Hung
Finalist Mslexia Flash Fiction Competition 2021
The pheasants exploded this morning. There are maggots everywhere, decorating the porch like snotty hundreds and thousands. The children keep finding them in their pockets. Henry says he going to start a collection in case you take him fishing again. I said it was unlikely.
A month they’d been there, dangling by their rubbery necks like colourful joke chickens, pungent juices collecting in congealed puddles on the floor.
The house stinks of abattoirs.
You said you’d be home three days ago. The children are asking for you. I’ve run out of things to say.
You’ll come back eventually, brandishing new trophies. Rabbits perhaps. You’ll string them up by their feet and hang them in the hallway until the smell becomes unbearable. I’d understand if you let me do something with them. What do you bring them for?
If you give me word you’re coming, I’ll get the children bathed and brushed. They’ll put on clean pyjamas and line up their teddies in the sitting room, ready for the welcome party. At ten o’clock, we’ll give up and I’ll make up an excuse about you getting stuck on the motorway. I’ll put them to bed and wrap up presents for you to give them tomorrow.
Eventually you’ll climb into bed, stinking of whisky and men and meat. You’ll make love to me in your way. In the morning, the children will get in with us and dunk Gingernuts in their tea. You’ll cook us all a fry up, pipe clenched between your teeth, a Bloody Mary on the go. The sausages will pop. The bacon will crisp. The eggs will sizzle until their whites are delicate brown lace. We will sit down and eat as a family and it will be delicious.
But slowly, slowly the homing call will come.
What do you talk about? You men?
You’ll leave the grease-slicked pans in the sink and tie up your boots. I’ll ask you what time you’ll be back and you’ll look at me with that face, light your pipe and leave. I’ll unpack the bag you’ve abandoned in the hallway amongst the maggots.
There’s fresh meat to be hung.