Tag: short story

The wheel

“Yo cartwheeler!”

That’s what those kids called him. Who could blame them? He was, after all, the man pushing shopping carts at the supermarket. Not that it was anything to be shamed of, he told his reflection every morning navigating floss around his teeth.

But he had a name.

Ruman. 

Growing up he’d often wonder if his parents detested his existence so much so as to bestow upon him such an uncharacteristic name. Not a childhood day had gone by without him repeating and spelling it out for people to understand.

And even then perplexity clouded their face whenever they uttered it. As if they’d rather not. As if something wasn’t just quite right.

It was still better than “cartwheeler” he thought.

They even told random shoppers about his nickname, pointing him out, the long, brown, migrant who stumbled through the car park collecting empty carts people thrust away. Shoppers who’d smile jovially at their juvenile innocence—they were just school kids, hanging out at the mall during the holidays.

It was all good fun for everyone, of course. Seasonal cheer hung in their air, overnight rosters hung over his.

Three years of regular supermarket shifts had served him well, though. With the weekends off, he’d taken up to flipping burgers for additional bucks. He was now the proud owner of three high-visibility vests, a third-owner car that needed service, and a son who’d be starting school next year. He was already a year behind others of his age. Ruman’s wife had taken a second job too, to save up for school. 

He seldom had time to talk to her. 

Never mind. He’d be cartwheeler as long as it took. Nothing mattered more than a good school for his son. Whatever necessary so his son didn’t end up at the mall catcalling another migrant, “Yo cartwheeler!”

Confusion infused

Ouch!

I jerked awake, surprised and irritated at the same time. A blinding light pierced my eyelids forcing me to look away, and only then did I realise that the comforting darkness had disappeared from our room. It was dawn, perhaps.

I felt another sharp jab in my ribs before I saw the cause. My cousins around me mirrored m uncertainty. Two large plump fingers reached out and grabbed three of us by the neck.

Oh, dear.

I’d dreamt of this moment, I won’t lie. For months shut up in that room, I’ve wondered what the outside looked like, and each day the plump fingers came, I wished to go along. I was disappointed every time. Until now.

Now, however, I was anxious. Are all three of us going, I wondered. What if they threw me back in, casting me away with the rest of my family? Oh, the shame of rejection. I can’t bear to face my cousins again.

But I needn’t have worried. The fingers took all three of us, and before we could absorb our surroundings, dropped us into a large glass jug.

Everything was so massive. I now saw that the fingers were attached to a big red arm and a round body. A speck of dark hair rested on a what looked like an inverted pot, stiff handles for ears.

I turned to the other side. From my place in the jug, I faced brown tables spread across the room. More round bodies with potheads. Some were big, some small. There was even one clutching something fluffy to its chest. A few sat while most stood, holding cups or bottles and fiddling with flashy cards between their fingers.

I couldn’t see much clearly. They were all mouthing at each other. I heard nothing, of course, but apparently they did and understood too.

I still couldn’t comprehend my place in this situation. What was this place? The moment I was picked, I knew I was about to fulfil my destiny—whatever that was. All along I’d dreamt of getting out of the box, but only now did it dawn on me that I’d never imagined what I’d do once I got out. Perhaps deep down, I never saw beyond the inside of that dank room.

Just then, the familiar red arm approached our jug. I opened my mouth, ready to ask what it all meant. Before I could utter anything, though, boiling steam hit my eye and water crushed my lungs siphoning the air out of me.

Uuuuuhhh

I inhaled in panic, and I felt myself rise towards the jug’s rim. I hadn’t seen this coming. Then again, I hadn’t seen anything. Beside me, my silent cousins were struggling too. We’d never spoken before, but just then, our eyes locked for a fleeting moment before I saw their colours vanish. They descended, swaying as they sunk to the bottom.

It was too much. I had no air left, and my organs were weighing me down. They felt heavier than I ever thought they could. My breath rasped as the world spun. My heart was telling me to give up. My brain already had.

And so I let go of my limp body, floating away with the water’s steam. The wind was pulling me further from the jug, but I managed a last glance before being swept away. As the arm fished our bodies from the jug, I saw what we’d left behind: a reddish concoction with a tinge of mint. And I understood. Perhaps that was my destiny—refreshing the sore.

Rider

He paused at the sidewalk
letting passers by pass
he’d play by the rules
wait for the signals
though no van was in sight
one foot on the ground
another fiddling the pedal
just a few seconds more
assuring himself he stood
the system took its time
before it gave the green
and off he went a sailing
though dedicated pathway
for those pedallers as he
he rode by crooked trees
old, bent, and dying to die
their barks stripped bare
their roots gone barren
recalling as he flew past
plush, browning blooms
from a month or two afore
vanished in a slice of time
not even shadows remained
yet unstopping on he went
seeking his ultimate destination
going through a mangled maze
waving at the greying florist
settled beside a fading future
smiling at her dimpled smile
what great love for life she had!
the town centre came by next
and he barely squeezed through
high-heeled boots, long leather jackets
classy wristwatches and poor diets
oof—coming to a screeching halt
catching his breath at another signal
so much was going on all around
buying and selling and exchanging
trading, wading, and sneaking about
puffing, blowing, messing it all up
for each their own way of living
and he rode on through his

The police

“Holy shit!”

Geraud rose from his chair as the voice relayed grisly details over the receiver. It’d happened so fast that it was all over before the cops could even get to the scene.

Teenagers are stupid. Worse, drunk.

He’d seen a lot. In his twenty years in the force, he’d seen over thirty kids, plus his own son, who should’ve never cleared the driving test. How they’d gotten their licenses was beyond him. And yet, here he was again, looking down at the unseeing beetle eyes of an eighteen-year-old.

Spurting out from the vessels in her temple, think blood was creeping over her naturally blonde hair, now almost burgundy. He stood unflinching as the liquid flowed towards his feet. Forensics was late again.

Not that he needed them to explain what’d occurred. Surely, the lack of an airbag, the cracked old flip phone by the corpse, and the empty bottle of Shiraz, now resting against her lifeless libs, could only mean that she was a victim of heartbreak and lax parenting.

He signed, preparing himself for the inevitable dramatic tantrums the parents would throw.

Oh, well.

Same ol’, same ol’. Thoughout the years, nothing ever changed.

And so it was when he met the parents three hours later. Windswept and panting, they scampered into his office, tears and perspiration mangled together in the mother’s face. Just as he’d expected. The father remained stony—a look Geraud knew only too well. They all looked courageous at first. He’ll break down soon enough.

It was an intense sixty minutes. Not that Geraud wasn’t used to it. He listened without interrupting, as the mother wailed and eventually moved on to a muffled moan. Rebekkah had been the perfect daughter, Geraud learnt. She’d never had a drug problem, no boyfriends, and no late-night parties. In fact, her mother whimpered through sobs, she’d thought her daughter was at a study group that evening.

Geraud nodded sympathetically. He knew. Noting surprised him anymore.

Though he was looking at the mother, as she spoke, Geraud saw from the corner of his eye what he’d been expecting all along—the father’s gaze weakening.

He was good at this. People at the office had thought Geraud would leave the force after his son crashed a motorcycle into a moving truck. They’d thought dealing with his son’s split scull had been too much for Geraud to return to work.

But he did. And as he sat in his rocking chair at home that night, sipping his whiskey neat and straight, Geraud knew he’d never retire. He’d seen empty sockets, crushed bones, broken sculls, and overflowing brains. He’d seen mangled manes, twisted arms, and cracked ribs. He’d seen so much.

Not enough.