Oven Stones

There was this here jolt, see, like an earthquake. The only thing I hear moving is them two round oven stones and the glass plate, the one what used to fit in the microwave we got rid of.

The wooden stand for the rolling pin what looks like it’s made of a marble staircase ˗ the one me hubby found at the recycling ˗  that holds them in place.

So it shifts with the jolt, I suppose, and off they goes. Off the bench. Onto the floor. All three of them in a bunch, three peas in a pod…!

Never smashed, you know. Should of, but they never did. I mean, one of them’s made of glass, in’t it? The others, well, they’re made of stone ˗ stone don’t break easy, not unless you drop it off a great height, like a cliff. Then it still has to fall on stone. Stone on stone, you see?

Unless it falls on some unsuspecting bloke sitting down there taking a kip alongside of the sea ˗ and then this oven stone falls on his head. Split it in half, it would, that oven stone. Like that there bloke standing up on the plinth with the gun. The time immemorial bloke.

He had his head split open once: had to get the Council to glue it up again. Kids done it.

Anyway, my hubby picks up that there microwave plate and says, This here ought to have broke. I’m gonna nail it on the front door. Like an horseshoe.

That’ll break it, I says.

Always picky. I’ll glue it on.

Not on my front door you won’t.

Righto, I’ll just stand in front of the bleedin’ door and hold it. Will that make you happy?

This story first appeared on Helen Moat's blog, as one of a series of flash fiction stories writers contributed at her request. 

She also interviewed me: you can see the interview here. 

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