The Gamble
Beginning
The Gamble
By Harvey Millar
As I walked down the wet sidewalk, stained with puddles of murky rainwater, one thought raced through my mind: I’ve got to win. No matter what. This thought continued to linger in my mind throughout the evening, and as the rusted metal street lamps lit up the sidewalk, I watched my shadow dance along the dirt road ahead. The air was thick with black smoke from the distant Tyre Fire which was lit a couple of weeks ago, and the aroma of burning rubber filled my lungs.
They’ve become more popular now.
As the sidewalk came to an end, so did the light. All I could see now was the black smoke in the air, lit only by the fluorescent white light of the moon. 24 Baker Street. I knew that name too well. I would come here as a kid and throw rocks at the windows. But that all changed once the bombs fell. The house was almost completely destroyed now. The scaffolding was crumbling down, and most of the walls had completely caved in. But it was still home to me.
I stepped off of the sidewalk, and walked up to the brush that was covering the front gates. Most of the vines had been cut already from my past visits, but there was still the odd branch or two. There used to be a chain stretching from one side to the other stopping people like me from entering, but that had deteriorated away years ago. As I climbed over the gate, my feet got caught under of of the brambles, and I fell over it and landed hard on my right shoulder.
Why did this always happen?
I got up and brushed myself off, watching the dust from my coat jacket blow away in the wind. Then, I began to walk towards the house. Well, technically, you couldn’t really call it walking. It was more of a hobble, or a limp. I forgot how far the gravel pathway was. It had to be at least 100 meters, and with a throbbing pain in my shoulder and foot, it felt more like miles.
Why was it so far away?
Once I reached the house, I saw the familiar glow coming from the lone crevice in the rooftop near the chimney. It was probably from the fireplace. I could smell the burning oak. I stepped up onto the porch, which was also completely destroyed, with a stumble. There were roof tiles scattered across it like Lego bricks in a child's bedroom. God, how I miss those days, and even just the thought forced my face to grin. I knocked on the plastic porch door, which gave off a ear piercing clack. It was a sound that I had come to recognize more and more now. After a few seconds of silence, I finally heard the sound of slippers making contact with the creaking floorboards echoing inside the house. I could hear the sound of a key in the lock, and after a few seconds of struggle, he slid opened the door, but left the door chain in place, only revealing his wrinkled face.
“Jack? Is that you?”
It was Billop. He was in his tatty, yet well kept dressing gown that was now an off shade of green, and his grin was the same color of the glow from the fireplace. His hair was grey and patchy, and his eyes were sky blue. Although he looked like a serial killer in your average horror film, he had a heart of pure gold. He was like a father to me in a way.
“Yes, it’s Jack. Who else would it be at this kind of night?”, I replied with a chuckle. Billop’s vision had slowly declined over the years. This was probably due to the gas attacks a couple of years ago, or maybe just old age. But it didn't matter to me. Billop closed the door softly, and slid the chain off the lock. Once the door creaked open, he pulled me in for a hug. I could feel his ribcage hit my own. He was awfully skinny for a man of his age, but there was nothing we could do really. The rations were getting smaller. After he released me from his warm embrace, he quickly ushered me inside and closed the door behind me and walked towards his makeshift kitchen.
“Lovely night, isn’t it?”, he asked, his voice was soft.
“You could say that”, I replied.
I sat down in my usual spot on the broken Laz-E-Boy chair, in what was left of the living room, and laid back. The chair always smelt of old cigarettes. But I didn't mind. It was the best feeling in the world at the end of a long day at the mines. Billop returned from the kitchen with two glasses of water. I wouldn't exactly call it clean water, since the ash destroyed most of the water ducts, but it's what I was used to. He sat down on the couch, and passed me a glass. We sat in silence for a moment, listening to the crickets chirp. Then, he reached his hand down the side of the couch cushion and pulled out a dented metal briefcase, which was covered in dust and old potato chips. He brushed it off with his wrinkled hand, and opened it up. Tonight was poker night. And I had to win, no matter what. It was the least I could do.
