"Plus one?" by Claire O'Moore

Use this forum to post short stories that you have written. This is for getting comments and constructive feedback. This is for original, creative works. You must post the actual text, no links.
Post Reply
ShortStoryContest
Posts: 41
Joined: 01 Mar 2007, 07:47
Bookshelf Size: 0

"Plus one?" by Claire O'Moore

Post by ShortStoryContest »

The following story has been selected as a featured runner-up in our 2015 short story contest (Contest Theme - "The Self-Destructiveness of Vengeance and Hate")

"Plus one?" by Claire O'Moore

The congregation grew in awe as the revered words spluttered from Alicia and Greg ‘I Do’. The priest bowed his head which was marked with shreds of hair like pouches of cotton. The flower girl swayed her feet up and down as if she were on a see-saw. Her dress swished and flopped with every kick. The bride’s father viewed them myopically as he patted his head with the handkerchief that hung like a noose from his coat pocket. His eyes switched to his watch quickly and dawdled there as if he were to disappear any moment. ‘He promised he’d be here’, he murmured, the words hitting against the bristles near his mouth. A cluster of sweat swam from his forehead but was luckily trapped by the handkerchief. He tilted his head and pierced at his daughter out from his horn rimmed glasses. She had an oblong face which was coated in make-up concealing any imperfection. Her brown hair was pinned firmly away from her face held in place by hooks. Her body was covered by a white cloud that ringed around her and curled around the altar. Alicia’s father’s face crumpled up and distorted into a haggard man as he seen the tint of love in her eyes. He broke his stare and began weeping mimicking the groom’s mother. The succulent smell of daisies danced in the air. Everyone glanced at them hypnotically dazed by the pollen that wiggled up their nostrils. The priest’s nose looked inflamed, as if it were dipped in red paint. A croak rose in the priest’s throat as he concluded the ceremony but the oak doors flung open simultaneously and a pandemonium broke out. Heads darted to the door and a choir of screams followed. Some man in the back row blinked incessantly and tried to gauge his own eyes out form such a sight. One of the bridesmaids dressed in lemon flushed white and thumped to the floor like a fly. Screams oscillated as they bounced from the pipes of the organ. The bride’s father dived to the aisle from where he was sitting. He stood there, his eyes fixed down the centre and his arm outstretched with his index finger pointing. ‘What have you done?’ He roared indignantly clutching his gut as his feet gave way.



‘You bastard!’ Tracey barked at the front door. Hugh fumbled with the keys outside and finally pitched the right one into the cub-hole. He hunched his body behind the door as he slowly opened it. Trace grabbed the petty ornaments that adorned the hall and flung it at the door. ‘You bastard!’ she vehemently spat, as she choked on her tears. Hugh stood perplexed and picked up a gust of courage. He bust the door open and his oversized coat looked as if it swallowed him up. His glasses poked out from under his black woollen hat. His eyes fell to his wife, who slumped by the stairway shaking her head. ‘Tracey!’ he admonished running to her side. ‘What’s wrong with you?’ he breathed, as he cupped her face in his hands. Tracey’s heart welled with distrust. ‘Get off me!’ she sniffed, tugging her sides. Tracey smacked his hands away, and the wounds Hugh tried to mend were wringing. Hugh stepped back and tore his hat from his head. He averted his eyes to the kitchen and frowned. The lines on his forehead ran deep, you swore it was drilled for oil with the rich cuts that ran across it. His eyes were sullen and sprouted from purple sockets disguised by the horn-rimmed glasses. His face was sagged from a life of disappointment. Hugh was a stout man and he had a full flock of hair until he was thirty five. He was now fifty seven and often hid under hats or wigs he picked up from garage sales. Hugh dreaded humiliation and was in no mood for Tracey’s whimsical tantrum. ‘Look, Tracey what’s wrong? Goddammit’, he exasperated. Rage was heaving from his chest. ‘What’s wrong? What’s wrong? What’s wrong’ Tracey retorted with a broken chord of sadness. She stood, consoling herself for a moment and blurted out with sheer venom ‘You pathetic fool. How long did you think you’d get away with this again? Yeah cut all ties my hole! You sick, disgusting, filthy rat!’ Tracey bit. Hugh twisted his face into a grimace and snapped ‘You’re crazy! You make no sense’. He shook his head dismissively and trudged into the kitchen. Tracey had bags lined against the kitchen wall and Hugh made a quizzical look. He ran to the hallway where he found Tracey whimpering against the stairway. Hugh bent down and brushed Tracey’s hair from her face. ‘AH Get off me!’ She thumped his chest. ‘This came in the post today’. She shook an invitation that dangled from her splayed hand. Hugh squinted his eyes but couldn’t make it out. ‘It’s a wedding. Remember your daughter Alicia? You had with that fat cow. Well Alicia, she’s getting married’, Tracey cried flinging the card at him.



