Newman Square

• Jay Carmichael, Grade 9
• Short Story
• 2008

Behind the desolate flats where I regrettably reside, is the most humble of places.
There, almost domesticated pigeons fly about on the sweet smelling, cool summer’s breeze. There they float in and around the gaps created by the towering buildings; they are almost caught in my favourite enclosure, if that is what you like to call it.
As I briskly walk down the busy street I see the strangest of men walking beside me.
A man with an uneven gait, and unkempt hair, a face stained untidily with dirt tangled in between the deep pores of his murderous frown and a man whose bulky shoulders hang forward creating a hunch in his back.
I watch him for some time and then I tentatively look down to his side and see in his corpulent hand, swaying beside his pot-belly, he holds nervously, but courageously, a black beanie, and as I stare at the woolen creation I realise that wrapped inside it is the object in which I believe is the cause of his shakiness, and I look up to see his head dart around, glancing briefly at the beanie.
In his tenacious grip he holds the thing firmly; I can see that from the white in his knuckles. From around me and the man a gust of wind spins upward and pushes back the beanies cover of the object and I see, hiding underneath it, is a revolver.
Shiny, dazzling and fearful.
I just gaze at it and my eyes locked to it and a fear creeps within my soul.
My head automatically rises, but too late, the man sees me looking at it.
The front of me is pulled hard and almost instantaneously it hit a brick wall, there my eyes flick open to be greeted by the unattractive face of the waddling man.
“Huh? Punk wh’t ya stari’n a’? Go on ‘ell me?” he says close to my face as flecks of spittle spray across me.
“No! N-n-othing Mister!” I say as my voice goes high and abnormal.
He has raised the beanie and I feel the hard end of the revolver sticking into my stomach.
“Well, jus’ t’ make sure ye never do it again” he voiced as I heard the click of the revolver and suddenly the ear shattering sound.
“Th’ll teach ya!” he yelled and dropped me onto the cold pavement.
He left me there as bystanders rushed to help, but there was nothing they could do, as I died in my favourite place.
My favourite place, where almost domesticated pigeons float on a cool summer’s breeze, and as I die in a busy street, the street of my favourite place.
And I die quietly, peacefully and happily in my favourite place.
Lying silently on Newman Square.