Creative Comedy Project

Shoe Box By Sam Glover

The curse of the younger brother was about to strike, I just knew it. After so much preparation he was going to spoil it all and of all things it would be a bloody shoe box that brings it down.



“Mummy? Mummy! Where new – mummy? Where new shoes gone?” he asked. I eased sideways, carefully blocking the door to the alley. Mum wiped her hands with her flour-stained apron, smiling tiredly.



“They’re in the box by the stairs, right where you left them sweetie.” Nicky stomped out of the room to look and, as I well knew, didn’t find them.



“I’ve popped your shoes by the door,” I said, casually, hoping it was just the shoes he was interested in. He trundled away and came back, one shoe in each hand and a big frown plastered across his forehead. His eyes were screwed shut and he was panting a little, and I knew the screaming was about to begin. I’d once heard Mum make Dad cry with laughter by calling it his “O Face”. I didn’t get it.



“Where box? Want box! WANT BOX!” and he started crying.



“I had to bin it,” I tried to calm him down, to end this conversation before Mum could get involved. Too late.



“Aww, what’s the matter pickle?” she cooed as she entered the hall, apron gone, dog-laxative “baking” complete. I edged up the stairs while Nicky sniffed and shuddered. End of the bloody world over a SHOE BOX.



“Shoe box gone! Tony binned!” Nicky’s incoherent rage piqued Mum’s curiosity. She looked up the stairs for me, her placid face scarier than all next door’s kids together. Almost out of sight.



“Anthony?” Mum shouted over the ranting. Rumbled.



“Yes Mum?”



“Do you know where Nick’s shoe box is? He’s saying you binned it.” I’m going to be grounded.



“Yeah, I trod on it by mistake. Sorry!” Please don’t check please don’t check please don’t check.



“Which bin?” Bugger. I’m definitely going to be grounded.



“The outside one. Might’ve been next door’s.” There was a pause. Nicky was sniffing now, cried out already, but I was watching Mum. Her face shrivelled as understanding and disappointment filled her. I watched as she passed Nicky towards the back door. Towards the bucket used for the dog’s personal… leftovers. The now empty bucket.



“Anthony, will you come downstairs for a moment?”



I hate having a little brother.


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