The Scream Box
by Andrew Velzian
Genre: Drama
Swearwords: A couple of strong ones.
Description: It's a new garden shed, right enough. But what's it for?
_____________________________________________________________________
- That was lovely Helen thanks -
- Uncle Bens out a jar and microwaved rice, how’s that lovely MasterChef? - She laughed.
- Naw it hit the spot, chicken was right tender -
- …right oot Iceland’s freezer more like, no exactly home cooking -
- Aye ok then, fuckin pish right enough - I mocked.
Stuart looked on from his armchair with approving eyes.
Regardless of jarred or frozen the truth is it was nice, and when somebody else cooks a meal for you it’s always good. Maybe it’s the time and care taken to make the meal, or maybe it’s that somebody likes you enough to give you your tea.
Accepting my refusals of seconds Helen headed ben the kitchen, moments later the sound of a sink filling and the scraping of plates. Stu was looking at me as only a best friend can. A neebur that’s been with you through the trenches of youth and stands beside you as you cope with the PTS of adulthood.
- Aright neebs? -
- Aye -
He roll’s me a ciggie before his own and we both light up. The couch end seems to swallow me but Stu’s chair is moulded round his tall stocky frame like a comfortable Escobar.
After the post meal peace I lean forward and stub out my cig, making sure it’s out and rubbing the ash from my fingertips.
- Gonna do a shoot mate, nowt to do with the grub - My smile feels like a grimace.
- Aye I’ll get you up the road brother - I nod. I shout my cheerio’s through to Helen as I’m zipping up my jacket.
We walk along the lanes getting to the back of my house, through the gate we enter and light up the joint I’d rolled earlier in the evening. Exhaling the initial puff we stand in silence, me looking blankly at the house and Stuart taking in the newly built garden shed. He nods in acknowledgement
- S’that fir? -
- That - I turn round and look down the lawn - That’s my Scream Box -
A nod of the head
- Scream Box. I see -
- Aye, soundproofed it maself -
Stu stays silent in an attempt to impress upon me that he knows what it is.
- What is it though? - He chuckles a true chuckle that echoed across the years from our past.
- A Scream Box, like I said - I smile a bit.
- Ah heard what it is but I’m askin what’s it for? -
- It all gets a bit too much at times ken? And when it does, well, I go in there and scream, scream like a fuckin banshee - I add. - Stops me going nuts like -
He closes his eyes in a prolonged blink of understanding.
- Still hard then? -
The ends of my mouth rise but fail to coax the middle into a fully formed ‘soldiering on’ smile.
- Comfy? - He inquires while obliterating the end of the joint beneath his adidas toe.
- No really, not really the point either if you’re in the position to need one in the first place - I carry on nibbling the cuticle on my left pinkie.
It’s another ten minutes before I realize I’m now alone in the garden staring at ancient skies. I turn and let myself in to the darkened house. The only light in the living room is from Albert Square to illuminate a face that doesn’t turn towards me when I enter.
- How much overtime is that yiv done now? - Eyebrow raised.
- Not enough - I say looking around – Just nowhere near enough - I clear my throat and walk back out the room, down the garden and into my shed...
Swearwords: A couple of strong ones.
Description: It's a new garden shed, right enough. But what's it for?
_____________________________________________________________________
- That was lovely Helen thanks -
- Uncle Bens out a jar and microwaved rice, how’s that lovely MasterChef? - She laughed.
- Naw it hit the spot, chicken was right tender -
- …right oot Iceland’s freezer more like, no exactly home cooking -
- Aye ok then, fuckin pish right enough - I mocked.
Stuart looked on from his armchair with approving eyes.
Regardless of jarred or frozen the truth is it was nice, and when somebody else cooks a meal for you it’s always good. Maybe it’s the time and care taken to make the meal, or maybe it’s that somebody likes you enough to give you your tea.
Accepting my refusals of seconds Helen headed ben the kitchen, moments later the sound of a sink filling and the scraping of plates. Stu was looking at me as only a best friend can. A neebur that’s been with you through the trenches of youth and stands beside you as you cope with the PTS of adulthood.
- Aright neebs? -
- Aye -
He roll’s me a ciggie before his own and we both light up. The couch end seems to swallow me but Stu’s chair is moulded round his tall stocky frame like a comfortable Escobar.
After the post meal peace I lean forward and stub out my cig, making sure it’s out and rubbing the ash from my fingertips.
- Gonna do a shoot mate, nowt to do with the grub - My smile feels like a grimace.
- Aye I’ll get you up the road brother - I nod. I shout my cheerio’s through to Helen as I’m zipping up my jacket.
We walk along the lanes getting to the back of my house, through the gate we enter and light up the joint I’d rolled earlier in the evening. Exhaling the initial puff we stand in silence, me looking blankly at the house and Stuart taking in the newly built garden shed. He nods in acknowledgement
- S’that fir? -
- That - I turn round and look down the lawn - That’s my Scream Box -
A nod of the head
- Scream Box. I see -
- Aye, soundproofed it maself -
Stu stays silent in an attempt to impress upon me that he knows what it is.
- What is it though? - He chuckles a true chuckle that echoed across the years from our past.
- A Scream Box, like I said - I smile a bit.
- Ah heard what it is but I’m askin what’s it for? -
- It all gets a bit too much at times ken? And when it does, well, I go in there and scream, scream like a fuckin banshee - I add. - Stops me going nuts like -
He closes his eyes in a prolonged blink of understanding.
- Still hard then? -
The ends of my mouth rise but fail to coax the middle into a fully formed ‘soldiering on’ smile.
- Comfy? - He inquires while obliterating the end of the joint beneath his adidas toe.
- No really, not really the point either if you’re in the position to need one in the first place - I carry on nibbling the cuticle on my left pinkie.
It’s another ten minutes before I realize I’m now alone in the garden staring at ancient skies. I turn and let myself in to the darkened house. The only light in the living room is from Albert Square to illuminate a face that doesn’t turn towards me when I enter.
- How much overtime is that yiv done now? - Eyebrow raised.
- Not enough - I say looking around – Just nowhere near enough - I clear my throat and walk back out the room, down the garden and into my shed...
About the Author
Born in Dunfermline, raised on the Orkney Isles and now residing in Cheshire, Andrew Velzian says he scribbles a few stories in between working and sleeping.