Day 221 – What I Give – Short Story

He looks across at them, as they sit, huddled in the corner, fear, dirt, blood, piss, and shit, covering them, their eyes, stare at him, wide, urgent, nervous, he lifts the bottle of bourbon to his lips and washes down another few mouthfuls, wiping his lips with his sleeve once hes done, “STOP LOOKING AT ME!” He screams, throwing the bottle into the floor, it shatters, sending shards of glass and liquid in all directions, the huddle closer, cowering from him.

“Kyle, do you have to be such a jerk,” he says from across the room, Kyle spins around, raising the shot gun towards him, where he lies, across the bench, smiling.


“I’m your fairy godmother,” he says, as he leaps delicately from the bench, Kyle pulls the trigger, blowing a hole through his chest, the man looks down, at the hole, then up to Kyle. “You fucking dick,” he says, as he drops to the floor in a heap.

“FUCK YOU FAIRY, FUCKING GOD MOTHER!” Kyle yells with glee.

“That’s not very nice,” he says, sitting a few feet away from his, smiling once again, Kyle’s heart races, he looks down at the body, lying in the ever growing pool of blood, and then, back up at the man sitting in the chair, he raises the shot gun to him, as sweat runs down his brow, stinging his eyes.

“W-W-WHO THE FUCK ARE YOU?” He yells once more.

He smiles again, “I told you, I’m your fairy godmother, I’m here, to help you, get out of this mess you’re in.”

“H-How can you help me? T-T-The w-w-w…”

“Take your time Kyle, think about your words before you use them,” he says, Kyle tilts his head in confusion, in recognition.

“Do I know you?”

“Of course you do Kyle, we have been friends for a long time, although, I haven’t been around for a while, because, you didn’t need me, you made something of yourself, became a man, and I, well, I don’t deal with adults, well, not until today that is.”

“W-W-What are you talking about?”

“I’m talking about you, you’ve gone off the deep end Kyle, threatened these poor people, killed Mister Sawyer, injured Miss Wyatt, she’ll die if you don’t do something about it,” He says, as he bites into a shiny red apple.

“W-What can I do, help me!” He screams, thrusting the barrel of the shotgun in his face.

“Calm down Kyle, I told you, that’s why I’m here, to help, now, first, you need to surrender the gun, and let everyone go.”



“WHAT?” Kyle says.

“Why? Why do these people need to suffer, what have they done?”

“EVERYTHING!” He growls, turning towards them, in their huddle, panicked, scared, disgusting, he turns back to the man, who no stands before him, the barrel of the shot gun, millimetres from his chest.

“Put the gun down, let these people go, and come with me, where I can help you be free,” he says softly, Kyle, slowly lowers the gun.

“P-P-Please, help me,” he says, as he collapses into his arms.

“It’s okay Kyle, I’m here for you, let it all out,” he says, looking over to them, waving them out of the room, but they sit there, huddled, and he rolls his eyes in his head, realising, that they can’t see him, because, after all, he’s make-believe.



Published by

Matthew Tonks

People are surprised when reading Matthew’s stories that he’s a sane forty something year old, happily married, father of one, employed full time and dream of dark disturbing things that any sane person would never even contemplate thinking of. But it's true, he’s toyed with writing for most of his adult life, but has always found the peg a writer must fit into is not the shape he wished to be. His writing can be described as lamenting, long, concussive (yes it smashes you in the head), compulsive, and stuffed with rhythmic communication and violence, let’s not forget the violence. His own opinion on his writing is this, “You see, I don't just want the words to seep into your mind, but into your soul, showing you images of blood and beauty through, volatile language, violence, sex, love and sin. My muse takes different shapes, and every now and then you can see her shining her wicked smile in some of my stories, tempting you with her promises, but ripping your heart out instead.” So have a look, and take a seat in my wayward ride, as you join me while I purge through, this twisted road of madness.

6 thoughts on “Day 221 – What I Give – Short Story

      1. Ah, the comma, one of my most used tools. I’ve always found a comma, is the pause, is the moment, I want the reader to be in, and, I feel the story is pushed forward at the pace I want, as it’s more within my thought process, than with any other punctuation I can use. Sure a semicolon can work, but for me, it interferes, it takes that pause away, and drags something else out that I just hate. Where a comma, it’s a slight pause, and that’s all I want, and for me, it continues the flow better, because, really, how long is a sentence supposed to be? As long as I want, because, I’m writing it 🙂

        Liked by 1 person

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