The Writers Bureau Short Story Competition 2019
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The Runner-up of Flash Fiction Competition 2018

Michelle Christophorou

3rd Prize

Michelle Christophorou

Michelle Christophorou has been writing flash fiction and short stories for about 18 months and has won or been Highly Commended in several competitions, including the latest BIFFY50 Microfiction Contest. She has an MA in Victorian Literature, so often feels she should try writing something a bit longer. In an earlier life, she practised law in the City of London, and lives in Surrey with her husband and son. She occasionally tweets @MAChristophorou.

 

Stinky Play-Doh Guy

His time had come. His chance to shine. John swallowed, then put down his bag. Picked it up again. Placed it on his lap; cradled it like a shield, or a well-loved cat (he couldn’t decide which). Cleared his throat and said, “Excuse me. I think you should leave her alone.”

The man opposite didn’t flinch. His hand remained steady on the knife at the girl’s throat. Or should it be young woman’s? John always used the wrong words. He remembered Lucy, scathing: “It’s disabled. Nobody says handicapped anymore.”

No one else in the carriage stirred either. Typical. It had all kicked off soon after they pulled out of Chesham. John wondered what would happen when they reached Chalfont & Latimer. Would everyone get off? Would new people get on? Nobody had pulled the emergency cord: the man said not to, or he’d cut her.

John tried again, a slight resistance in his lips as they parted. “Please. There’s no need for this.”

The girl / young woman (do you even need the young?) opened her eyes wider. She called to mind a doe John had encountered once on a narrow path. Someone had approached from the other direction, and she’d panicked, tried to leap the fence. Each time she fell back, he’d felt responsible for the terror in her eyes. Such relief when, on the fourth attempt, she’d cleared it.

“Come here,” the man said, without moving his hand. He nodded to the seat next to him, on his other side from the girl / [young] woman.

John crossed the aisle. He sat where indicated and cradled his bag on his lap. Definitely a shield. The man smelled like Play-Doh dipped in shit.

“You want me to let her go?”

“What has she done to you?”

“She’s one of them.”

John considered the man. Shaved head, putty complexion. He looked at his hostage (better word; gender neutral). Bronze skin, black hair, modest clothes.

“You mean a Muslim?” said John.

The hostage’s eyes opened even wider. He only now saw the cross dangling at an angle beneath the knife. Idiot. Thank God Lucy wasn’t there.

“That’s fucking offensive. Best mate’s Pakistani. She’s a lizard.”

“A lizard?”

“Looks normal. But, underneath, there’s scales.”

“How do you know?”

“Forked tongue.”

“Could be a trick of the light. Look again?”

The man studied the proffered organ.

“See,” John said, “nothing there.”

The man watched him intently as he spoke. He released the hostage, then held the blade to John’s throat.

“Dead right. It’s yours that’s forked.”

The tube finally pulled into Chalfont, and everyone got off.

“Don’t get on there, mate,” John heard someone say.

The carriage continued on its journey. Just John, Stinky Play-Doh Guy, and his knife. Lucy was right. He did always say the wrong thing.

 

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