliot Pitter
1841 - 1863
Beloved son, and husband
"*OLE" By Ebenezer Mowete
Copyrighted.
Ngozi squeezed herself further into the back of the yellow *Molue, the Lagos air thick and sluggish against her damp skin. Beside her, a woman with a headwrap the colour of ripe mango nursed a whimpering baby. In front of her, two men argued in raspy voices, their hands clenched into fists that rested on their knees. The air vibrated with the competing sounds of the Molue's groaning engine, the conductor's rhythmic shouts of "Oshodi! Oshodi!" and the noise of street life filtering through the grime-coated windows.
Ngozi clutched her worn leather bag, the tattered receipt for her rent payment tucked safely inside. Relief, battled with a rising tide of anxiety. The traffic, as always, was a monstrous beast, barely inching forward on the choked Ikorodu Road. She glanced at her wristwatch, the cheap metal digging into her skin. Ten minutes to four. If she didn't get to Lady Sharon before the rent was late again, the threats of eviction would escalate.
A commotion began at the front of the Molue. A young man, no older than nineteen, his face flushed with anger, shoved past the arguing men. He wore a faded Arsenal jersey, the dirt mirroring the streaks of sweat staining his brow. In his hand, he clutched a dented phone, the screen fractured like a spiderweb.
"Ole! Thief!" he roared; his voice laced with a desperate edge. All eyes turned towards him, a collective intake of breath rippling through the passengers. The conductor, a burly man with a shaved head, materialized at the commotion.
"Wetin happen?" he barked; his voice heavy with authority.
The young man, his chest heaving, pointed a shaky finger at a middle-aged woman seated opposite Ngozi. The woman, adorned in expensive-looking coral beads, met his gaze with feigned innocence. Her manicured nails tapped a nervous rhythm against her handbag.
"Na that woman!" the young man accused, his voice cracking. "She snatch my phone for inside Oshodi underbridge!"
A murmur of disbelief rose from the passengers. The woman scoffed; her lips pursed in a haughty frown.
"Me? Steal? You must be joking," she said, her voice dripping with disdain. "See how you dress like a vagabond, na so una dey accuse innocent people."
The young man's face contorted in fury. He lunged towards the woman, but the conductor, quick as a mongoose, grabbed him by the scruff of his neck.
"Hold your ground, small boy!" the conductor shouted. "No fight for inside my bus."
The young man struggled, his voice croaky with frustration. "But she stole my phone! That's all I have!"
Ngozi watched the scene, a knot of unease tightening in her stomach. The Molue lurched forward, the sudden movement throwing the passengers off balance. In the chaos, the woman with the coral beads made a split-second decision. With a practiced flick of her wrist, she tossed a small object onto the floor of the Molue, right where Ngozi's feet were resting.
Her heart hammered against her ribs. It was a phone – the young man's phone, its cracked screen glinting accusingly. The woman met Ngozi's startled gaze, a flicker of something similar to triumph passing between them before her face resumed its mask of innocence.
Ngozi's mind raced. The truth, as thick and suffocating as the Lagos heat. The young man's frustration, the woman's practiced ease. Yet, here she was, caught in the middle with a burden on her conscience.
She looked at the young man, his face crumpling with despair. Then, at the woman with the coral beads, her gaze cold and calculating. A decision, heavy and difficult, settled in Ngozi's gut. She knew what she had to do.
Glossary
Molue: A large yellow bus used for public transportation in Lagos, Nigeria. Often overcrowded and known for their boisterous atmosphere.
Oshodi: A major bus terminal in Lagos, Nigeria.
Ole!: Thief! (Yoruba language)
Ebenezer Moweta is a final year Medical student in Nigeria.
Hope By Ebenezer Mowete From Nigeria.
Ebenezer Mowete is a final year medical student.
The humid Enugu air clung to us like a second skin as Nneka and I weaved through the stalls of the Kenyatta Market on a beautiful Saturday morning. Laughter spilled from overflowing bowls of palm fruit, bargaining calls intertwined with the rhythmic thrumming of highlife music from a nearby stall. Nneka, ever the explorer, pointed towards a commotion near the back of the market.
"Looks like there's a show," she said, her eyes sparkling with mischievous curiosity.
We pushed through a throng of bodies, the scent of roasting corn and sizzling suya mingling in the air. There, amidst towering stacks of colourful Ankara fabric, stood a young man, no older than twenty, his face contorted in concentration. A weathered suitcase lay open before him, its contents were a mix of trinkets, talismans, and wilted herbs.