Tracey and Hugh had been married twenty seven years but only four years into their marriage the cracks began to surface and the love they shared thawed. A veil of dust smothered them as Hugh grew thirsty for his secretary Hilda. Hugh viewed the fling as frivolous but he couldn’t resist Hilda’s plump lips that pumped lust into his veins. Hilda did in fact have a corpulent figure. She always managed to squeeze into a size twelve, fearful that the button would break and discard her rolls of fat. Hugh had ogled her with his eyes as he miscalculated the budget for the year ahead. She would stumble out of the office light-headed and disorientated always adjusting her bra strap and smacking her lips together. In office meetings, she would parade around the desk disclosing the minutes from the last meeting, always pausing and discreetly brushing her tits against Hugh’s neck. Hugh and Hilda’s discretion was begotten as he blurted it to Tracey in a night of passion. ‘OOH HILDA!’ Hugh exclaimed as he reached climax. Tracey laid there numb, reciting the name over and over. Tracey threatened to leave with their son Ricky, who was two at the time, on numerous occasions. Hugh pleaded with Tracey to stay, professing the love he had for her and Ricky. Only one solution presented itself in Tracey’s mind. ‘You must be rid her Hugh, sever all ties. Lose all contact with her. Don’t you realise what she’s trying to do?’ Tracey coaxed. Hilda’s divine pillowed thighs bounced, in Hugh’s head, as ripples of skin crawled away with a touch. He capitulated and kissed Tracey’s head, ‘yes my love’, he whispered with the same sickly mouth that yearned for Hilda. Seven months had passed and the phone had rang on the eve of Christmas, December twenty fourth. The red light flashed on the answering machine for two days or so until Tracey and Hugh caught it flickering on December twenty sixth. Hugh clicked the button and the whole house was consumed by shock. The lilting boisterous voice slithered from the audio tape and pricked the hairs down Tracey’s back. ‘Um, Hi Hughey! Well like I mentioned months ago the baby was due for today and low and behold you have a daughter, Alicia. She’s seven pounds. She can’t wait to meet her daddy! I’m in St. Harold’s maternity ward one twenty’, the doting voice, sickened Tracey to the core and in a drone she ordered ‘delete it’. Hugh swore, ‘I’ll never see her’ and Tracey believed him but today was different.

As he uttered the words ‘I never had any contact with her. Believe me!’ Tracey shuddered. ‘Yeah right’ she scoffed. She looked bedraggled as the mascara slid down her cheeks. Tracey glared at Hugh malignantly and wanted him dead. ‘I can’t do this any longer!’ she shrieked and skimmed past him to the kitchen. She wrapped her hands around the bags that were waiting for her and scurried to the front door. Her feet skipped over the glass on the floor. ‘Where are you going?’ enquired Hugh delicately. ‘I’m going on a vacation. I can’t stand it anymore. Tell Ricky I’m gone. Or have you forgotten about your son too?’ Tracey left leaving an air of hostility.



