ORB

A micro-fiction story I found in a dusty old computer file

When anybody mentions the small buzzing light in the upper corner of my living room I start to get a little hinky.

Frankly, I try to ignore it, but if it’s brought to my attention I can feel the skin on the back of my scalp contract, and there’s a vein in my right temple that throbs. I didn’t even know it was there until the light first appeared.

It floats there, about two inches from the ceiling, bobbing gently. It hums too; the kind of crackle you can hear from electricity pylons after the rain. Not too loudly, but if I don’t turn the telly up it’s one of those noises that worms its way into your brain until you can’t hear anything else.

Sometimes it changes colour, but, like I say, I try my best to ignore it.

This morning my toaster presented its latest effort with a proud clunk, and as usual there was a likeness of Jesus browned onto both slices. I transferred my breakfast onto a plate and noticed that Jesus looked a little disappointed in me this time before I smothered him liberally with jam. It was still dark outside. Autumn had most definitely arrived.

There’s a school of thought that says…well, I’ll try to paraphrase…it’s kind of like…

Okay, have you ever had one of those haircuts that looks just awful? And you’re sat in the barber’s chair, and they’re rotating that mirror around the back of your head, and you’re nodding and making “Mmm-Hmm” noises? And it’s one of those haircuts that you have to grow out, and it has to get worse before it gets better? What I’m trying to say is this year has been a bad haircut.

I left for work and the orb in the living room, red last night, was curdling to a kind of dark purple. 

One evening I flung a tea towel over it and left it gently genuflecting in mid-air like a tiny ghost. The next morning the orb was still there (a slightly sickening green colour) but my tea towel was nowhere to be found. I searched for it, but it had vanished completely. I did, however, find a letter from an ex-girlfriend. It was stuck amongst a pile of books beside the sofa that had grown over time, like a cluster of mushrooms. She explained some stuff in the letter that I knew perfectly well and which I really didn’t need to hear again at that moment.

I think it’s a seasonal thing. Nights drawing in, refusing to leave in the morning. It’ll certainly be well past Christmas before my toast starts smiling at me again.