17 2014

the garden tucked between the big yew, the nightshade and the mushrooms that you can‘t eat unless you want to get poorly like Granny. Two creatures were hiding in the green light, digging and scraping for shiny things. Things we can keep, things for the family, things for the dump, things for me, things we can sell. He looked through the crack of the door and Dad was there, his paws digging into a little box picking out blood red rings and frosty necklaces. Aunty was there glaring down with her mantis eyes and with her talons she began dowsing for something nice for her. Perhaps for that dinner party next week. He called for them but his tongue froze and turned to lead. All he had to do was turn left and they’d have his sandwiches. ‘This is nice, might be worth something?’ growled Father, his tone all thundery. Aunty crept forward, her green, bug-coloured dress binding her body. ‘Will she miss it?’ ‘Who cares?’ ‘She’ll never notice anyway.’ The door slammed shut, Daddy’s troll arms and Aunt’s mandible fingers putting it down. He was meant to go left and he’d missed the left, he was certain of it. So confusing in the dark, you can’t see a thing not even your fingers on your hands or the feet on your legs. Suddenly down the hall, further into the labyrinth he could see a beacon of light of maroon, autumn-berry glow. He ran, stumbling over his sad big shoes and he forgot everything, about the sandwiches, the screaming silence, Aunty and Dad, the left and right, about Granny.

17 56

Made with FlippingBook - Online magazine maker