#FP A Neighbourly Stoke of Luck

The rough pebble dashed wall
was almost as tall
as me on tippy tippy toes
(and I was as tall as the Andes)

I was hiding.

stucktothewall
afraid of his look
and rasping belt
which left welts
the size of Wales
on my back.

I had scarpered
from wide awake shouts
and eyes wide shut clouts.

running from
the back door
like a lilty.

sprinting
up the garden
like a cheetah
only quickah.

He was pissed off.

searching,
he pushed aside
the rhubarb and
cabbage tops
clumping clumped earth
with a heavy clump.

I ducked.

squished
tight to the wall.

melting
into the wall.

melting
out of sight.

knees buckling
and quivering
under the weight
of trembly
scaredeness.

then
(from over the hedge)
popped up Mr Smith,
our next door neighbour
bus driver extraordinaire
(with bright white hair)
and two poodles.
horrible poodles.

Dad stopped.

they chatted about
this and that
(uncomfortably)
and that and this
(uncomfortably)
fussing
and agreeing
and disagreeing
and shuffling
and avoiding
any eye contact
whatsoever.

and I?

I watched
from behind my wall
which was almost as tall
as me on tippy tippy toes.

I’m taller than the Andes now.

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#fieryverse Just a dream

with
careful
metered
rage
a belt
pulled through
gripped and ripped
as I was beaten
black and blue

I bit my lips
I didn’t scream
I imagined
it was
just a dream
and he
unfeeling
smiled
and held
me close,
rocked me
gently
as fathers do.

now old,
forgetful
and deaf
he vents
his muted anger
on a TV set.
drinks tea
and dozes
in the afternoon
cardigan confortable
in that same
torture room.