Women

by Matthew Roy Davey

vodka

“Jesus Libby,” shouted Max, shutting off the smoke alarm, taking the pan off the hob and opening the back door.  “What are you playing at?”

From the living room came a cheer from the TV echoed by a cheer from their son Kieran.

“Christ!  Now they’ve scored.  Can’t you even cook fucking dinner?  I’ve worked an eleven hour day.”

“Sorry.”

“Sorry?  Well perhaps it would help if you’d put that bloody wine down.”

He stopped, hand on hips, breathing hard and staring at her.  She was sitting at the table, staring at her phone.  He cocked his head.

“Are you okay?”

She hadn’t known about it until several days after the event.  On the Monday he didn’t show up for their meeting and then didn’t return her calls.  She wondered if she’d done something wrong.  It went on for two days until his wife picked up, her voice hollow and flat, demanding to know who Libby was.  Eventually, Libby couldn’t stand it any longer and drove over to the house, something he’d forbidden her to do.  At first, she thought there was a party going on, then she realised most of the guests were wearing black.

He’d been so kind, so attentive, so loving.  But now he was gone.  She didn’t even know how or why.  She couldn’t even say goodbye.

“Libby?”

She looked up and gave him a tired smile.

“I’m fine.  Just a long day.  Shall I call a takeaway?”

Kieran appeared in the doorway.

“Half-time.  What’s up with Mum?  She’s been weird all day.”

Max waved his hand in the air.

“I dunno.  Women.”

 About the author

Matthew Roy Davey has won the Dark Tales and The Observer short story competitions.  He has been long-listed for the Bath Flash Fiction award, Reflex Flash Fiction competition, Retreat West Quarterly competition and was recently nominated for the Pushcart Prize.  He lives in Bristol, England and has no hobbies. 

https://matthewroydavey.wordpress.com

Bent Pencil

by Matthew Roy Davey

Cherryade

The pencil was yellow with a rubber on the end, but it wasn’t a normal pencil.  It was made of wood and lead but somehow this one had been made in the curling shape of a pig’s tail.  I’d got it in my stocking.  It was one of my favourite presents.  I carried it with me everywhere.

One day in the playground I took it out of the pocket of my parka to show Mrs Emmet, the nice dinner lady.

“Look at my pencil!”

“Oh!”  She took it and turned it in her hands.  “I’ve never seen one like this before.”

Mrs Reid, the other dinner lady, began ambling over, her eyes like a seagull’s, her hands stuffed in the pocket of her smock.

“How did you get it like that?” asked Mrs Emmett.  She grasped each end of the pencil.

“It’s not rubber,” I said, seeing what she was about to do.  “You can’t…”

It was too late.  The pencil snapped with the sound of a bone breaking.

“Oh!” said Mrs Emmett, her hand flying to her mouth.

“Oh!” laughed Mrs Reid.

“I’m so sorry,” said Mrs Emmett, flushing red.  “I’ll get you a new one.”

“It’s ok,” I said, trying to swallow the sick feeling.  I took the pieces from her, wondering if perhaps my dad might be able to fix it, knowing it was beyond help.  I could feel my face burning and had to blink the tears away before they came.  I smiled at Mrs Emmett who looked ready to cry herself.  My friend Elliott appeared at my side.

“What happened?”

I showed him my pencil.

Mrs Reid strolled away, smiling.

“I’ll get you a new one,” repeated Mrs Emmett.  “Where did you get it?”

“Father Christmas.”

“Ha!” laughed Elliott.  “You don’t believe in him do you?  It’s your mum and dad!”

Something seemed to go into free-fall.  I felt so stupid.  I didn’t move in case I gave something away.  It was so obvious.  I felt a sudden anger at my parents for lying.  I knew Elliot would tell my other friends, even those who still believed.  He was like that.  He’d enjoy telling them.

About the author

I was winner of The Observer short story competition 2003 and winner of the Dark Tales competition (August 2013) and have been long-listed for the Bath Flash Fiction award (Spring and Autumn 2017), Reflex Flash Fiction competition (Spring 2017) and Retreat West Quarterly Competition (Summer 2018).  My story ‘Waving at Trains’ has been translated into Mandarin and Slovenian and been published in anthologies by Vintage and Cambridge University Press.  Recently I have been published by Everyday Fiction, Flash Fiction Magazine, Odd Magazine and Flash: The International Short-Story Magazine.  I have recently been nominated for the Pushcart Prize.

 

Greta Scacchi Eyes

by Matthew Roy Davey

a can of Quatro

It was a typical Saturday lunch, sausage, beans and mash, Dad telling us if Concorde had sold internationally we’d have been living somewhere glamorous, eating by a pool in California perhaps.  In the seventies he’d worked for BAC but the high hopes they’d had never materialised.  I paid little attention, shovelling beans down and glancing at my watch.  In half an hour Kate was picking me up for our first date.  I couldn’t drive.