Hugh had an estranged relationship with his son Ricky. Hugh pondered forlornly, his sharp long teeth trimming the head of each nail as his head slid side to side like a typewriter. ‘Ricky’ the name resonated with Hugh as block letters branched and scratched at his mind. From the day Ricky was born, Hugh always tapped into this eerie sensation that smothered the boy. He tried to resist this inexplicable urge to repel Ricky. Hugh’s glasses would wobble with panic when left alone with his son. A cold chill climbed Hugh’s back. Ricky would ruefully wail sending gashes of shock and horror to his father. Hugh would stare at Ricky stupefied swearing that he saw a glimmer of a smirk stretch from cheek to cheek. Ricky ridiculed Hugh’s distress and revelled in it. Hugh would jitter in his sleep, troubled by his restless mind. One dream amongst many that assailed him, flooded his mind for years. A dirty scar that never failed in haunting him. The dream was based in the rotten clutches of hell. Blood smeared clothes flapped from railings and the floor was strewn with these marred clothes as if they were a carpet. Carcases were plopped on the stairs leading to the throne. Skeletal hands dangled from the ceiling. Bugs brushed up and down, swerved to and fro and hummed some incantation. Hell was incandescent with rage and evil, which banged on the walls. Hugh stroked his parched throat. The emaciated bodies of men danced coquettishly in chains, while rats climbed the ladders of their ribcages. Women stood questionably their skin ripened with scars and their tongues sewn to the palms of their hands. A bunch of fingers jutted out of their mouths accusingly at Hugh. Their heads were shaven with the stubs of teeth planted up there, harvested in rows. Hugh stood there aghast and they threatened to whip him with the tongue that hung from their palms as they flailed their hands in the air, waving ferociously. In that instant, the whole room went dim, and his eyes fell on a tiny baby that was in the corner. Hugh’s heart was racing and he ran to this spectre of hope and mercy. ‘Ricky?’ he called, slightly bemused and the tiny head made a convulsive spin. Opaque, black, sturdy eyes halted Hugh and he stood frozen. Hugh’s ears cringed at the sound of a chuckle. ‘Oh, father, you’ll pay for this’, the squeaky demonic voice rose from the baby’s mouth. Hugh was instantly ordered to wake by the wailing of Ricky that breezed through the house. He pleaded with Tracey not to go but his attempt was futile. He winced in bed as his shoulders hunched upwards protecting his ears. On the baby monitor he heard the exact chuckle from the dream. Hugh shuddered, stared at it big-eyed and eventually summoned some strength to click it off.



It was no surprise to Hugh that Ricky ended up working in a funeral home. Ricky drove around in a hearse with meticulous effort. He dodged the jutting corners of the side walk. He traced the carriage slowly across the bundles of deadfall. He held the steering wheel with stern control never flinching even with the annoyance of a buzzing fly. Ricky was fastidious when it came to driving the hearse. His eyes would bulge with delight and he would swap his former indulgent self with a focused man but his surreptitious spark would always cling to him regardless. He would tremor with excitement that death lurched from every corner in the hearse. Ricky gulped the thick, foreboding scent of death that pricked his mouth and tickled his nose. The smell of death followed Ricky wherever he went. The stench of the hearse would seep out of the exhaust pipe and whirl in the air paralyzing the successive car. When Ricky opened the car door, the acrid smell of death hit whoever was in sight. Ricky grew accustomed to judging eyes and mouths ajar. He used this ungodly smell like cologne. The hearse was most definitely Ricky’s prize possession. He was infatuated by it. Ricky had a sharp mind and soon began implementing his quirky touch. Ricky longed for a secret compartment within the hearse where he could put his groceries, he explained to the better half of himself that doubted this proposal. His better self, wilted like a dead flower. Ricky rolled the hearse into his garage, set out the plans and began constructing his proclaimed masterpiece. He started at the back of the hearse and began smashing it with a mallet and plugging screws in and out with a drill. Ricky made the back of the hearse, where the coffin laid, into a revolving door. He connected some wires and his hand dug into the back pockets of his baggy jeans retrieving a remote. With the press of a button the panel at the back of the hearse lifted and revealed two empty sectors. Within seconds the panel tumbled to its underside. Ricky was ecstatic silenced by his astonishment. He stood there watching the panel twist. ‘Genius!’ he uttered breaking the silence. ‘Now you have a place to hide’, he reassured the spirit of death, which permeated the cart. Ricky innately knew he was different and odd. He felt the anathema that cradled his father when he was alone with him and he despised him for it. Ricky always sought to break the tension that encompassed both him and his father together. Ricky really felt the new job was the break-through but he was utterly wrong. His father gapped at him stunned and reverted even more so inwards. The look that beamed from his glasses piqued Ricky. He was shun by his own father. Ricky’s cheeks puffed with redness. ‘There’s no pleasing you, is there?’’ Ricky retaliated bruised by such an indecent stare. Hugh was flabbergasted. He just wanted to recoil from his son then and there. Instead Hugh’s tongue dampened his lips and he spoke in hushed tones ‘look Ricky it’s a bizarre career path that’s all and I’m..’ He broke off stunted by the word ‘proud’ that blazed in his mind. Ricky snarled and cajoled by his dignity marched out of the house.

