A Short Story

Fictionista Flash Fiction Challenge - 1000 word limit

Ok so quick context for y’all, one of the Substacks I really enjoy is called Fictionista and they are having a March prompt fiesta, this is my contribution.

Photo by Jason Hawke 🇨🇦 on Unsplash

**As I’m Australian imagine the dialogue with a broad Aussie accent, and/or listen to it and bathe your ears in our unmistakable Aussie strine**

‘Dave? Daaaaave!’

‘What?’

‘Get down off that bloody roof.’

‘Nah love. The police’ll be here soon, I’m gunna watch ‘em do their thing.’

‘Ya’ve been up there for hours, they’re not coming.’

‘Yeah they will. Make us a cuppa tea will ya?’

‘No.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because you’ve got a bladder the size of peanut. One cup of tea and you’ll be pissing off the roof, and Betty-next-door won’t be happy.’

‘What’s she gunna do, call the police?’

The screen door slapped shut. Dave scratched an armpit thoughtfully and gazed at the pond. It wasn’t really a pond, more of a large, water filled depression on some disused land. A week ago it hadn’t been there.

###

For three days the rain had been biblical. In the small hours of the morning he’d been woken by a stunning thunder clap, it shook the house and frightened the dog so bad he’d shit all over the kitchen. And that was how Dave came to be up on their roof.

A flash of light hooked the corner of his eye. Gingerly he stepped off the house roof onto the carport, taking care to walk along the central beam, and took a closer look. In the depths of the newly spawned pond light bounced and skittered, as if it were reflecting off a fishing lure.

He’d yelled down at Kylie to come up and have a look, she’d told him to stop effing about. When he asked for his phone to call the police she’d laughed and tossed it up to him. ‘I’m off to check on Mum, I’ll probably stay the night.’ Dave wasn’t paying attention as he search for the station number.

‘Grantham Police’

‘Oh, uh, yeah, it’s, um, David Simpson here. I, ah, live up on North Terrace St, one-forty-one we are, and I’m on my roof see, checking everything after last night’s storm…’

‘Yeah, listen mate, it’s gunna be the S.E.S* you need if you’ve got storm damage, but they’re a little busy at the minute. So just give them sometime and they’ll get back to you.’

‘Oh, uh, nah, I’m not calling about storm damage, mate. There’s, um, this weird kind of like pond thing that’s come up over the last couple days…’

‘Yeah?’

‘Well, there’s something strange in the bottom of it, and I reckon you fellas oughta come up and hava look at it.’

‘Can you describe what it is you’re seeing sir?’

‘Well, it’s kinda a bunch of bright lights, flashing on and off.’

‘Right… , can you tell me anything else?’

‘Well no. I just think you should come take a look.’

The desk sergeant hung up the phone, looked down at the notes he’d taken and shook his head. There’s one in every box of chocolates. Despite his reservations he added ‘David Simpson, 141 North Terrace St’ to the dispatch and gave it a ‘non-urgent’ rating.

###

It was almost past sunset when the police car pulled into David Simpson’s driveway. The constable was tired and disheveled, it had been a long day. The wild weather had put cars in ditches, another two were reported stuck in high water; multiple roads had been closed, a couple were washed out completely. She’d made over a dozen welfare checks to elderly residents who lived out of town, North Terrace was her last stop before heading down to the pub for a cold beer and a chicken parmy**.

‘You took yer bloody time.’ She looked over her shoulder, ‘up here love’, she stepped back from the car to get a better view of the house, a man was gazing impassively down at her.

‘David Simpson?’

‘Yeah.’

‘I’m Constable Keenan.’

‘Orright.’

Keenan looked up at the man silently, she wasn’t in the mood for this. When she was a kid her brother used to climb up on the roof and yell for everyone to come watch him, it was boring then, and it was boring now. Dave must have read something in her silence;

‘Aren’t you gunna go have a look then?’

‘Have a look at what Mr Simpson? All I have is your address and name, other than that I have no idea why you called us out here.’ This was going to be a three beer night. ‘Mr Simpson, why are you on the roof?’ He looked at her confused, ‘Is what you want me to look at up there?’ Dave glanced over his shoulder, ‘nah, nah it’s not up here, I’ve been watching it from up here.’ He started walking along the roof, ‘it’s over there on the vacant lot, ya can’t miss it.’ He pointed into the thickening darkness.

Constable Keenan followed him, down along the siding of a dilapidated car port that creaked ominously under Dave’s weight. ‘There! There it is, another hundred-ish feet and you’ll be right on it.’ The constable peered into the shadows;

‘What am I looking for Mr Simpson?’

‘The flashing lights under the water.’

‘What?’

‘I came up here to check the roof this morning, I saw it and called you blokes. Uh, um no offence.’

‘No offence taken,’ She paused, ‘you been up there all day?’

‘Yeah.’

‘The whole day?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Why?’

‘I’ve been watching the lights. Keep going, you’re almost there, can you see them?’

She turned and looked back at the man who was balanced on the very edge of the roof, staring rapturously ahead of her.

‘Mr Simpson, there’s nothing here.’

‘Look! Look. You’re right next to it.’

He was so sincere, so convinced, ‘Why don’t you come down and show me what you’re seeing.’

Dave leapt from his perch, and came rushing toward Keenan.

Gust of wind.

Tang of lightening.

And the man vanished.

Keenan stared at the point of his departure, looked at the silent, lightless home, gazed down the empty street, returned to her car and logged the call out complete – ‘no one home’.

Word count: 990

*S.E.S: State Emergency Service; a voluntary organisation that assists homeowners after weather events and natural disasters.

** Chicken parmy: short for parmigiana, the chicken parmy is a pub staple, the spelling is a matter of cheerful rivalry between various states in Australia.