lot underneath your cheese and pickle sandwiches.
Luckily though, Archibald hadn’t.
Archibald’s lunch-box had fallen to the ground when he had tripped over his shoelace. With his hands screaming blue murder at him when he was upright again, he had turned back towards the house only to see the lunch-box sitting on the driveway in front of him. In a final outburst of explosive rage, culminating from the pain in his head, his hands and his knees, he had driven his shoe into the plastic container and had leathered it with all his might. Off the bonnet of the Mercedes the lunchbox did bounce and right underneath the kitchen window did the Tupperware tub land.
Events therefore followed as thus:
Janet was blown backwards off the chair as her foot sank down the plunger on the detonator. Glass blew inwards and rained down about her person as she tumbled to the floor, dragging the kitchen table down with her. One of those shards of glass surfed along on the powerful, invisible wave of air and embedded itself in her neck, not deep enough to kill her, but deep enough to send her into unconsciousness. Unbeknownst to her, the wall of the house, which had taken the brunt of the blast, teetered perilously above her. Tom, who had abandoned his work on the car brakes and had already stripped off in the cloakroom ready to do his proper ‘chores’ for Mrs Arkwright, had stepped out into the kitchen just as the explosion had stampeded through the room. The unfortunate Tom never had time to duck as the mug of hot coffee was projected off the coffee table as Janet upturned it, and the china cup struck him plum on the forehead. Scalding hot liquid immediately ate into his face and, stumbling around blindly, Tom trod on Janet’s neck, unwittingly forcing the shard of glass that had superficially pierced her skin, deeper into her and shredding her jugular as it went. Tom himself tripped forward, stumbled over Janet’s head, collided with the oven, grabbed it for support as he felt himself falling but only succeeded in pulling it down on top of him, permanently putting him out of his pain.
“Aaaarrrgggghhhh!” yelled Archibald as the deafening noise of the exploding trinitrotoluene almost blistered his already delicate brain. Being just far enough away from the ravenous jaws of the TNT’s clutches, Archibald was only blown backwards onto his rump by a dissipating blast of air.
When all the commotion had died down, Archibald sat and looked at his house in disbelief. All he could hear was an urrk, urrrk noise and he was a little uncertain, but wasn’t that part of the house wall swaying precariously to and fro over there?
Indeed it was. But not for much longer.
So.........
.......with a loud crash the kitchen wall toppled outwards away from the house and its fall was broken by the Mercedes with the dodgy brakes which was parked on the driveway which Tom had left with brakes unfixed in his eagerness to please Mrs Arkwright and so off the Mercedes trundled down the driveway gathering speed as it headed towards Archibald sitting on his bruised rear looking at the unmanned car with the faulty brakes coming towards him and then beyond into his kitchen were he could see two bodies lying motionless amongst a mess of cabinets and blood and cupboards and cutlery and crockery and then back to the Mercedes which was getting faster and faster as it headed towards him and then the bird left its perch in the tree and crapped on Archibald again when flying away from the stray cat as it tried to pounce upon its prey but the feline had only managed to miss and fall to the floor right in front of the wayward Mercedes which was rushing headlong towards Archibald which then bounced over the cat who let out a final miaaaaoooooww as it was crushed into the gravel driveway by the merciless speeding runaway car which was then ever-so-slightly diverted from its original course by the lumpy cat which had gotten splattered under its wheels and the speeding out-of-control broken Mercedes was no longer heading for Archibald who just sat on his throbbing backside in his trousers with holes in the knees through which he could see his bloodied flesh and his red raw hands grabbed his shit-stained head as he looked at his untied laces and then back to the mess of his kitchen and the dead bodies and the rubble on his driveway and that speeding Mercedes careering out of control but away from him after being diverted now heading straight for the tree right beside him where the bird with the loose ass had just been sitting before it sent the stray cat to its death and all Archibald could do was flinch nervously and bury his head in his sore hands before the final collision of car and tree and metal and wood happened with an almighty climax in a cacophony of crunching and banging and thumping and clanging and when it had finished Archibald was left in a silence which was so peaceful and caressing he forgot about his bleeding knees and his bleeding hands and his ruddy headache and the dead bodies in his kitchen and the bird crap on his head and shoulder and Archibald could almost taste the peacefulness and the glorious quiet that remained after the head-busting noise from the explosion and he was so at ease after all the kerfuffle that had gone before and so relishing the soothing silence which had taken away his pain that when the tree beside him made a loud uuuuuuurrrrrrkkkkkkk noise that obliterated his tranquility he couldn’t even be bothered to lift his head because after surviving all that had just gone before Archibald could all of a sudden feel deep down that his luck was about to run right out as the tall woody plant teetered precariously above him.
“Well at least my bloody hangover’s gone,” would have made a fitting epitaph, if only someone had been left to record it.
###
Thank you for reading my story. If you enjoyed it, won’t you please take a moment to leave me a review?
Thanks!
Lee A Jackson
About the author:
I began writing in my mid to late teens, sequestered away in my bedroom in rural south west England. The writing was borne out of a need to express myself and to communicate with the world, something I was not good at doing verbally. It became an outlet for me and my writing grew with me through the years.
For the longest time I had a fear of being forgotten and the way I figured to combat that would be to have a published book sat on a library shelf somewhere. I would have indelibly left my mark somewhere, long after I passed. To this day, the enduring nature of my words in print following my end, is comforting.
Other titles by Lee A Jackson
Blue Jay
S & M
A Cerberus Jaw
The Salvation of Sam
Twenty Minutes Later
Snow Falling in Colours
Kicking sand in the face of Jehovah
Connect with Me:
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Website: Visit Lee A Jackson's Blog
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