Dark Voices - A Short Story Collection by Darren Sant

Author:Darren Sant [Sant, Darren]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Near To The Knuckle Publishing
Published: 2013-06-24T22:00:00+00:00

ECLECTICA

The Sad End of Ernest Winthorpe

Ernest looked up at the sky. Bruised angry clouds hung just beyond his reach. He scratched his bald pate and looked down the hill it had taken him all morning to climb. Bedraggled gorse had nipped and scratched at his ankles for the entire ascent. He sat and patiently waited for the storm he knew was brewing. A strange little smile crossed his face. As the first rumble of thunder charged the air he thought of his beautiful wife, now absconded with his former business partner. Before leaving their scornful note they had made sure to clear out all of the bank accounts. Ernest held aloft the length of 15mm plumbers’ copper pipe that had served as a walking stick for his trek.

“Do your worst, you bastards! he yelled with a primal ferocity at the roiling skies and any Gods that might be listening.

Two elderly men sat playing chess, their faces creased, deep in concentration as they battled for supremacy.

“Rook takes pawn,” said the man dressed in white.

As if in answer to Ernest’s prayers, a mighty finger of fire reached down from the heavens. His knuckles were white as he gripped the length of copper pipe tightly. He tried not to imagine his blackened, dried up form being stripped of all moisture before roasting like a Christmas turkey when the lightning hit him. At the last minute, the lightning veered away and blasted a nearby oak tree. Ernest stared in dismay at the now burning oak. The worst of the storm quickly abated, but not before he was soaked to the skin.

As he loomed menacingly over the ornate pieces on the board, the man in black simply nodded and said, “Impressive,” as he moved a pawn forward.

He threw the copper over his shoulder and trudged back down the hill. At the base of the hill he sat, shivering, in his aged Mazda. The heater was cranked up full as he tried to start the engine, which coughed and spluttered but failed to cooperate. Breathing a deep, world-weary sigh, he stepped out of the car, locked it, and set off in the direction of town.

In the shadowy streets on the wrong side of town, Ernest’s wrinkled face twitched into a smile as he spotted a group of hoodies drinking and smoking near the park, their loud shouts and loud banter making all who passed near give them a wide berth. Cans of lager littered the ground near them and the tangible smell of dope hung in the air.

“Oi! Come get some, you little motherfuckers. Come on! BRING IT ON!” yelled Ernest, with an anger he didn’t really feel.

I might get lucky, he thought, with a good beating they might even kill me. His heart pounded with anticipation of the violence to come. This could be it. The hoodies looked nervous for a moment. One of them threw a can at him and they laughed.

“Piss off back to the funny farm, old man, before we hurt you,” yelled back the biggest of them.

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