Simon Huggins - Stories

Peter always had problems getting at that last bit of jam. The manufacturers loved to conceal it cleverly just beneath the ridge, which meant it was impossible to get at it with anything but the most astutely angled teaspoon, and certainly impossible to access by stubby-fingered perfectionists. Peter was a stubby-fingered perfectionist. He took pride in his wooden carvings that littered the house. His father (an accountant) had always said Peter would never be able to do anything useful in life with stubby fingers. They were clumsy. They were ugly. They were useless fingers. ...

Paul had always been interested in colours. When he heard on the radio of how such-and-such a racial group were protesting of their repression, he would listen intrigued when they explained confidently into the microphone that this was down purely to other’s hatred of their skin colour. However much he heard this line of reasoning, he always came to the same conclusion. It must be bollocks. The route there would often be arduous. His keen interest in the use of colour co-ordination in a Macdonald’s restaurant, of how the intricate shading of a Rembrandt could uniquely convey certain human characteristics (or so his teacher had said a few days ago), and of how when he was littler he would look in innocence at the fat black lady on the bus and say, “Mummy, why is that lady a funny colour?” And then mummy would reply with, “Shhhhhhh! Don’t be so rude. Watch what you say!” with a vaguely amused, extremely paranoid emergency. ...

Warning: Parts of this story are explicit and you may find disturbing. Discretion is advised. Life smiled a toothy grin, though mostly on Sundays, and especially in the form of “vicar” Tom Reeves. Tom was not an ordained vicar, and wasn’t even sure if ordination was a Church of England “thing”, required to transform a normal person to a being fit to wear a little white strip around the collar of a shirt. Tom was, well, self-ordained, and those of his growing congregation that attended his little weekly sermons generally agreed that this was a wholesomely satisfactory state of affairs. Tom was unique, and as such, appointment to the position of “vicardom” by anyone but himself (or “him upstairs”) would be a nonsense. ...

To where?’ he asked, face agape in features. ‘You said…’ The Paternal face was warm, soft, friendly. It melted into understanding and the grey-day background, haze of monet colour drabness. The Paternal face, said ‘Yes. To Sheffield.’ His face, his mind was wrinkled in confusion, until a small blot of thundercloud-darkening anger stirred. Something was not right. To a council house. In Sheffield.’ The eyes were almost watery in their steady comforting embrace. That fond understanding , that calm, heaty acceptance. What Do You Know? ...

“Are you gifted?” asked Paul. This took Joseph by surprise. “What do you mean, gifted?” Paul thought on this a moment. “I don’t know. Mum says she thinks I am gifted, but I don’t really know what it means. Does it mean you can play the piano?” Joseph’s thoughts floundered for a reply rather than excuse, whilst Paul waited expectantly, watching Joseph’s face. Finally, “Well, all sorts of people can be gifted. It means that you do well in certain areas of life much more easily than others, if you see what I mean.” ...

There was a draught coming from somewhere. The source wasn’t immediately obvious, but Paul alighted the floor from his comfy chair, laying his pristine book on the intricately woven tapestry that saved the arm of the comfy chair from a fate of dust and dirt. The book slid from the arm, the intricately woven tapestry following closely as if the book were clinging desperately, wishing Why-Oh-Why does he not have a bookmark? They fell to the floor without a noise, cushioned by the intimate cuddle of the pile carpet. It sort-of spine-bounced, caught the intricately woven tapestry within its pages, hugging as if having found a new friend, finally resting in peace with its front cover hiding towards the darker floor. ...

“Joseph, why do you just sit there under that tree, staring all day?” Joseph stirred from his reverie. His eyelashes fluttered a little as his eyes slowly refocused and his pupils became returned to the sun’s warming gaze once more. He smiled, and chewed at the bottom of his lip thoughtfully. “Guess!” It was Rebecca’s turn to chew at her lip this time. She was quick with her newly learned powers of reason, though. ...

Sand Dunes I found myself in a basin of scorching ferocity. As sudden as a fall in the sea, the heat swept through my body like a drug gone terribly wrong. I tripped, and looked down to see what in this expansiveness, could be tormenting me with such a darkened sense of humour. Bit it had scuttled away to nether regions, leaving only a small reversed sand-timer to trickle into itself. I watched each grain tumble over identical neighbours slowly, ponderously, until all had settled to unerring stability, and I moved on, towards the blinding light. ...

As I stepped off the bus, I noticed a strange odour in the air; a nitrous sort of smell, with a tinge of lemon. Perhaps a recent thunderstorm had unleashed a volley of lightning bolts upon the very pavement I was standing on but a short time earlier. Of course, there was not rain, and there was no perceptible damage, and although the air was light and seemed to carry one by the armpits, there was no sign of bad weather. Indeed, the skies were blue, and only a faint milky trace of cloud tainted the purity of colour. ...

In this big wide world of ours, we rarely bother to even attempt a glance at other entities. Most of us are blinded by Western society’s beauracratic system and the attitude of selfishness committed by almost all. People wish to hoard their ideas until they can reap fame and fortune from them. You could argue that this is only natural - we want to make our lives worthwhile, so that existence is forced with a physical meaning. ...