Flash Fiction


WELCOMED WITH BROKEN ARMS by Elle Matheuse

I have a friend, Lesley, whose house is almost never free from guests. People go to Lesley’s to celebrate, to commiserate, to relax, for solace, for comfort, for warmth, sometimes just for a piss, but they’re always welcomed by a roaring fire and a hearty bosom. The kitchen is the room of choice for visitors and whenever a familiar face appears at the window in the thick wooden door, its owner is met with gargantuan hugs and puppily-ferocious outpourings of joy at their arrival, no matter how inconvenient.

This raucous lovefest is invariably followed by a death-defying feast, the breadth of which would challenge a sperm whale: fresh cakes, warm bread, ripe, home-brewed cider and half a pig from the garden just for starters. And should you require sanctuary or a bed for the night or you merely collapse under the weight of such massive hospitality, Lesley will plump the bedding on the spare divan to such an unfeasible degree you’ll spend half the time jerking suddenly awake, convinced you’re hurtling to your death having fallen from a cloud. Nice though.

Unfortunately, however, the generous, loving, wise and respected purveyor of snacks and sympathy that is Lesley isn’t always available for impromptu visits. In the weeks following yet another savage beating, Lesley is normally to be found recovering either at home or in hospital, making entertaining a tad more difficult than usual. And why would someone split Lesley’s wig and break seven bones? Again. Because, you guessed it, Lesley’s a fella and a generously cut one at that. A massive big man who likes nothing more than wearing voluminous, diaphanous, garish outfits, hugging people and talking very loudly. What a cunt.

By Elle Matheuse, copyright 2008. All rights reserved.





Flash Fiction