Thirty-Nine Flash Fiction Story by Dominic Rivron

 

Thirty-Nine

Flash Fiction Story

by Dominic Rivron

 

He still knows his way there. Does one ever forget such things? Turn left off the dual carriageway, then left again, then right. The street is still there, with a pavement either side, even the street-sign on its two posts, in the grass. But the council houses are gone. The whole area has been meticulously flattened and, where the house once stood, there's only grass. It's short so, presumably, someone comes round now and again to mow it. He parks the car outside one of the invisible houses, although he's not sure which one. He gets out. He has no need of a coat. It's one of those nondescript days between summer and autumn when it's neither too hot nor too cold. Some would say it was bleak, but you get a good view of the sky from this low broad-topped hill. Right now, it's filled with a jumble of clouds, although it shows no sign of raining. He walks up and down the pavement, past the invisible houses, wondering where his house used to be. Thirty-nine. They'd not stayed long. They'd papered the walls for nothing. If they'd stayed, they would've been moved into the new, housing association flats on the other side of the valley, along with everybody else. He comes to a point where he can line up the church on the hill opposite with a tree. He remembers looking out of the upstairs window at the back doing this and thinks this is probably where number thirty-nine once stood. He wishes he had a spade so that he can dig up the grass and down through all the crushed bricks and concrete underneath, to see if he can find anything familiar. The remains of a broken light-switch, perhaps. Something like that. Part of a toy, or a Lego-brick, even. That would be asking too much. He remembers the little one pottering about in the garden – a small patch of grass behind the house. She must've left something there. But he hasn't got a spade and, even if he did have, it would be just his luck for someone to come along and stop him. It must all remain uniformly flat and be mown once a month, like a graveyard. They might even call the police. Criminal damage. Digging up the past with intent.

Dominic Rivron writes mainly short stories and poetry. He also writes reviews. His work has been published in a number of print and online magazines, including The Beatnik Cowboy, International Times, The Milk House, Fragmented Voices and Stride Magazine. He lives in the North of England. His blog can be found at http://asithappens55.blogspot.com