Mr Harrington is a short story, a comedic piece of flash fiction I wrote about two years ago. I have decided to post ‘Mr Harrington’ on A Little more Fiction for several reasons, the first is, due to other commitments, I have been unable to post here as often as I wish and feel in some way I am letting my ardent followers down.
Secondly, since I reblogged ‘A Preserve of Love’ a few days ago, I have gained a number of new followers, so I hope this story will be received, as a way of a thank you, by them.
Lastly, but not least, I hope you will take some time to browse the stories I have here at the moment. Most are mine, but I do have a couple of guest posts. I frequently change the stories on show, never allowing a large number to be present at any one time.
Hopefully, you will enjoy my various writing styles and genres and, leading on from that, I would like to think you will take a peek at my website HERE and maybe purchase one or more of my books.
Alternatively, you could take a look at Electric Eclectic’s website HERE. I have written several Electric Eclectic novelettes such as the psychological drama Three Floors Up, North to Maynard, an urban ghost-in-the-machine tale, Miriam’s Hex a lighthearted black comedy of greed and latent curses and, my latest addition, The Orb, a high octane, urban fantasy speculative thriller.
Anyway, on with the show as they say, (whoever ‘they’ are?)
Something astounding happened yesterday I must tell you about.
I was standing at the kitchen sink, washing the dishes from lunch and gazing out of the window as I did so. In the corner of the kitchen, little Jack was playing with his favourite toy, a fabric clown. I could see Jack’s delight each time he made the clown squeak.
Outside, a flock of sparrows were devouring some crusts I tossed on the lawn earlier and I could see Mr Harrington pottering about in his garden, which adjoined the end of ours.
It was pretty much an ordinary and uneventful day until Mr Harrington looked my way.
In fact, I am sure he looked directly at me. A strange type of challenging stare. It was most unusual for him to look at me in such a way and most disconcerting.
Mr Harrington then stood, stretched his back and began running towards me. With one flying leap, he hurdled the back fence, continuing to run at full speed the entire length of our garden, scattering the sparrows as he neared the house.
Mr Harrington did not stop running, he came dashing through the kitchen door, ran straight up to little Jack and hit him on the side of his head with a vicious, swinging swipe, before turning around and dashing off.
Jack spun across the floor and slammed into the cupboard doors. His toy clown flew into the air, bounced on the floor with a pathetic little squeak before coming to rest under the kitchen table.
The entire act happened so quickly, I only had time to pull my hands from the suds and pick up a towel ready to dry them, by which time Mr Harrington was halfway back down the garden and heading home.
Jack was far quicker than I. He scrambled to his feet and was after Mr Harrington like a flash, jumping on him and raking his claws along his back. The two cats tumbled and twisted, matted clumps of fur flying into the air and letting loose a series of those blood-curdling, high pitched, ear shattering screeches and meows that resonating throughout the entire estate during the early hours of the morning.
Catching up with them I clapped my hands, stamped my feet and shooed at them. Mr Harrington giving up the fight and running home, while Jack came and rubbed himself around my ankles like a furry slinky, purring away as if nothing untoward had occurred.
Looking up, I saw Mr Harrington sitting on the fence between the two gardens washing his paws. He looked back at me, head slightly tilted and wearing an expression which said: “This ain’t over yet.”
I know this to-do is mostly my responsibility.
You see, until I brought Jack back from the animal sanctuary, we welcomed Mr Harrington into our house and garden, fed him on occasion and spoilt him with tidbits of ham and the odd prawn or two.
Now Jack is here, Mr Harrington feels pushed out. He is understandably displeased and disgruntled.
© Paul White 2016