The Family Whip
by Nancy May
The Whip family resided in the agnostic broadcasters’ superiority. Julian, a Corporal Industrial employee boycotted imputing analysis data. His delicatessen dined: lobsters and crabs. At the weekends his inveterate flourished. He’d treated his wife. His life offered wealth.
Helen leant, her hair locks dancing sunburnt butterflies. ‘They’re divine, a tall mountain top arching Heaven’s opening!’ Smelling a bountiful rose’s bouquet; it floated enthusiastically.
‘The roses complement your tempting lips.’ His hazel irises dilated, she’d impatiently leapt into his open arms.
Saturday played its catastrophic mess. Breakfast, twice as long; Julian’s shock leathered.
Their son, an agile pioneer explorer clambered over him as he’d perfectly framed the symmetrical climbing pillar. Peter cleaned his Wellington boots, scarring his father’s shirt.
‘D-D-Daddy will y-y-you play in the g-g-garden?’
‘Let your daddy rest, he’s been working hard.’ His mother reprimanded sullenly. Julian’s deviation preoccupation caught his television programme and kidnapped his vernacular.
‘Yes m-m-mummy, what s-s-shall we do?’ Peter wrestled the remote from his father’s clutch. The television swamped in cartoons. The morning lazily passed. Julian’s tactile immunity carved his son’s desirable absence in besieging the garden.
The television blotted his suffocating, nauseating exiled cartoons.
‘W-w-what’s happening d-d-daddy?’
A short blemished man garnering a moustache voided the coronation and, spoke from behind an oak desk: ‘Economic circumstances evaluate implementing regulations. Resourced research enlists negotiation. Electricity will be severed in a measurable scale: one-hour days.
‘Our hope: deficit reduction,’ concluded the bloated man, crowning peroxide-white shimmers. His nostrils impaled; his hands toyed opened files laid on the oak desk.
All electrical equipment died.
‘Is this a vain joke? That was Rupert Willkins, the Chancellor!’ Julian seethed, awakening.
His son fell from the highest reach on his expedition chewing plats in the carpet.
Helen’s thoughts rocketed sparklers, her gaze launched, ‘What’s the problem, Peter?’ Her ears tickled, pounding her son’s panicking, projected painful cries.
Julian debunked, vacating the dormant image he’d solidified like a rooted tree practising hang gliding; ‘We’ll go out and play in the garden.’
His son boomeranged a miraculous recovery. His wife’s paramedic mania retreated and she’d snapped the cupboard door on Peter’s security plasters. The kitchen cupboard: a walk-in pharmaceutical.
The Whip family garden reverted inward postures. It answered nature’s call: a wilderness transfiguring being. The garden parameter spawned crocodile teeth; swarmed crooked centurions and paid archers Earth’s valuable substance, decapitating man’s treasures: stones dashed a round-about. The garden leered onto the impersonating road, dressing a worn belt buckling hot-tempered potatoes.
A slender energetic man bounced kangaroo joints and vaulted between the potatoes. The spindle-legged man’s clothes colouration dictated his employment: postal worker.
‘The postman’s arriving!’
‘Don’t be ridiculous; post never arrives twice daily!’ Helen retorted, her sunburnt butterfly locks drowning. Her face lassoed the undulating pond.
Peter yanked his father’s scarred shirt. His Wellington boots converted tractor’s destruction in convoying the swing. The swing encrusted familiar habitants perplexing nettles’ courtship.
‘P-p-push me d-d-daddy!’ The pendulum swing electrified the garden.
Julian suckled his son’s wish and serrated his own dubious nature.
The renegade garden squashed surrogate lounging abilities.
Helen scuttled; they’d be safe out of eye- and ear-shot. He’d correctly informed her, the letterbox incubated lashings. A government official document sealed the atmospheric shallow condition. She’d tear in shambolic rupture the envelope concealing the official government document. The parliamentary seal foolishly unmistakable.
Be fully endowed of the gravitational situation. Electricity will completely return surpassing one month.
Rupert Willkins, Chancellor
The afternoon bowed obediently, surrendering the gleaming swords and wrapping the night in the moon’s translucent silk scarf. The embroidery scarf barred the traumatic volcanic breeches.
The garden landmarked the adventurous train. Pioneering explorers soon tired and redirected their outwardly lavish excitement inside.
‘Are you fetching a torch?’ Helen’s irises telescopically zoomed.
Her husband pounded a rugged mangled entrance. ‘Yes! I’ve brought it in from the garage!’
Helen up tilted her brows and coined her lips; her complexion resonated total unexpectedness.
Julian swung the torch like a helicopter’s search round the living room.
‘Peter? Shall we place you in bed?’ Peter crumpled exhausted annihilation onto the cocoon cushioning pillows emitting a perfume: newly bloomed Jasmine.
Helen predicted her son’s unsuccessful sleep knitting would double, lying delicately in her padlocked arms.
Peter’s cowardice whirlpool pathetically rotated faster inside the dark’s core. She’d soon extinguished her incorrectness. ‘I will help and read Peter a bedtime story.’
A shockwave elevated her respiration; his offer occurred as regularly as leap years. Her unexpectedness challenged her nearsightedness to jump, missing the first step on the towering flight.
Disturbance didn’t cannon-shot into her son’s rude awakening. Peter remained peaceful.
During Peter’s rigorous ritualistic sanitation drama before ending the night, he would hinder his own unique performance by a stream of audacious terrifying slanders. He would proudly impressed upon his father his newly learnt attributes over the week. Not tonight: submissively he accepted the ending ordeal. It took little over ten minutes in agenda normally lasting one hour’s interaction.
Helen surpassed amazement, her drowned hair locks rolled into lost enigmatic diamonds. Her petite figure curvaceously valiant still, found Julian unmistakably viewing his wife’s succinct frame; adorably, voluptuously. He’d wondered how hurtfully sharp conflictions could muster out her graceful sentiment.
‘Which story is your favourite Peter?’ Julian used the torch like radar detecting the collapsing bookshelf.
His son indecisive: ‘No! Not that one, this one, it includes dragons and fire-eaters! That one only has enchanted fortresses and meadows.’
Opening the chosen book, the torch’s light demoted, Peter said, ‘D-d-daddy I w-w-want my story!’
‘We’ll create a story using hand animals, the moon will be our instrumental alley, its enlarging noting the special occasion.’ The moon unravelled its translucent silk scarf.
Helen’s bemused observation hooked her son’s and husband’s interaction. An endeavourer’s path since climatic home returns from the hospital. Her bemusement slipped into the enchanting hand silhouettes, cradling Peter’s shortening dream handshake. Her umbrella smile twinkled happiness. Tomorrow they’d concentrate on retaining a balanced family life and ask questions.
Copyright © 2011 by Nancy May