Daniel, with hair stretched over a balding, pear-shaped head, and smelling of medicinal cream; is forty-three years of age and a third generation mechanic. Once a week he plays soccer at his neighbourhood community league. On one particular Thursday evening, after three straight losses, he drives into the association’s parking lot and notices an opponent’s vehicle.
The same opponent who for the past five games had: while running past said, “Heads up old man,” elbowed him hard in the face and chipped his tooth; kicked and bruised his calf while they scrambled over the ball; grabbed two fistfuls of his sweat soaked t-shirt and tore it up the back; shoved and tripped him as they ran down the field; and last week, grappled him to the muddy ground, sat on his chest, and let out a gigantic fart.
Daniel looks about the empty parking lot, parks his truck, pulls a small metal box from under the seat, leaves his vehicle, scurries over to the opponent’s car, and with three small thrusts of a sharp silver tool flattens the opponent’s car tires, leaving one tire fully inflated. He slips the tool into his gym bag, takes a deep breath, and softly whistles a tune. As he strolls straight towards the playing field his feet barely touch the ground. There was nothing neighbourly about this game.
YOU ARE READING
Speaking in Mirrors
Short StoryIllustrated short stories. Seeking connections, a glimpse or a sigh; stale hotdogs and greasy beef jerky; reincarnation and landfills; King for the day; whiskey, lacquered hair and keeping happiness – tall tales of a small city.