Every night that week, at two in the morning, Ricky drove laps around his parent’s neighbourhood. The idling engine of the hearse growled outside his parent’s home, as he honked the horn several times until he seen the twitch of the curtains and glasses poking outwards. Ricky’s ruddy jowl bounced up and down, as a fit of laughter seized him. He was forced to stop this insane malarkey when noise complaints amounted. It gave Ricky a wicked thrill to wind his father up.

Ricky was completely enthralled by himself, mystified by his own appearance. Ricky’s ears peaked out from his skull. His hair was shaved around his head. The top of his head bedded a scruff of fair hair which was always glazed with gel. These spikes of hair pointed in all directions. Ricky had droopy eyes and teeth that climbed on top of each other. Ricky was average height and donned a pair of runners which were never stained and retained the crystal white colouring. To many women he was gruesome, cursed by the entrails of death. Ricky was quite bigoted and misogynistic this was indeed blurred by his own, man-made ideals of chivalry. Ricky was a regular at, ‘The Old Aisle’, a pub that stood in town. Each letter loosely hung by a nail that dug into them. The writing was askew, and would immediately instil an epileptic fit upon the feeble, with the dizzying letters whirling round and round. Inside the light was dim, with the flickering lightbulb flashing sparks of life now and again. ‘Sure, new instalment is it Tony? Turning this joint into a disco are yeah?’ the old men, with bloated stomachs, would jeer at the owner and snigger callously. The pub was small with five tables in total scattered around the room. Each table was stained with a tartan paper cloth. Four stools wobbled at the counter. The legs of the stools bent as if they were conditioned with rickets. Ricky went to the pub every Saturday night, feverishly awaiting the young girls that would stumble in, tottering their heels against the hard linoleum floor. Ricky would sit in the corner of the pub on a table on his own. He always ordered a bowl of nuts. He gnawed, sucked and splashed his ailing tongue around the spicy coat of the nut as his eyes followed the arms of the ticking clock. When the hands clapped together and struck twelve his eyes would run to the door. Young girls and fellas bustled their way into the pub, their pockets jingling with loose change. Hands would duck into pockets, scooping up notes and coins. The long droning buzz of ‘The Doors’ kick started and the guitar solo along with Jim’s distinct lyrical voice pelted at the windows, as Tony spun the volume dial. Girls stood clattering their heels against the tiles, bopping their heads up and down like a whale gasping for air. Boys swayed with blood shot eyes. The old men catapulted out of the bar, with miffed faces and busy feet. Ricky was a lecher who watched young couples embrace one another. His agog grew and he shot his crude desires at the teenagers who pressed up against each other. ‘Ah GO ON YOU FILTHY SLUT! YOUR FELLA’S GAGGING FOR IT!’ His face lit up with a devilish smile and his tongue slid across his teeth. Ricky was undeniable vulgar, and when addressing women he would conspicuously glare at their bosoms and remark ‘nice pair’. Ricky would always seek out the drunkest girl in a group like a joker in a deck of cards, his lucky pick. Ricky’s mind rambled on playing ‘eenie meanie miney mo’ finally he conceded and approached the girl that fancied his first choice. The girl stood hugging the side of the wall. Her blonde hair like ivy clung to her face. Her cleavage almost burst out from her dress as her chest pounced up and down trying to escape these clutches of clothing. The girl was slim as the dress wrapped around her like a bandage. Ricky’s eyes bulged with interest. He patted her back and slowly laced his hand around the curve of her dress as if he were sewing some sequence. He pulled her closer and whispered quite suavely ‘So wanna ride? There’s a place out back’ his eyes busily roaming around her body. The smell of death waggled up the girl’s nose and pulped her conscious. She broke away from Ricky’s grip and stooping down low she hurled a puddle of vomit onto Ricky’s pristine white Nike runners. Ricky found it appetizing, and counted this courtship a success. ‘They needed a good wash love’, he assured himself. ‘Father would be proud, I almost snatched myself a seven’’, he gloated. Ricky was deeply stung by his father’s rejection and begged for an opportunity to get his revenge.



