welcome to long words

It was a magic trick that very rarely received the applause it deserved. Certainly it wasn’t as flash as some. No ladies were cut in two. No one stepped over a bed of scolding nails or guessed the capital city that someone in another room had written down and sealed in a golden envelope. Still, it was magic none the less. Just of the more everyday variety. Similar to the strain that occasionally left a fiver in a summer jacket pocket.

She always killed spiders. She’d been raised to kill spiders. Her mother killed spiders. Her grandmother killed spiders. Generation after generation of women in her family had raised the tea towel, slipper or newspaper in defence of their homes. Probably while the closest male ancestor rolled their eyes, turned up the TV or noisily rustled his paper.

He’d watched too many versions of the same myth. He could spot the seams between the ad breaks now. The recognisable traits. The revolving carousel of non-threatening villains. The shiny fights. The interweaving soap operas. The cameos just for the true geeks, there to invest a marketing exercise with a little purchased history, borrowed as credit for credibility.

The large, sleek car pulled up in front of the black iron gates and waited patiently. The engine purred demurely as the expensive, designer barriers responded to a remote control pressed behind those tinted windows. Once they had gracefully reached ninety degrees and come to a complete stop, the car pulled forward, barely raising its voice.

He stood on his side of the cones, safely away from the roar of the commuting game trail. A cigarette tucked between his cold lips as he watched the traffic bluster past, heading towards the roundabout. Some people were only a junction or some winding country roads away from their employer. Others had motorways to face or trains to converge with. A few went past on their push bikes. Bags over their shoulders. Shoe laces tied loose and a little close to the gears for his liking.

Loose lips. Clenched fists. Raised voices. Raised to the rafters and tattered flags. Raised to the antique ads and the framed, signed shirts kept behind glass. Break in case of hero worship. I’m here looking for a crooked little voice that used to whisper from my shoulder. Pretty sure I left it in this room.