Mike Never Ever Listened to Marion Yet Somehow Felt it was Appropriate to Speak for Her
by Sharon Boyle
She’s in the attic, sitting in a burst armchair under a bare, lit bulb, waiting for Mike.
They used to socialise in the lounge until a neighbour chanced by and screamed, ‘Holy
Fucking Jesus!’. Now Mike climbs the retractable ladder each night to moan about humdrumness while she listens with unblinking eyes. She wonders if the photo is still on the mantelpiece: Mike and Marion, the Very Amazing Ventriloquist Act. They were a very average act, but she loved the limelight and the applause, no matter how smattering. They had a professional, platonic relationship and life was grilliant.
On Mike’s next visit, her jaw clack-clacks let’s resurrect our act but he doesn’t hear. He’s
too busy jabbering about a secret marriage.
‘Yes, Mike, I’d love to wed you,’ he falsettoes.
What the...
Her jaw cl-cl-cl-clacks, the air frizzes, the bulb pulses and glows; a surge of energy floods the room, flaring, engulfing, till POP!
He awakes, groggy. ‘What’s going on?...Darling?’
She gags him, hisses DUMMY! and jerk-walks her tiny body out the door.
He’s in the attic, trussed in the chair, eyes blinking and blinking under the bare, broken bulb.
Sharon's stories and flashes have been published on-line and in magazines, including Ellipsis Zine, Reflex Fiction and Janus Lit. Her dream is to have a writing shed so she can potter and procrastinate in total peace. She tweets as @SharonBoyle50
This story was shortlisted in the April 24 Monthly Micro Competition