When Hugh punched Ricky’s number into the phone, he felt uneasy. Hugh’s hand shook and the clinking of his bones sounded like a rattling cage. His frantic worry was alleviated by the beeping jumps of the phone. When the phone snapped awake by Ricky’s voice, the worry almost drowned Hugh. Hugh’s voice cracked as he uttered the words ‘son’. ‘Ah and what do you want?’ responded Ricky haughtily. Ricky sounded out of breath and Hugh could almost feel the perspiration soak the phone. ‘Well, I just thought you ought to know that your mother is gone’, Hugh rushed his rehearsed lines. ‘What do you mean by gone?’ Ricky shouted reprovingly. ‘Well, she’s gone packed up her things and gone. That’s what I mean.’ Silence followed for a minute or so. ‘Well, it’s grand for some’, Ricky laughed grudgingly. ‘Tis’, Hugh spoke relieved. ‘So, eh, is that it Dad?’ Hugh was alarmed by the sound of ‘dad’ and felt itchy all over. ‘Well, no, there’s something else but I’d rather see you in person about it’, Hugh bit down hard on his lower lip anticipating the answer. ‘Oh well in that case I can see you next week at the earliest’, Ricky responded a trifle bemused. ‘I’ll see you then’, and the call ended with a flash of sudden familiarity, no goodbyes. Hugh fell silent and was covered by a heavy blanket of guilt.

A couple of days had past and Hugh couldn’t help but fret about Tracey. ‘Where has she gone?’ Then as if Hugh were cast with some odd premonition he heard the mouth of the letter box open and the digestion of letters as they hit the cool wooden floor. Hugh tore free from the blankets that tied to him loosely on the double bed. He jerked his legs and popped them onto the chill, oak floor. Hugh’s toes jumped as if they had a weird and impulsive pursuit to wink. His feet took off, counted in by the toes perhaps. Hugh dashed down the stairs. The skin on his face flapped like wings brushing through the air. Hugh’s feet halted at the end of the stairs. Disgust ate him up inside and was diagnosed by the rings of lines on his face. His eyes were gleaming with envy and speckles of fear. The post-card that sat in the hall spiked Hugh in the gut. He looked at it incredulously, whilst his right foot stamped. The stamp chorused through the hall like the ringing of open fire signalling Tracey’s revolt. Hugh picked up the postcard and gazed at it momentarily. His fingers traced the swirls of waves printed on the front. Blue, green, white colours exploded on to the intrusive bouldering rocks. He could make out a tiny, obscure figure caressing the nylon strings of a ukulele. Hugh imagined the sweet chirping of birds overhead conducting a harmony in falling thirds. Women, men and children laid supine under a purple umbrella. Their skin was scarcely scratched with red marks of sun burn. Heads with bushy hair rocked in the sea, as if they were impaled. An aqueduct stood prominently behind the scenery, with an Italian flag standing on top of this mound of bricks. Hugh was struck with confusion, ‘Why Italy?’ Hugh flipped the card to the back. The writing was smudged and clearly rushed. Tracey loved showing off her erudition. Every anniversary, birthday card Hugh ever received from her was scribed with supplementary ponderous passages from Charles Dickens, William Shakespeare and the Bronte sisters. Tracey fed her mind with literary prophets. Her usual meddling of cards was omitted however. Hugh felt his face go crimson and his eyes sink into a pool of tears, her tedious perfection was gone, obliterated and Hugh was inconsolable. His eyes still managed to scan through the scrambling letters of this brisk, new, frightening hand. Hugh noticed that the ink was still fresh and he pulled the door open. ‘I’ll catch that scumbag, good for nothing postman and he’ll squeal. Mark my words.’ Hugh‘s ploy was superfluous. The street was empty, motionless if it were not for the fog that hovered past him. Hugh retreated inside and shut the door. His eyes furrowed under his hairy eyebrows as he began to read the post card.



