Brett, Carla and Little Sylvia

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Flash Fiction  |  House: Booksie Classic
Please read my short story, Brett, Carla and Little Sylvia.

Submitted: January 06, 2014

A A A | A A A

Submitted: January 06, 2014



The housing flat had four walls which were painted brick. Scattered over the walls were terrible posters of the most terrible, wicked, popular bands. There was a cuckoo clock.

Carla and Brett occupied this flat.

Carla was a little older, lustrous, strait hair, and, generally, a cool, wise, generous sort. “What are you doing over there,” she said.

“Oh, I’m painting a copy of an old photo of my mother,” said Brett.

Brett was concentrating very hard to capture all the character, of his mother, contained in that photo.

 Brett had gelled, black hair. He also had dark, dark, black irises. His gelled black, black hair suited him.

There was laughing coming, heard from somewhere outside the flat.

“Oh, that must be Sylvia, back from her play date,” said Carla. “When are you going to take down that metal poster with the skull on? It scares her so much.”

She walked under the posters and the cuckoo clock, towards the flat’s door.

“Oh, how fun, I hope you had fun at your play date Sylvia,” Carla said.

“I did, mummy, we played in a cubby house,” said Sylvia.

** ***

Carla went out to get eggs. She put on her coat, and then made her way out the door.

“I just have to get eggs before I cook dinner,” she yelled, before she left the house.

“Looks like it’s just you and me, Sylvia,” Brett said. “Did you want to play with Lego, or did you want to read a story?”

There was a coloured box with plenty of children’s books. Brett collected those books each visit to the shopping centre.

“I want to go for a walk,” Sylvia said.

“We can go out on the balcony, if you want some fresh air. I’ll read a book to you out there.”


After a while, they went out on the balcony, and Brett read Sylvia a story.

** ***

Carla arrived home and interrupted Brett on his seventh children’s book.

“We’ll finish this one later,” said Brett.

They came in the sliding door. Carla was a little sweaty. She had intelligent eyes. “We’ll get dinner started now,” she said. She was bustling away in the kitchen.

“Daddy, what happens at the end of the book?”

“There comes a monster that eats them all up. Then the sky turns orange. It’s the end of the day, but no one is left, not a single sole, to see it. But the strange thing was the sun went down four hours early. And it never rose again. In all-of-time it never rose again. It couldn’t be bothered since no one was there to see it was doing its job.”

“Don’t tease the child,” said Carla.

“You lie, you lie, you lie,” said Sylvia to Brett, her dad. Then she asked Carla: “What is for dinner?”


That night Brett finished the copy painting of the photograph. The quaint little heavy metal poster laden flat went to sleep.


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