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Banging My Head Against A Brick Wall

This is a piece of 'flash fiction' I wrote a few years back for a competition. Quite frankly, I think any writing competition that charges you money to enter is a con.


Memories. Like when the cat shat on the mat, and I got the blame. It wasn't me, mummy. I was just in the wrong place at the wrong time. Like now.

I haven't run since I was a kid. But I'm running now. But the people gaining on me, laughing and screaming, really are kids. Don't they run well? Wish I was young again. And fast. Fast as a kid on speed. But I'm not.

Down this side alley. Let's hope it leads to a brightly-lit street. Full of people. Yob-frighteners. Witnesses.

But it doesn't. It's blind. Like me without my glasses.

There's loud laughter from behind as I bang up against a brick wall. I turn round. Mirth. I wish I could see it … in a different light.

Why hadn't I emigrated? I've wanted to for years now.

“Money, boys?” I say. “Mobile phone?”

“Yeah,” says one lad. “Afterwards. But first we want some good British fun.”

And then it kicks off. With kicks.

I'm British. But I'm wishing I wasn't now. I'll lie down, boys, and think of England. Go ahead, lads. Do your worst. Just leave off my brain. Don't make it burst.

They say boys don't cry. I don't. Because I can't. My mouth is pulp.

My head-light begins to go out. I want my attackers to cry … when they're being buggered … in prison.

But as brain-darkness descends, I remember - British cops only catch people for traffic offences.


Fiction


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