By Harvey Millar
As I walked down the wet sidewalk, stained with puddles of murky rainwater, one thought raced through my mind: I’ve got to win. No matter what. This thought continued to linger in my mind throughout the evening, and as the rusted metal street lamps lit up the sidewalk, I watched my shadow dance along the dirt road ahead. The air was thick with black smoke from the distant Tyre Fire which was lit a couple of weeks ago, and the aroma of burning rubber filled my lungs.
They’ve become more popular now.
As the sidewalk came to an end, so did the light. All I could see now was the black smoke in the air, lit only by the fluorescent white light of the moon. 24 Baker Street. I knew that name too well. I would come here as a kid and throw rocks at the windows. But that all changed once the bombs fell. The house was almost completely destroyed now. The scaffolding was crumbling down, and most of the walls had completely caved in. But it was still home to me.
I stepped off of the sidewalk, and walked up to the brush that was covering the front gates. Most of the vines had been cut already from my past visits, but there was still the odd branch or two. There used to be a chain stretching from one side to the other stopping people like me from entering, but that had deteriorated away years ago. As I climbed over the gate, my feet got caught under of of the brambles, and I fell over it and landed hard on my right shoulder.
Why did this always happen?
I got up and brushed myself off, watching the dust from my coat jacket blow away in the wind. Then, I began to walk towards the house. Well, technically, you couldn’t really call it walking. It was more of a hobble, or a limp. I forgot how far the gravel pathway was. It had to be at least 100 meters, and with a throbbing pain in my shoulder and foot, it felt more like miles.
Why was it so far away?
Once I reached the house, I saw the familiar glow coming from the lone crevice in the rooftop near the chimney. It was probably from the fireplace. I could smell the burning oak. I stepped up onto the porch, which was also completely destroyed, with a stumble. There were roof tiles scattered across it like Lego bricks in a child's bedroom. God, how I miss those days, and even just the thought forced my face to grin. I knocked on the plastic porch door, which gave off a ear piercing clack. It was a sound that I had come to recognize more and more now. After a few seconds of silence, I finally heard the sound of slippers making contact with the creaking floorboards echoing inside the house. I could hear the sound of a key in the lock, and after a few seconds of struggle, he slid opened the door, but left the door chain in place, only revealing his wrinkled face.
“Jack? Is that you?”
It was Billop. He was in his tatty, yet well kept dressing gown that was now an off shade of green, and his grin was the same color of the glow from the fireplace. His hair was grey and patchy, and his eyes were sky blue. Although he looked like a serial killer in your average horror film, he had a heart of pure gold. He was like a father to me in a way.
“Yes, it’s Jack. Who else would it be at this kind of night?”, I replied with a chuckle. Billop’s vision had slowly declined over the years. This was probably due to the gas attacks a couple of years ago, or maybe just old age. But it didn't matter to me. Billop closed the door softly, and slid the chain off the lock. Once the door creaked open, he pulled me in for a hug. I could feel his ribcage hit my own. He was awfully skinny for a man of his age, but there was nothing we could do really. The rations were getting smaller. After he released me from his warm embrace, he quickly ushered me inside and closed the door behind me and walked towards his makeshift kitchen.
“Lovely night, isn’t it?”, he asked, his voice was soft.
“You could say that”, I replied.
I sat down in my usual spot on the broken Laz-E-Boy chair, in what was left of the living room, and laid back. The chair always smelt of old cigarettes. But I didn't mind. It was the best feeling in the world at the end of a long day at the mines. Billop returned from the kitchen with two glasses of water. I wouldn't exactly call it clean water, since the ash destroyed most of the water ducts, but it's what I was used to. He sat down on the couch, and passed me a glass. We sat in silence for a moment, listening to the crickets chirp. Then, he reached his hand down the side of the couch cushion and pulled out a dented metal briefcase, which was covered in dust and old potato chips. He brushed it off with his wrinkled hand, and opened it up. Tonight was poker night. And I had to win, no matter what. It was the least I could do.
♠ ♠ ♠
Hope you enjoy!