Little Demons (3)
By AlexJ
- 613 reads
Bert picked himself up off the driveway coughing and spluttering, water dripped off his coarse grey fur and began to form a puddle at his feet. He had materialised on the car roof just as the boy's father was hosing it down and had been hit in the chest by a jet of ice cold water which had shot him backwards at an alarming rate. He had made a wild grab at the car aerial as he flew past but had missed and gone sailing through the air to land in an undignified heap of bruised ego and water sodden fur. 'You're going to pay for that!' he growled, as he stood up rubbing his aching bottom which had taken the full force of the landing.
He shook vigorously like a wet dog, creating a halo of sparkling water droplets around his small, shaggy body. Carefully, he gazed around the front garden with a trained eye, looking for just the right components... 'Oh yes! That will do nicely.'
He stared at the drop zone, closed his eyes and popped into existence precariously balanced on the apex of the garage roof, windmilling his arms to maintain his balance. He looked down the tiled slope, quickly calculated his trajectory, sat on his bottom and pushed off. Bert shot down the tiles like the proverbial bullet out of a gun and at just the right moment, as he dropped into the guttering, he shouted 'BOO!' at the top of his croaky voice. (Minor demons cannot be heard by humans)
Amidst frantic cooing, the two plump pigeons who had been observing the ritual Sunday car wash from the safety of the edge of the garage roof, took off in a flurry of feathers and did what all scared birds do... all over the shiny clean car parked on the driveway. A number of unrepeatable words exploded from the father's mouth as he stared at the white streaks and splodges now adorning the car roof. 'Foul language!' Bert grinned smugly. 'Bonus sin for me.'
Three seconds later, Bert reappeared in the flower bed beside the daffodil. It was much easier to return to a previous drop zone, like following a well worn footpath through the astral plane, and it required much lower concentration levels.
The boy was charging around the garden, all previous attempts to contain his enthusiasm and play quietly and carefully had been forgotten as he imagined himself playing in the cup final. He was shouting at his imaginary team mates to pass or receive the ball and his goal shots were becoming more wild and erratic. Bert was fairly confident that he had delayed the parents for long enough and stood patiently watching the imaginary match unfold. One goal shot resulted in the ball landing in the pond, a nearby rake was used to fish it back out. The next saw the ball land in the vegetable patch, detaching a potential prize winning pumpkin from the stem, and the next hit the clean sheets on the rotary washing line leaving a circular muddy splodge.
Suddenly Bert heard the sound of a car engine. Completely forgetting he could instantaneously transport himself, he charged along the flower bed to the tall, wrought iron gate that lead to the front of the house, to see the boy's mother pull into the drive beside a car covered in soap suds and a grumpy, red faced man rubbing the roof vigorously with a sponge. As she climbed out the car, she was met with a tirade from the father about pigeons being a flea ridden, disease carrying menace. She frowned in sympathy as she walked to the boot of her car and began removing the bags of shopping, nodding in agreement when the father threatened to leave there and then to purchase an air rifle. Continuing with his anti-pigeon rant the father picked up the heavier bags and followed the mother through the front door, which lead to the kitchen where they would have a lovely view of the back garden.
For a brief moment Bert was rooted to the spot. 'The kitchen! THE GARDEN!'
Once again he landed beside the daffodil to see the boy retrieving the ball from the compost heap. Knowing he had very little time remaining, Bert decided he would have to take a risk. He could not fail his first solo assignment. So, while the boy's back was turned, he raced across the lawn to one of the flower pot goal posts, side stepping around it to keep it between himself and the boy who had returned to his imaginary match, oblivious to the imminent discovery of his disobedience.
The boy dribbled the ball up the lawn, accompanied by a running commentary praising his extraordinary skills as a soccer player. Half way towards the goal he swung his right leg back and took a huge kick at the ball. It leapt into the air then dropped to the lawn and bounced towards the pots. Once again Bert's timing was crucial. At precisely the right moment he nudged the plastic pot sideways and as the ball descended it hit the edge and bounced off at an angle, hitting the handle of the gardening fork in the flower bed, it flew off to the right glancing off the swing ball post then twanged off the tennis racket propped against shed before hurtling towards the greenhouse, shattering the glass panel in the bottom of the door.
The boy stared at the greenhouse in utter disbelief at what had just happened, but not for long, as seconds later the sound of angry voices could be heard through the kitchen window. He turned around slowly, head hanging down, ready to face the music.
Bert punched the air in triumph, he knew the routine. He could definitely count on 'Lying' and 'Insolence' and with any luck there might be some 'Arrogance' and 'Selfishness' as well. He closed his eyes, thought of home and disappeared.
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Comments
I like the cheekiness in this
I like the cheekiness in this. You create a clear picture and some great description. Careful of your 'the boy' 'he' and 'Bert' - it isn't always clear which he you are referring to. Perhaps give the boy a name and use both of their names where they're both in one scene that could get confusing.
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