Imps

Imps
By Stephen A Abell

Number of Words: 498



They’re here. I can hear them. Their laughter and yells roll over my lawn, from the bottom of the garden right up to my open patio doors and into my front room. Children should be seen not heard.

Seventy-seven years I’ve lived. Married just the once, with three children. All gone now. Just dust in the wind. Nothing left, except the faded photos and dimming memories of a bitter old man. I deserve to be left alone.

But no: Every morning I go to the bottom of my garden and replant all the lovely plants ripped from the soil, the flowers torn from their stems. The little buggers must be coming over the fence judging by the scrapes and scratches.

Damn my failing eyesight. My hearing’s as good as when I was a lad, I can hear their laughter but all I see down there are small shapes, running and jumping into the shadows to confuse me.

If I were younger, I’d stroll down there and give the buggers what for. Though, you hear such dreadful stories in the news about the youth of today killing their elders. No bloody respect in this country anymore. My Father and Grandfather’s blood would boil to see just what they protected in the wars.

They’re back and growing more confident. I had to rebury our pet cats; they had strewn their bones over my lawn. This is getting quite out of hand. Should I reason with them, or call the police?

Three-thirty in the morning and they’re in the garden. A clacking noise sounds familiar somehow.

Thank God, I oiled the sliding doors; I don’t think they heard them open. The full moon shows me a small group of figures. They appear to be dancing. No, they’re swashbuckling. That’s what the clacking is. Toy swords coming together.

Creeping slowly, I cross the grass in my slippered feet. The white swords clack. Why can I not make out their features? The white bones clack. My flowerbed is trashed again.

Silence.

They stand completely still, now I’ve been spotted. They throw their swords towards me and three white bones land before my feet. These aren’t cat bones.

Tightness grasps my chest as they step forward to reveal their alabaster complexions.

Huey, Lewis and Donald stand naked of flesh in the moonlight. Their childish laughter reverberates in my head as they bend forward to retrieve their ribs.

My left side numbs while I stare in shock. I never wanted children. They were too chaotic and mischievous for my liking. I committed the sin for the woman. Then one night, after the little imps had dug up my prize rose garden I stole into their bedrooms and gently, though forcefully, suffocated them with their pillows; their mother included.

As I fall face first into the dirt of the flowerbed, right at my wife’s feet and draw my last breath, darkness crowds in and all I can hear are the joyous yells and laughter.

Children.

Huh.

For The Contest - "Invalid Item"   by A Guest Visitor
Prompt - Imp
Come and try it out.