A flash fiction for Christmas.
We found him behind the bins at the bottom of the big school playing field when we dared Elsa to kick an old black boot, peeling around the sole, poking out from the garbage. As she raised her leg to give it a wallop, the boot scuffled away. Elsa screamed, and so did we, running back to the top of the field. Ms. Keel shook her head at us.
The image of the moving boot ruffles through us in whispers and classroom daydreams. Johnson says it was magic, and we can’t believe he believes in magic. We tease him until his face turns the colour of... well, red things.
A week later, curiosity drags us back to the bins when Ms. Keel’s distracted. We creep closer, swatting flies impervious to the winter chill, given life by the foulness that lives amongst the trash. Crouched in the darkness, all red rags and dirty grey fluff, is the most ancient man we’ve ever seen. He smells like the classroom after summer break when Ms. Keel forgot to take the class hamster home and, weirdly, cinnamon.
His eyes are shrivelled in his dirt-crusted face. They’re two empty black sockets, but something sparkles in the dark hollows. A light that refuses to go out. We inhale sharply, our fear synchronised as he opens a toothless grin. Like an old party balloon, he wheezes towards us, ‘Ho, Ho …’ before dissolving into a cough that sounds like bones breaking.
We scream and run away.
Elsa and Susie say he’s just a homeless man, but there aren’t supposed to be homeless any more. Susie says that’s stupid because there are lots of things that aren’t supposed to exist any more, but they do, just in secret.
She’s always been a know-it-all. We make faces at her behind her back.
The man isn't there when we go down to the bins again. In his place is a plate with half a rotten cookie and a dirty glass of what looks like old milk—a straggly piece of tinsel and a mouldy carrot. We don’t know what it means.
Ms. Keel calls for us, and we run. And we keep running.
Away from what no longer exists.
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