Kate worked in the local record shop and after weeks of building up courage I’d asked her out.  Astonished that she said yes, I floated out of the shop with a new seven inch.  Later, as we arranged where to go, I could see her wondering if she’d made the right decision, her expression faltering.  I told her it was a feminist date, the woman in the driving seat.  She pulled a face.

When her beige Peugeot pulled up I hurried out, hoping my parents wouldn’t look out of the window.  Kate smiled from behind the wheel.

“Hi”

“Hi!  What’s that on your back seat?”

She looked over her shoulder.  I’d thought it was from a joke shop.  A cigarette with a tail of grey ash.

“Oh shit.”

She’d flicked it out of the window as she was driving but it had blown back in.  I opened the back door.

“No, let me do it.” 

She picked up the filter and brushed hopelessly at the scorch mark.  It was burnt to the foam.

“Dad’s gonna kill me.”

There wasn’t much to say.  I couldn’t tell how close her laughter was to tears.  A grimace and a smile are the same but for the eyes.

As we drove away I stared at the dashboard.  If we were in America, I thought, there’d be a steering wheel in front of me.  I imagined reaching until my fingertips touched the black vinyl surface.  I didn’t do it, just sat motionless, staring.  A Pearl Jam tape hissed on the stereo.  She stared straight ahead, knuckles white on the wheel.

I hated Pearl Jam.  

About the author 

Matthew was winner of The Observer short story competition and winner of the Dark Tales competition.  He has been long-listed for the Bath Flash Fiction award, Reflex Flash Fiction competition and Retreat West Competition.  His  story Waving at Trains was translated into Mandarin and Slovenian and was published in anthologies by Vintage and Cambridge University Press.  Recently he has been published by Everyday Fiction, Flash Fiction Magazine, Odd Magazine and Flash: The International Short-Story Magazine.  he has been nominated for the Pushcart Prize.

https://matthewroydavey.wordpress.com/

The Butterfly Hook

by Matthew Roy Davey 

Maddog 20/20 ( Kiwi and Lime) 

The bell rang and Miss Monroe told us to get our coats from the hall.  Mine wasn’t on my butterfly hook and even after everyone else had taken theirs I couldn’t see it.  Miss Monroe came and helped.  Someone had shoved it under the bench.  Miss Monroe helped me put it on.  She was much nicer than my last teacher.  Mrs Foster had funny green eyes that made me feel strange when I looked at her.  Miss Monroe was much nicer.  She held my hand as we walked outside and down the path to the gate.  It was cold and icy.  Mums and dads were waiting, hugging their children and taking them home.  Except mine.  She was always late.  I’d only been at the school four days and she’d never been on time.

“Can you see Mummy?” asked Miss Monroe.  The cold was making my eyes watery.  I shook my head.

Time went by and most of the parents and children had gone.  Miss Monroe’s hand was warm but my other hand was cold.  Soon it was just us.

“Shall we go back inside?”

I nodded.

Just then Mum arrived.  She grabbed my hand and walked off really fast.  I had to run to keep up.

“Bye Jake,” Miss Monroe called.  “See you tomorrow.” 

I didn’t have breath to reply.

Mum put me in the car and drove away.  I put the seat belt on myself.  I wondered if I wished hard enough maybe Miss Monroe could be my mum.

About the author

https://matthewroydavey.wordpress.com/

Matthew Roy Davey has won the Dark Tales and The Observer short story competitions.  He has been long-listed for the Bath Flash Fiction award, Reflex Flash Fiction competition, Retreat West Quarterly competition and was recently nominated for the Pushcart Prize.  He lives in Bristol, England and has no hobbies.

 

The Singing Green

by Matthew Roy Davey

a glass of Ribena

 

None of my friends were out on the green, not Red Emily (with whom I once took a romantic dip in a drip tray that my father had used to collect oil from under the car), not Adopted Paul (whom I prayed every night would be reunited with his mother though mine said he was perfectly happy with his new one), not Stuttering Rick (whose sister we delighted in tormenting by holding the handlebars of her tricycle to stop her moving – how she would scream!) , not even Edward the Biter (who wasn’t even my friend, for obvious reasons). 

I sat at the end of the garden path where it joined the path that bordered the green, pushing a couple of Matchbox cars to and fro.  There were houses backing on to the open space on all three of the large sides and the fourth was just a gap that opened onto the main road, still a very quiet thoroughfare.  A couple of girls cycled up and stopped.

“What are you playing?”

Long hair, long legs, they were much older than me, no stabilisers.

“Playing cars.”

They smiled and leaned over their handlebars.

“Who’s in the cars?”

I leaned over and touched the spokes of one of the bikes, running my fingers up the tense strands of metal.

“You’ll get dirty fingers,” said the girl looking down at me.  Her hair hung loose about her freckled face.  I intertwined my fingers, pulling slightly, feeling their strength.

“Why do wheels have these?”

She frowned.

“Because.  Take your fingers out.  You’re going to break them if you pull.”

I looked up and smiled.

“No I won’t.” 

I kept yanking at the spokes, harder now so that the wheel started turning towards me.  She pulled the handlebars, trying to dislodge my hands so I held on tighter.

