No Good Deed
Head down, huffing slightly, Adam
shuffles his polished wingtips into the park. He collapses on the first bench
he comes to. Thank God! I thought I’d
never get out of there. Checking his phone, he finds the battery is dead
and sticks it in his pocket. Great, just what I need! At least no one can bother
me for awhile. I’ll relish my time
while I have it. A meagre sun winks through the clouds. He raises his face and
squints towards it. I could stand to
absorb a little warmth. It’s a
sharpish tang out here. Sitting up, he snaps open the local newspaper and
feels a tug on his left pants leg. Startled, he frowns and the paper crackles
as it drops to his lap. What the...?
A little brown-haired girl in a
frilly dress looks tearfully at him. Her cashmere coat is open, and formal
white gloves adorn her hands. She pants as if she’s run hard, and tears stream
down her scrunched-up face. Her head jerks back and forth, and she looks around
as if she’s afraid. She’s dressed pretty
fancy for the park. Where did she come from? What scared her? He scans the
area and sees no one. Adam leans down as near her eye-level as he can. “What
seems to be the trouble, little miss? Where are your parents? Did someone chase
you? Are you hurt?”
With a quick shake of her head, she
holds up her arms, silently asking him to pick her up. What should I do? I don’t
know how to handle children. He quickly scans the near empty park again for
signs of anybody who could assist but comes up empty. Why is she here alone? The tiny girl’s eyes are red, tears continue
to flow, and she’s in distress. There’s
nothing for it, I suppose. “Come on up here, then.” Just how are you supposed to pick them up, anyway?
With a slight grunt, he lifts her to
his lap. In the struggle not to drop her and keep her clothes properly
arranged, his newspaper slid underneath the bench, spread out. Lord, she’s heavier than she looks!
Finally, she’s situated on his lap. Her hair smells of .wildflowers. “Is this
better now? My name is Adam, can you tell me yours?” He continually scans the
park, but there’s still no one in sight to call for help.
She pulls the right side of his suit
jacket away and lays her head over his heart as if to listen to its rapid
beating. She’s warm, this feels nice. She
sniffles, but nods affirmatively and with half-closed eyes says, “Amanda.” She
fumbles in her coat pocket for a wad of tissue, and something else. Wiping her
eyes, she moves her mouth close to his ear. It tickles when, with
bubblegum-laden breath, she whispers, “This is good, because I’m too short to
reach you from the ground.” What?
With that declaration, she sits up.
Using both hands, she plunges a sharp six-inch grill-skewer through his shirt,
and deep into his heart. “Thank you for being my present. I feel much better
now.” He freezes in shock. What’s
happening? This isn’t right! Amanda pats
the handle, before she pulls his jacket back over it, then slides off
his lap.
Singing, “Happy Birthday to me,” she
skips away. She circles around a small copse of trees, and stops next to a
trashcan. Amanda discards her tissues and a cut onion, before approaching a
swing set on the opposite side of the park from Adam. A teenage boy is texting
as he sits on one of the swings.
She scowls for a split second, and
fingers another skewer in her pocket, and then shrugs. Brightly, she calls,
“Hello, it’s my birthday today. Would you please push me on the swing for a
little bit?” Gravel crunches as he stands up and steps away. Smiling, she
arranges her skirts to get on, while the boy holds it for her
The scent of wildflowers and
bubblegum wafts up as the boy begins to push her. “You’re pretty small. How old
are you?”
“Hey, still growing here! I am ten
years old today, and my party is tonight.” After two or three minutes, Amanda
stops the swing and jumps off. “Thank you. Have a nice day.” Once again, she
begins to sing, “Happy Birthday to me,” and skips away towards home. I wonder what other presents I’m getting.
Adam’s immobilized with fear. The
coppery taste of blood in his throat prevents him from breathing, and allows no
words to escape. His eyes search frantically for help. He begins to slump over
the bench as if he fell asleep. Eventually blood soaks through his clothes, and
then works its way between the bench’s wooden seat slats before the first drop
splats onto the newspaper. Seven Unsolved Killings, No Suspects, screams the headline.
Douglas V. Miller is a disabled Vietnam veteran, writer, poet,
editor, and verbal storyteller. He has pieces in Continue the Voice,
four times in Terror house Magazine, four times in Open Door, The
Rational Creature, Writer’s Egg Magazine, three times in, Stripes,
and the anthologies, Mythology of the Heart, and April-June Open
Door Anthology. He is listed in Who’s Who of Emerging Writer’s 2021.
He describes the majority of his work as slice-of-life writing about his own
experiences; however, he also delves into other genres. He is a voracious
reader. Doug currently resides in the US Midwest.
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