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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Flash Fiction  |  House: Booksie Classic

Flash fiction - under 500 words

Submitted: October 09, 2017

A A A | A A A

Submitted: October 09, 2017



“Holidays are for wimps. For god sake, you know how busy I am, make sure my shirts pressed.” Ending the call, Cane glared at a man hovering over his coffee, then shouted a waitress.
“Get him out of here. Get me your manager!”
“I’m sorry, sir?”
“Him… Get him out. Do you know who I am? Letting dirty tramps pick at leftovers.”
A smart yet bedraggled man stood beside a recycling bin, “Is that him sir.”
“What do you think? Does he look like a normal customer?”
His derogative tone altered her cheerful mood. She walked over to the bin area.
“Excuse me.”
Len turned to her.
“We have received a complaint.”
Len smiled. The girl relaxed.
“It’s OK my dear; I’m leaving now. I’m required elsewhere.
Sweat pooled on Canes palms. He held out a fry, or was it two? 
“Are you OK sir? Do you need a seat?” Said the manager. 
He wanted to shout, curse, “Yes please,” as though his speech was under control, “yes please,” he said.
Beckoning help from the girl the man belittled earlier, the manager helped him over to a low-level chair. Head light, drifting. Cane tried to stand. The room span as gravity forced him back into the bright orange faux leather chair.
A fox cornered by a pack of hounds, he trembled as he sipped water from a plastic cup. 
“What’s your name mate?”
“Err, Cane. Cane Fisher.”
“I will call an ambulance, do you have any medication with you?”
“No, I’m fine now.”
“Please don’t stand.” The girl told him.
Cane stood and wobbled through the restaurant, knocking plastic chairs aside like a homeless drunk. Crazy legs wobbled under his weight. The automatic doors opened. Stumbling outside, he found a metal bench. About to topple forward; a hand guided him back.
“It’s you, the man. What have you done? What’s happening?”
“You are facing your fears, and your ego isn’t there to protect you.”
“Who are you?”
“My name is Len Happy. I mean you no harm but I feel I need to protect you from yourself to protect others.”
The last thing Cane remembered was seeing a bright light before he fell forward off the bench, the fall cushioned by Len’s hands.
He awoke to the faint sound of his name repeated by a man holding a stethoscope. 
“Mr Fisher, Cane Fisher. Cane can you tell me where you are?”
He sat up and looked around the blue curtained enclosure. 
“Why am I here?” his voice subdued.
Neither troubled by his surroundings nor fazed he’d missed his meeting; he smiled as his wife and daughter entered. She looked troubled as she moved hair across a bruise below her right eye. Canes outstretched arms welcomed her. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen her smile.
He held them both in his arms reassuring them from now on things would be different, starting with that family holiday, they had never got around to taking. .

© Copyright 2018 S P Rowell. All rights reserved.

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