Preteen Model Nymphets
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Related article: my second attempt at writing a short story in my second language. If you
liked it please send a note saying so to sebastian.oakgmail.com, if you'd
like to point out improvements, you're very welcome.
a short story by
Sebastian Thomas Oakland
Abe was walking home from work on a rather mild autumn evening. His
bearing was slow but determined as dusk fell. The steady march of seasons
made the twilight come sooner every day, it did little to illuminate the
drab office clothes he was wearing or the dustiness of the pavement he was
walking on. As Abe went he clutched anxiously at his upper left arm with
his right hand. A steadily growing stain of blood seeped from under his
pressing fingers through the polyester of his long sleeve shirt.
`Stupid, stupid man!' he rebuked himself quietly.
Abe had walked this way for near on twenty years. He knew every tree and
lamppost along it. He had seen all the little shop fronts with their goods
on display a thousand times and more. He delighted in the pretty little
gardens of the houses as he got closer to home, and sometimes, just
sometimes reached across some of the fences and low walls to pick little
flowers for his wife, Lily, who was at that moment waiting for his return
from a day behind a desk at the department. He had stuck out his time and
had climbed through the ranks by working hard, meeting deadlines, and not
rocking the little boat that was a career in civil service. He had left
the crowd of clerks years before, but not after years among them. Now, in
the summer of his life he had his own office, and a young lady that brought
him tea at approved times.
He really loved Lily, and the dinner she would have waiting for him in a
dining room decorated with lace, and blue china on a sideboard. His place
would be set at the head of the table, which with chairs was a wedding gift
from her uncle when they were married twenty-three years before. She had
pushed it up close to a large picture window that overlooked the goings on
of the street in which they lived. Lily would be sitting at the table and
watch for him through dainty window dressings she had made herself. It was
Friday and years of routine had taught him that a piece of hake, deep fried
in a batter of flour and egg, was to be accompanied by a serving of potato
chips and salad, and would be offered to him proudly. `We're having your
favourite,' she would announce as he came through the door and she would
take his jacket and lunch box from him, begging from him a kiss and
companionship. Abe knew that he did not have the heart to tell her that it
was not his favourite meal in the week, she so relished in his approval.
He liked the fish, but his favourite was the sausages and mash with Preteen Model Nymphets
she gave him on Monday evenings.
Abe's left hand felt stupid as he grappled with the latch of the gate to
their front yard. His right was occupied, and soaked in blood. He could
not stain the gate, neither would he let go of the wound that still bled a
little. When he released it a fresh gush of lukewarm blood spilled from
him and took even more time coagulating. He closed the gate behind him and
looked up to see warm light spill from the front door as Lily opened it for
him. She came toward him worriedly and concerned. She had obviously
already seen that his going was laboured and that he was holding onto his
arm. Her jaw relaxed in an expression of shock.
"Oh my man, whatever came your way this time?" Lily asked of her husband as
she took hold of his arm carefully and helped him up the steps into the
house. "It's the crime in this city," Abe replied with his head bowed down
as if shamed by the damage to his arm.
"Did they rob you?" She glanced apprehensively into the dark street behind
them. "Where? Are you hurt anywhere else? How many were there?" Alarm
rang in her voice.
"I'm fine, Love, I'm fine," Abe told his wife soothingly. "And there were
none of them, I wasn't robbed.
"Then what crime did this to your arm," Lily pried away his hand and looked
at the gaping wound that surprised them both with its scarlet colour under
the light in the welcoming and homely entrance hall of their house. Lily
bunched his folded jacket onto a hook in the wall and started to guide Abe
to the bathroom down the short passage.
"It wasn't crime, it was something to stop crime," he started an
explanation, "Ironic, really." Lily made him sit on the lid of the toilet
bowl. She reached into the little cabinet that nestled under the bathroom
sink and brought out a big bottle of antiseptic liquid and a wad of cotton
wool. She had already started to fill the sink from the hot water tap.
Abe stripped his shirt off as he sat.
