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Originally published in Monkeys with Machineguns #2, “Why Snow Should Not Be Red” is being re-published as an eBook in honour of the shutdown of the UK in the great snow of February 2009!
Don your snow shoes, you’re in for a chilly one …
“Are you wearing a cape?”
“It’s not a cape, it’s a cloak.”
“Big difference. Where the hell did you get it?”
“Antiques place.”
“Is that a stain?”
“It’s second hand isn’t it?”
“More like tenth. Is it even your size? Looks big.”
“One size fits all apparently. The guy said I’d grow into it.”
“Paul, you’re thirty two!”
“No physically. Mentally. You have to get used to wearing it, you know.”
“I know you’ve finally lost your mind.”
“You’ll never guess what else he told me.”
“No, I don’t suppose I will.”
“He said it was Jack the Ripper’s.”
“Paul, no one knows who Jack the Ripper was.”
“Well, someone must. And that doesn’t mean that his couldn’t be his.”
“So, what are you going to do with it?”
“I thought I might wear it on my date tonight …”
My wife left me for a serial killer,he moved into our house the day after I left.
The last time I saw them,he was painting the lounge wall with her.
Mother dragged us to the sea-front every year. It was abominable, but she said that it was all that she could afford since Father left. We weren’t allowed to talk about Father, we were always to say that he was dead, killed in the war. We didn’t know what war it was supposed to be, but nobody ever asked.
We knew he wasn’t dead.
We didn’t like the seaside because everyone stared at us. At home,
people were too polite to stare, or point, or whisper as we passed. There were too many sideshows and fun fairs at the sea-front.Everyone thought that we were part of the attractions.
The last time we ever went, mother took us to the edge of the sea late at night. She said we were there to meet Father. He lived in the sea.
We couldn’t wait to go back the next year.