top of page

Custodial Conflict

By Rueda Wright -

 

The guy at the gate is grinning as I approach. I hate that bastard. He takes a disturbing delight in delivering bad news.

"Hey, Pete. How's it going?" I ask. I don't really care. I just want to get through the gate and go home.

"It's going great. Just not for you," he says. He leans against the gate and picks imaginary dirt from his fingernails, chewing the corner of his mouth to suppress a smirk.

"Oh come on! You've got to be joking. I'm not going back. I've just done a five year stretch for God's sake! I've served my time and now I want to spend my golden years enjoying a bit of peace and quiet in the garden."

"Sorry. Boss' orders. Should have kept your nose clean like he told you."

He's examining something on his index finger. Black nasal hair is protruding from his left nostril. I want to punch his stupid nose off his smug face but I know there's no point. Instead I turn around and walk slowly back the way I've come.

"So which God-forsaken place is he sending me this time?" I call over my shoulder.

He squints at a list that's pinned to the gate. "Down South for a change. Nice place. You'll like it," he chuckles.

Four minutes later, in the place we know as Hell but humans call "home," a new-born baby takes its first breath in London and a handful of soil lands on a small coffin in Aberdeen.


 

Rueda’s writing journey started in 2020 when she began to blog about real-life issues with a powerful mix of reality, humour and hope. Rueda has now turned her hand to fiction and poetry, and has recently been accepted for publication in the 2021 Serious Flash Fiction anthology. She is in the process of writing her first novel. Website: ruedawrites.wordpress.com Twitter: @RuedaWrites


46 views0 comments

Recent Posts

See All

By Alexis Dinkins - “Did you hear? About the boy named Emmett?” Dolores asks Irene again, but Irene is feet ahead of her on the darkening street, practically running. “Rene!” Irene stops and swivels s

By Cecilia Kennedy - As narrow paths wind their way to the top of Lace Back Falls, Kelsie wobbles in front of me, growing tired. To my left, ragged edges of the path drop straight down the side of the

By Miranda Caravalho - The ghosts cross over on the first morning of Spring. Like birds flying South for Winter, once the weather warms all the spirits leave their haunts and journey back to wherever

bottom of page