"Ezigbo ndi Enugu!" he boomed; his voice surprisingly deep for such a slender frame. "Do you seek answers hidden from the ordinary eye? Does love elude you, or your business stagnate? Then step right up, for I, Chibuike, the O menemme, the Oracle of the Marketplace, can reveal your destiny!"
A ripple of amusement ran through the crowd. A woman with a mischievous glint in her eye nudged her friend. "Maybe he can tell me why my husband keeps disappearing to his mama's house on weekends," she quipped.
Chibuike, unfazed, continued his spiel. "With the wisdom of the ancestors and the guidance of the spirits, I can see your past, present, and future! Just a small token, and your troubles will be no more!"
Nneka, ever the pragmatist, rolled her eyes. "This is nonsense," she muttered. But the glint in her eyes betrayed a flicker of curiosity.
Suddenly, a woman, her face filled with worry, stepped forward. Her simple cotton dress hung loosely on her slender frame. "My son," she croaked, her voice barely a whisper. "He's been missing for weeks. The police say there's no trace. Can you help me find him?"
A hush fell over the crowd. Chibuike closed his eyes, his face adopting a calm expression. He reached into the suitcase, emerging with a collection of cowrie shells. He rattled them in his hand, muttering something under his breath. Then, with a flourish, he threw them onto a worn animal skin spread on the ground.
The shells scattered, some landing upright, others face down. Chibuike studied the pattern for a long moment, his brow furrowed. Finally, he looked up at the woman with an intense gaze.
"Your son is alive," he declared, his voice firm. "He is lost, yes, but not harmed. He is with water, near a place of healing."
A gasp escaped the woman's lips. Tears welled up in her eyes. "A place of healing?" she echoed, a sliver of hope flickering in her voice.
Chibuike nodded, his expression grave. "Seek out the village by the Ezu River, where the palms utter secrets to the wind. There, you will find him."
The woman sagged in relief, tears streaming down her face. She reached into her purse and pulled out a crumpled wad of naira notes, pressing them into Chibuike's hand. "Thank you," she whispered, her voice trembling.
As the crowd dispersed, a murmur of speculation hung in the air. Nneka nudged me, a smile playing on her lips. "Well," she said, "that was certainly unexpected."
I couldn't help but agree. The marketplace oracle gave hope to a desperate mother. This was Enugu, where the line between reality and the fantastical often blurred, leaving us with more questions than answers, and a lingering sense of awe.
Translation
"Ezigbo ndi Enugu": "Dear People of Enugu"
"O menemme": "He did it"
They Were Lucky to Escape
By Lergon Parris, Jamaica.
"
“I came to you as a matter of honour,” Stanley’s voice was intimidating, dominant as was his body as he stood over the feeble man trembling before him. “Is that not something to be commended? Am I not a man of honour?”
“Y-yes, Stanley,” Arthur stuttered. “You are an amazing young man, and a man of honour. L-look, I-if you walk away now, we can forget about all of this and move on.”
“There is no moving on!” Stanley snapped. “I never leave a task incomplete. I was a disciplined soldier. Now, I’m going to ask you again, and I want you to remember that it is I, Stanley, MAN OF HONOUR, who is asking you. Arthur Noble, may I have your daughter’s hand in marriage?”
Arthur swallowed hard before responding.
“It…w-well, as I said, it is h-her choice. She has a mind of-.”
“She doesn’t know what she wants!” Stanley snapped. I asked her and she turned me down. Now, I am coming to you, as the man, as the father, and once I have your permission, then it supersedes anything she might say.”
Joseph would certainly not deny that it gave him a personal feeling of pleasure when he kicked in the door and realized that his theory, seemingly farfetched and motivated by his own bias was right. At first, Stanley’s stance was somewhat mocking, something akin to his own father’s condescending scowl. But when the other officers, Joseph’s back up, came in behind him, the celebrated ex-soldier’s disposition changed.
Stanley, Ed’s boy, Stanley, had murdered Spongie because the inebriated man had spouted some criticisms about his interest in Jenny. He had then, himself drowned in the embrace of liquor, found himself at Jenny’s place of work, where he asked for her hand. Furious with her answer, the man had stormed off, waited a few days, still fuelled by liquor, then confronted her father.
Perhaps it was fate, just like the lightning that had illuminated Spongie’s murder, which had led Joseph to his absurd hunch, and compelled him to act on it. undoubtedly, the clearly deranged Stanley would have turned his attention back to Jenny after he had killed her father. But Joseph forced an inward smile at the ramifications of his actions. Arthur on the other hand was a mountain of gratitude. It was not lost on the old man that they were lucky to escape alive.
Extract from Lergon Parris' winning story, in the Easter Short Story Writing Competition, 2024.