‘Ciao Hugh,

Hope all is well. Io sono spiacente. I can’t be with you no longer. I’m starting a fresh in the great, ripe land of Italy. Alicia, oh I wish I could scorn that child and perhaps I will. But Hugh it’s you who betrayed me and I’m numb at the very thought. I embed everything with you but I simply now forfeit and retire. I’ll spend the rest of my days in the luxury of the son. You can do as you please and I permit that! Hugh you have lost me entirely but I’ll still grant you freewill. I need to extract that last bit just a little. Don’t even try and find me. Do me one favour, and don’t be perfidious, continue without me. I don’t want you much longer. I really wish that you swallow these words and completely absorb them. Maybe someday soon the roles will be reversed and you’ll suffer just as much as I did. But, I guess, only time will tell.

Arrivederci,

Tracey.’

The writing was progressively incoherent as it squished together near the corners. Hugh was mind-boggled and proof read the card three times. His eyes lingered on the word ‘son’ it was a small blunder that Tracey would never conceive in making. It didn’t make sense. Then suddenly ‘Ricky’ sprang to Hugh’s mind. ‘Crap! Ricky! I have to meet him in half an hour’, Hugh gasped running upstairs to get changed.

Ricky sat outside the designated meeting spot, ‘Chase this Café’. The fluorescent lights etched each word in a dazzling array of green and yellow. Ricky looked miffed as his fingers attacked the metal table with consistent tapping. His eyes rolled and his free hand rummaged through his pockets filtrating through the change and blood soaked tissue. He felt the sharp corners of the cigarette box, he pulled one out and set it alight. Ricky loved the authenticity and beauty smoking beheld which many overlooked. He loved the sprinkling of dead ash and the clouds of smoke. It reminded him of life. His inane thoughts led him to believe he was genuinely inhaling someone’s soul. ‘I’ll just suck you up there buddy’ and he laughed uncontrollably. The laugh was more like a roar that lavishly poured from his mouth. His eyes turned to the road and his face cemented into a stern grimace. Trucks pivoted on the highway scrubbing their lean rubber tires against the over-used road. The engine coughed once and it glided away. Ricky began fidgeting. His chubby, round fingers grasped the menu that stood rigidly in the centre. He shot it straight into his mouth and began cruising it between his teeth. He raked his gums and savoured the taste of blood that popped out like confetti. He slurped every dribble of blood from his face when a robust waitress approached. Her hair was cropped short, unevenly around her ears. Her eyes were inked open, the lids strained as she tried not to blink. She was propelled forward by her doc martins. She carelessly smacked Ricky’s table with a jug of water. Beads of water spluttered from the jug and the girl half-sprinted back, to her refuge, inside the café. ‘Stupid lesbian!’ Ricky snapped and returned his gaze to the road.

A silver ford focus skidded on the terrain of sloppiness. Cracks on the road were even more so abundant. They were carefully sculpted and stapled on the road as they twisted forward and back just to arrest their duplicate imposters. Chunks of stones were scattered everywhere like petals. The ford focus swerved and turned into the parking space directly outside ‘Chase this Café’. It was applauded by the crunching stones breathing under the tires. Hugh stomped out of the car and trudged his way towards Ricky, who sat disinterested. Hugh’s head shot up and he sank into the chair opposite Ricky. ‘Oh, jeez sorry I’m late Ricky. This morning I got....’ and his mouth stopped chattering. Hugh’s eyes sealed by his glasses multiplied in size. His eyes followed Ricky’s hand that stroked his chin. Ricky’s right hand was dotted in black ink. A litter of black circles spun around Ricky’s fingers like a spider web. Hugh couldn’t help but think about the smudged post card. ‘Thinking of something drastic? Are yeah? Is Ricky gonna buy this I wonder? Just quit the act dad. And quit squinting at me!’ Ricky shivered. ‘What d’ya want anyway?’ Ricky asked warily. Ricky lounged in the chair tugging at his face as if it were a curtain. Hugh swept his forehead with a cool hand and composed himself measurably. ‘Well, your mother as you know is gone?’ ‘Ya’ Ricky’s sudden response made Hugh jump and he shifted in his chair. ‘Well there’s a reason for that’, Hugh resumed. Ricky smiled wanly and hushed the words ‘I know why’. Ricky’s face distorted into a shameful look as he choked on the name ‘Alicia’. ‘WHAT?’ Hugh gasped and his heart pounded, knocking out any other sound. ‘Cut the crap, dad, mom told me about her years ago. Your job’s done, over, finito. I don’t need to hear about it again’, Ricky resigned. ‘Well ok then. You know her but there’s something else’. Ricky looked at him alarmed ‘What?’ he breathed questionably. ‘She’s getting married and the wedding is in a couple of days. I just think, you know, it would be good for ye to be united.’ ‘What are you suggesting?’, Ricky pouted his lips. ‘Well, I want you to go with me Ricky’, Hugh said shakily. ‘Really dad? You want me to go with you?’ Ricky sounded chuffed. Hugh nodded his head weakly. ‘Well in that case can I bring a plus one?’ Ricky pleaded with his eyes. Hugh was stunned and his words jumped ‘Why of course’. Ricky leaned forward and squeezed Hugh’s hand. ‘Thanks dad. You won’t forget this.’ Hugh was bewildered. He was taken aback by how smoothly it all played out. Hugh didn’t understand what Ricky meant, it was all so cryptic but he didn’t question it. He was wooed by his son’s major turn-around. Hugh’s lips upturned as he dwelled on that evening.

