Bobby Parker

by Horror Sleaze Trash on September 13, 2011

Bobby Parker. Born 1982. Anxious man. Lives in a shitty town in England. His first strange book Ghost Town Music is available from www.knivesforksandspoonspress.co.uk, with two more experimental sequels (Comberton and Freak Exorcism) planned for release on Halloween and Xmas from the same publisher. He lives with his wife and daughter and a psychic cat that can shit in the litter box just before visitors are due to arrive.

Karate Chop

A voice to the right of the pram asked, ‘Can I see your baby?’ My wife and I pushed the top of the pram back to show off our daughter. ‘Oh, what’s wrong with her eye?!’

I looked at Isobelle, the skin around her left eye was raised a few inches, as if her face had been manipulated like wet clay into a thick fleshy stalk with her eye peeping innocently back at us from the top.

We filled the grey afternoon with high screaming panic like helium sirens.

In a house down the street, my family were discussing the situation in the living room. I stood in the kitchen, looking at our daughter’s eyeball on the table. It was in a sandwich bag. I picked it up and squeezed it around the bag very gently, wondering if my family could get the eye back into her head.

My Uncle might be able to do it, I thought. He’s an electrician.

I opened the door to the living room and shouted at my family ‘What’s taking you so long? Do something!’ They smiled at each other, sipping tea and nodding as if to say: See, I told you he is being over the top about this; Yes, dramatic; over the top; stupid boy…

Frank took me into the garden and poured a bag of cocaine onto the garden wall. ‘Here, do a couple of lines.’ He handed me a credit card.

I moved the coke around, but leaves and dead bugs got swept into the drugs. Frank looked down at the pile of leaves and dead bugs and shook his head.

I started to get anxious. ‘Maybe we should buy more coke?!’ I screeched. Frank said, ‘Wouldn’t it be great if we had more coke?’ I nodded frantically. ‘Yes, but I don’t know any dealers any more. And I always got it on credit. I don’t have cash!’

Frank smiled and pulled out more cocaine. ‘It’s a good thing I’ve still got this then, isn’t it?’ We danced until I heard a car pull up outside.

I ran to the front of the house where my mom and my uncle were carrying our daughter out of the car.

Isobelle’s eye was back in her head, back to normal. She was smiling and cooing. My mother had an ‘I told you so.’ grin slashed at an angle across her face. ‘Isobelle…’

I sighed, kissing her eye over and over while Frank stood behind me with his cupped hands full of leaves and dead bugs, ‘Well done.’ He said, assuming a karate stance. ‘Now, let’s fight!’

In This Room

‘I Realised there were three men sleeping in our room, under a big white blanket on the floor by the bottom of the bed. I grabbed a baseball bat and, before you could turn the light on, shouted Who the fuck are you?! jabbing the end of the bat into their lumpy shapes.

One of them spoke to you, he said I know you, you are Emma. Emma Parker. And you freaked out screaming How does he know my name?!

I pulled the covers off them. I recognised the first one as a skinny junkie, the middle one was a bloated alcoholic and the one on the end was a steroid pumped tough guy who apologised to me, he said the junkie told him they could stay in our room.

GET THE FUCK OUT! I HAVE A WIFE AND BABY IN THIS ROOM! I screamed.

In the living room I explained to my mother what had happened: I was home alone when Emma was in hospital and my hand would drop out of the bed and touch somebody’s hairy head on the floor beside the bed. I would pull it back, afraid to move in the dark, listening for rain, or anything at all, to cover the sound of heavy breathing and a heart beating in the dark.

I went into the kitchen for a glass of water. The junkie and the tough guy were curled up under the table trying to sleep.

We’ll be no bother mate, we’ll go tomorrow. They said. But my dad will be back soon, I complained. He doesn’t sleep, he’ll be in and out of here you can’t stay.

The junkie sneered at me, You’re lucky we are so understanding mate, Wesley here said he was gonna take that bat off you and open your chest with it and then do terrible things to your family.

They walked out of the side door, onto the twilight streets that were not our streets but the ones I grew up on. The tough guy shook my hand then leaned in as if to kiss me, then realised what he almost did, Shit! You’re not my mother hahaha… awkward.

In the living room my mother turned to face me on the sofa, she had become an old, strange, dark skinned gypsy.

I stared into her milky eyes as she whispered in a hoarse voice full of ancient wisdom and dried blood, Violence doesn’t need feeding. Violence feeds itself. And if you’re not careful, violence will feed on you…’

My wife pulled our baby closer to her breast as the branches of a tree outside clawed at the window. Isobelle gulped down her mother’s milk and murmured her appreciation.

‘Don’t tell me about your dreams,’ my wife sighed sleepily, her head nodding forwards and backwards, in and out of the dark, ‘Your dreams are messed up, they give me horrible nightmares.’

I stared at the curtains for a while. Then I closed my eyes and prayed for the dark mind to stop. I begged for sleep without fear. Sleep without messages. Sleep without obvious interpretation.

No people. No monsters. Only music.

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