Dust for Mickey
“Keep going, keep going…”
He saw Mickey shift on the blanket, which meant he hadn’t died yet, so Dai hadn’t failed and Ma wouldn’t cry when they went to meet her and the Baby Jesus and the Angels.
“Dai, wheresa milk?” Ruthy tugged on his arm but he shoved her away, scraping up the coal dust and throwing it into the fire.
“Not now, gotta keep going, going…”
Ruthy started to cry, rubbing the dust from the floor over her face, wasting it, taking it. Mickey needed that dust!
“Get away!” he shouted and she shuffled back towards the wall, bawling about the milk and Mickey and how she wanted Pa to come back. He didn’t want Pa to come back. Why couldn’t she see that Pa was bad? Ma loved him but Ma was soft and Ma was gone and the fire was there.
“Mickey’s sick and needs the milk,” Ruthy said but he couldn’t listen to her. They had no money for milk or coal or anything at all. It was winter and the Angels were coming. He didn’t want Ma to cry.
There was no more coal to shovel. The spade hung from his numb fingers and he shook it off before staggering back to Mickey and the blanket, drawing him up and into his lap, just like Ma had done when they were small. Ruthy came over then and he pulled her up against his side, as they watched the fire slowly dying and the black crawling in.
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Rosie Claverton lives in Cardiff, where she regularly battles Daleksand Weevils. She is an aspiring novelist and master of obfuscation, but only on Mondays and alternate Wednesdays. You can find her at The World of Rosie Claverton.
Photograph taken by Khalid Al-Haqqan.
2 comments:
Beautifully written and incredibly evocative. This is a great story :)
Excellent. Says so much in just a few words.
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