It was the day of the wedding and Hugh was wrestling with his nerves. He couldn’t get hold of Ricky but he ultimately knew Ricky would make an appearance. Hugh dressed in a tweed coat, he stuffed the top-pocket with a red handkerchief. On the way to the church he swivelled in the driver’s chair. No-one was in sight but the bridal entourage, the rest already seated. Alicia stood promptly outside and stole Hugh’s breath. She was beautiful. Hugh hastily jumped out of the ford focus. His arms glued to his sides, peeled off this odd restriction and embraced her. Hugh stammered on the words that flung from his mouth. ‘You look beautiful Alicia’, his eyes dampened shadowed by his glasses. Alicia was radiant with joy. She knitted her arm around her fathers’ and hurried into the church. ‘Let’s go dad’, she urged with a note of haste muddled with excitement. Hugh and Alicia, blended together, walked down the aisle. Heads with unfamiliar faces turned and nodded. Every face was printed with a smile or hidden behind a tissue. Hugh’s eyes wavered in every angle, cautiously searching for Ricky. He couldn’t pin-point his distinguished spikes. Hugh felt defeated, Ricky was nowhere in sight. Hugh escorted Alicia down this tunnel of warmth and commitment. He banned Ricky from his mind during this moment of purity. Hugh casually took his seat in the front pew and the ceremony began.

Ricky pawed his phone that buzzed on the dash board. ‘Fifteen missed calls’ lit up on the screen. ‘Jesus talk about desperate. That old man would wanna put a sock in it’. Ricky adjusted his tie in the front view mirror. The hearse was parked round the side of the church which prohibited entry. He waited there all morning stubbing cigarette butts down the steps of the air-conditioning vent as if dubbing it the knight of cool air. His ears tickled as he heard the tremolo of strings. It had begun. An hour had passed and Ricky took action. He pushed the driver’s door open and leaped to the back of the hearse where he flung the back doors open. Ricky fiddled in his pocket for the remote. He drew the remote out and with one stubby finger pressed down hard. The revolving panel creaked as the wood ached with such pressure. The smell that blew out hit Ricky in the face. It was a vile, pungent smell that caught on to the wind and almost bludgeoned Ricky. Vomit swam to Ricky’s mouth but was pushed back down. Ricky looked down into the dark compartment which was now home to a woman’s corpse. Ricky effortlessly bent down and scooped up the woman in a tattered white dress. He popped her on top of his shoulders and ran like a huntsman. Once he reached the front of the church, he rested the corpse against the great white pillar that guarded the oak solid doors. The body looked dishevelled. Life was completely drained out of her, she was pallid and lines of skin bunched up like wrinkles resembling a decrepit raisin. Scraps of skin tried to cling to her but couldn’t revealing the raw, dry flesh. The hair had lumps of blood mashed in to it. The white dress was torn and dyed with blood. The face was sliced like cucumbers and an eyeball hung from a thread. Ricky hurdled his body against the oak doors and listened fervently, cocking his head to one side. Within seconds he heard the words that heralded him inside. He picked up the lifeless body and whimpered, ‘Ok, it’s time Mom. You look beautiful. It’s time to get back at dad and that horrible, bitch Alicia’. With his left arm, he lifted the body by the waist and poised her by his shoulder. ‘You’re such a divine plus one’, and he barged the doors open.
Post Reply

Return to “Creative Original Works: Short Stories”