Fiction: Chicken

By Tom Stuckey

 

It was the third night in a row that Harry had been woken up by the local kids setting off explosives. It was more likely to be small bangers collected together, but the narrow high old stone streets made it sound like C4. They ran away before Harry could get to see them from out of the window, but he could hear them giggle and scream. Where were the police, he thought, whilst listening to the distance, in hope that there would be the sound of sirens - and giggles turning into wheeps. He was at a strange age of 42, still young enough to remember causing trouble, but old enough to secretly like the brutal punishment of the law, on kids that seemed militarised. No sirens came. 

He went into the living room and turned on a low burning red light, that he had read somewhere, helped the brain relax, maybe it was the colour of the womb to a foetus. Cheryl was awake too, and across the street in her apartment she had on a cool blue light and was wearing black silk pajamas that made her look like a baby seal on an iceberg. She noticed Harry but did not cover up but instead opened her legs and began to feel herself though the soft material. Harry switched off his light and remained in the darkness; better that than be caught by her husband, masturbating into the void. He picked up the huge book of War and Peace and tried to read by the light of his phone, but it was no use as the small words disappeared as quickly as they appeared on the page - and the battalions lived in a state of permeant war. The book felt good so he hugged it tight against his chest, until he was startled by his phone ringing. “Hello.” He said dreamily. “Why are you such a fruit?” A women’s voice said. “Who is this?” He looked around to Cheryl’s window. “Hiiii,” She was naked now. “You want to come and fuck me?” She looked like a billboard for a porno. “What about your husband?” Harry had met him once before after a bomb threat had forced everyone out onto the street; he was the hero type and was thoroughly helpful with the authorities. Harry looked at her sloping stomach that led down to a fully shaved pussy and said, “OK.” 

The door man looked at Harry the way you would look at someone coming out of sex shop, with intrigue and embarrassment, and then let him through the barricades and metal detectors and into the elevator where he hit No 8 instinctively, she lived on the same floor as he did, but the elevator was more modern and didn’t make a screaming sound the way his did. Walking down the hall she had already opened the door and the blue light leaked out into the otherwise dim corridor, as he went in. She was bent over the arm of the sofa and with the five steps it took him to reach her Harry managed to unzip his fly and get hard. She had a perfectly bulbed behind, blown and set in fire, her pussy was smooth and wet as he went inside her. Her back was a slide to a pool of black hair, and with her face hidden he looked out at his flat and thought how sad it looked from here, it was sparce to say the least, his ex-had taken all of her nice stuff that made a home feel warm and forgiving. Now it was a few books and a sofa, she could not be bothered to arrange for it to be taken with her when she left. Cheryls pussy sucked him back in and he did not have to do much but pushed a bit so the sofa scraped the floor boards a bit, he liked the sound it made, and was better than her fake high-pitched moans, we really were like minor birds. Harry came and sat next to her on the sofa. “You are a funny fish aren’t you.” She looked like she was about to cry so Harry said, “I better go.” 

In the street Harry heard the running of feet before the explosion, so it did not come as too much of a shock as three teens ran into his path, one hitting him in the chest and falling to the ground. The other two ran away immediately, as Harry thought that there was little camaraderie between them. The young boy looked into his eyes and searched for options and realising the grip Harry had, decided to plea. “Give me your bangers.” Harry said as the boy pleaded but gave them to him anyway. “And the light.” He added. Harry held the bundled together bangers and said, “Light us up.” The boy looked for reason but could not find any in Harrys eyes, so did what he had said. The fuse hissed, and the boy struggled, and every moment was in its flashing, until Harry let go and he ran and was at the end of the street just in time to look back and see the crazy man.

 

 

 

 

 

Tom Stuckey is a poet from Devon, England.