"I cut myself on the barbed wire when I reached over the wall into
Mr. Benson's rosebush to get you a blossom," he elaborated. She was
reminded of the tenacious gesture with which Preteen Model Nymphets
he have delighted her since
they started seeing each other, she thought it was romantic, he told her it
was cheap, and a smile came to her face. She touched a cloth to the
antiseptic water in the sink and gingerly dabbed at the cut relieving it of
"It's going to need stitches," she said, "Do you want me to do it?" He
turned his face, flushed with trust, toward her.
"Would you?" he asked. Lily left the room and he could hear the opening
and closing of a cupboard in the kitchen. She returned and sat Preteen Model Nymphets
down on the
edge of the bathtub. In her one hand was half a bottle of cooking brandy,
and in the other two glasses, one of which she offered to Abe. She
clutched her sowing kit under an arm.
"Only if I can get a bit of bottle courage first," she sighed. This was
not the first time Lily had to close a wound on Abe; she had always known
him to be a slightly awkward, but not really clumsy man. Yet, she has seen
how he knocked his thumbnail as black as night assembling a shelf. He was
always the one who stepped on the blue bottles when they walked on the
beach. Accidents always happened to Abe, and sometimes his injuries needed
"It's not Mr. Benson's fault really, he is just trying to keep the crooks
out, you know," he took a swig from the full glass. Preteen Model Nymphets
The comforting glow of
the brandy on his tongue and down his throat held the promise of numbness,
and at least a bit of delivery from the pain of having stitches put in an
open wound. The very first time he asked this of Lily was the first day of
their honeymoon. He had gone for a walk on the beach by himself and
returned hours later with a cut as long as her little finger and alarmingly
deep on the Preteen Model Nymphets
bottom of his foot. He had refused to go to the hospital and
insisted that she did it for him. They had improvised with needle and
thread, compliments of the hotel at which they were staying, and had robbed
the little fridge in the room of all its little bottles of liquor. They had
done it successfully and ever since, Abe had trusted his wife with a needle
in her hand and a bit of bottled courage in her belly.
Lily drank from her glass deeply too. She hated doing what she was about
to and never really understood why Abe would not trust a job like this to a
doctor. He had always insisted that something this small would only invoke
laughter from the professionals, and that `vultures like them are just out
to rob us of our hard earned money'. She knew better than to argue with
her husband over issues such as this. Apart from the fact that he had an
open wound on his arm he was amiable. He even started smiling a bit, the
brandy working its magic on him.
"Don't you have something more Preteen Model Nymphets
flesh toned, Love?" he teased her choice of
cotton thread colour, "was that the green you used in the dining room?"
She gave him an annoyed look.
"If you stop your joking maybe I can rake together the guts to do this."
Lily tried to thread the cotton through the eye of the needle. "How many
times has it been, Abe?" She dropped her hands and looked at him counting
the times in her head. "God, it's just too many to count, isn't it?"
"Nine, Lils," Abe said smiling, "nine times only. It's not that much, and
by now you're quite good at it."
"I'd still rather you went to the doctor with this." Lily pinched the
thread between two fingers and let the needle dangle from it. She
suspended it over the brandy bottle lowering it slowly until it, and some
of the thread, sunk beneath the ochre liquid. She swirled the bottle a
number of times expecting the Preteen Model Nymphets
alcohol to disinfect the needle and the
thread. She took it out, closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and sighed.
"Better hold on to something, Love," she warned Preteen Model Nymphets
him, "This will hurt." She
measured the cut with her eye, picking a spot at which to place the first
stitch, not too far away from the rim, and close to the centre. She
estimated that it would take five knots to pull it close, the first one in
the middle and alternatively adding two to either side. They couldn't be
too deep or she would not be able to pierce the needle through and out the
other side, nor too shallow for she might tear through the muscle when Preteen Model Nymphets
pulled the severed flesh back together. She knew this from trial and
Abe reached for the little towel ring, hinged into the wall over his head,
and braced himself. He had installed it not long after they had moved into
the house. Lily had gone to help her sister with the birth of their little
niece for a few days; he wanted to surprise her with a newly fitted
bathroom when she returned. He had laid the white tiles himself, but when
she came back she scarce had time to see what he had done. That time he
told her that he cut himself breaking a tile to fit around the base of the
toilet he was sitting on. He trusted the veracity of his own handy work,
the towel ring would hold.
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