“Stop it,” the other girl said softly.

I laughed, thinking they’d laugh too.

The girl reached down and began prizing my fingers off the wires but at soon as she’d got one off and had moved onto another I put the first one back. 

“Stop it,” she said, gritting her teeth and, grabbing a fistful of fingers, wrenched them off, bending them back against the hand.  The pain shot up my arm and tears came immediately with a wail of shock.  They had seemed so nice.

“I’m telling Mummy!”

The girls pushed off, wide eyed and pale, until they had enough momentum when they began to pedal as fast as they could.  I raced down the garden path, determined to see justice.

Inside my mother kissed my hand as I hiccupped my story. 

“They wanted your fingers out of their wheels, love.  If they’d moved their bikes your fingers would have been caught.  That would have really hurt.”

I stopped crying for a moment - the realisation that she wasn’t going to fight for me, to tell the girls off, to avenge my pain, far more hurtful than the soreness in my fingers.  I took a deep breath and began to cry even louder.

About the author

Matthew  was winner of The Observer short story competition 2003 and winner of the Dark Tales competition (August 2013) and has been long-listed for the Bath Flash Fiction award (Spring and Autumn 2017), Reflex Flash Fiction competition (Spring 2017) and Retreat West Quarterly Competition (Summer 2018).  His story ‘Waving at Trains’ has been translated into Mandarin and Slovenian and been published in anthologies by Vintage and Cambridge University Press.  Recently he has been published by Everyday Fiction, Flash Fiction Magazine, Odd Magazine and Flash: The International Short-Story Magazine.  He has recently been nominated for the Pushcart Prize.

https://matthewroydavey.wordpress.com/

Soft Centre

by Matthew Roy Davey

chocolate milk

The previous tenants had abandoned some of their stuff when moving out: books in the bathroom, a Japanese doll in the spare room, dirty dishes in the sink.  The estate-agent apologised and told us it would be taken care of before we moved in, should we like it. 

In the fridge was a box of chocolates and a pint of separating milk.  I opened the chocolates.  Lying on the hard-centres was a piece of paper, folded once.  I took a chocolate and opened the note.

‘Maria,

I love you

ALWAYS!

Xxx’

I felt like a thief, reacting with no flash of joy, sad instead, a nothing meant for someone else.  I wondered why they’d left in such a hurry.  The chocolate was cold and hard. 

Maria had not seen the note but then neither had my girlfriend.  I would not make the same mistakes.

About the author

https://matthewroydavey.wordpress.com/  

Shooting Stars

by Matthew Roy Davey 

a hot toddy

We’d heard on the radio or read in a paper, I forget which, that there was going to be a meteor shower so a big group of us decided it would be fun to go and watch it far from the lights of town.

Emyr and Lawrie drove up and met us at the hotel after the dinner shift finished.  We took some bottles from the bar, piled into the cars and headed for the Cotswolds.  Lucy couldn’t come, she had the breakfast shift the next day and made me promise to be quiet when I came in.

We got to Nibley, parked and headed up the muddy path that led to the Tindale Monument.  It was cold November and the ground was wet.  Some of us had torches and Emyr had a head lamp.  Bella held on to my arm, to stop herself losing her footing she said.  I didn’t mind.  She was a year younger than me and the previous Spring I’d helped her prepare for her A Level English in a pub garden.  She was a friend of Lucy and Lucy hadn’t been too happy when she’d found out, she thought Bella fancied me which I’d thought ridiculous.

At the top of the hill we emerged from the trees to find the sky a mass of cloud.  We hiked up to the monument, took beers from our bags and someone lit a small fire.  Our breath billowed as we stared skyward, hoping for a break in the grey canopy.  Below us stretched the scattered lights of Gloucestershire and the Severn Estuary.  No one really minded that we had nothing to wish on, we were laughing too much at what we were doing, we’d never climbed a hill in the middle of the night before.  I sat on the stone shelf around the base of the monument and stared across the flood plain.  Bella came and sat next to me.

“It’s cold,” she said and moved closer.  I put my arm around her and squeezed.  It was very dark and no one said anything but after a little while I got up and moved away, smiling at Bella as I went. 

The way back down was harder, slippier.

In the car I sat in the middle of the back seat, Bella on my right.  She leaned in and put her head on my shoulder.  She felt soft and warm and I could feel her breath on my neck, her hair tickling my cheek.  No one could see us in the darkness and no one was interested.  I felt her hand next to mine, our skin just touching and then our fingers as though with minds of their own interlaced, tightening around each other.  It felt good, it felt bad, it felt warm.  I wondered where on Earth it was taking me and right then I didn’t care, I just smiled in the darkness as the night rushed past outside. Above the clouds the sky lit up with a million wishes.

About the author 

Matthew Roy Davey has won the Dark Tales and The Observer short story competitions, has been long-listed for the Bath Flash Fiction award, Reflex Flash Fiction competition, Retreat West Quarterly competition and was recently nominated for the Pushcart Prize.  He lives in Bristol, England and has no hobbies.