Short fiction

Fitzwilliam Street

I love winter. The days are short and the nights are long. People are inside. The dirty streets sleep under a blanket of clean white snow. And Fitzwilliam Street becomes my domain again. Today its four houses are lit up with human chatter and I can’t help but peek into their guarded lives.

The Sitwells from One are fighting. Their son Arnie failed his test again. They don’t know he’s been too busy. I wish I could tell them he’s been taking care of a dying kitten he found at Three.

Miss Anna, living in Two, is a sex worker. She has men coming and going all the time. She’s sat in her kitchen now, crying while holding a small bunch of blue violets. She doesn’t know her Dad left them on her doorstep. I wish I could tell her he still loves her.

Three is vacant – most of the time at least. This evening, a homeless teenager is sat on the patio with a bowl of warm soup. He doesn’t know who leaves it there every Friday. I wish I could tell him it was Mr Sitwell.

And the Georgiev family of four, as always, are having their dinner together – smiling, chatting, sharing happiness. They often say it’s them against the world. I wish I could tell them Anna is Russian too.

I wish they knew what they don’t. I wish I could tell them. But I am a lonely beacon of light, the olden Fitzwilliam street lamp.

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