A New Home
I don’t like it here.
Mummy says this is our new home and we’re staying, but I don’t like it. It smells funny, not like our old house. I used to have my own room and now I have to share with my brother, Dan. We have new beds called bunker beds. I don’t like bunker beds because when Dan moves I can hear the bed creaking and I’m scared he’s going to come crashing down on top of me. I asked Mummy if I could sleep on top, but she said it was too high and I might fall out. Dan’s only one year older than me, it’s not fair he gets to sleep on the top.
I find Bertie buried under my Angry Birds duvet and squeeze him a little to let him know I’m awake. He’s awake now too. I whisper to him that I don’t like it here and he agrees. He always agrees with me. He has fuzzy green hair and big black eyes.
I’m thirsty, so I take Bertie in one hand and inch slowly down the dark corridor. I can see light from under the living room door, so I know Mummy is watching TV. I hear the strange voices getting louder and louder.
…A new campaign has been launched today by animal rights activists who have been protesting against this barbaric practice for many years. Some viewers may find the following images disturbing.
Just as I push the door to the new living room open, I see on the TV a whale being sliced open and all the blood and guts spill out of it. I drop Bertie and scream.
‘Matthew,’ Mummy says, jumping off the sofa and putting her arms around me. ‘What are you doing out of bed?’
‘I couldn’t sleep. I really don’t like the new bunker beds.’
‘They’re called bunk beds. A bunker is…something else. I’m afraid you’re just going to have to get used to it.’
I look at the TV again. Mummy walks over and turns it off.
‘And I’m thirsty.’
‘I’ll go heat you some milk.’
‘With chocolate in it?’
‘No, Matty, it’s too late for hot chocolate.’
Mummy does a sigh. ‘Daddy’s not here, is he?’
‘Is it because he’s living with Auntie Sharon?’
‘That woman is not your auntie. She’s, well, let’s not go into that now.’
I know I’m going to cry and don’t want to. Instead I look for Bertie, but can’t find him and that makes me want to cry even more. ‘I can’t find Bertie.’
‘Your tennis ball?’
‘Bertie’s not a tennis ball. He’s Bertie.’
Look, there he is.’ Mummy points to a wall in the living room where Bertie is lying facing the wall.
‘Bertie!’ I race over and pick him up.
Mummy takes my hand. ‘C’mon, let’s go get you some hot milk.’
‘Okay,’ I say, and slowly follow her into the kitchen.
Flash Fiction Diary
It's taken me a little while to get going this January, but hopefully this will be the start of regular blogging again. This piece was written for a competition and had to include the words: bunker, animal rights and tennis ball. Unfortunately it didn't get very far in the competition.
My first collection of flash fiction, taken from the previously published 'Flash Fortnightly' collaboration with Artipeeps, will be available soon. Here's a sneaky peak at the front cover...