“Jeanette?”
“Yes mummy?”
“Why does my blackberry pie have a hole in it?”
“I don’t know…”
Jeanette held her hands tightly behind her back.
“Daddy’s at work, so who does that leave?”
“Me and you.” Jeanette looked up at her mother, unaware of her mother’s knowledge on the matter.
“I wouldn’t stick a finger into my own pie, would I?”
“I don’t know mummy. Maybe you needed to check how hot it was?”
“Well, my fingers aren’t sticky.” Jeanette’s mother flashed her hands clearly for her daughter to see; berry free. “So, who does that leave?”
“Me.” The girl lowered her head so her fringe protected her from her mother’s stare.
“Can I see your hands, Jeanette?”
“… No.”
“Why not?”
“Because… Because…” Jeanette fidgeted on the spot, her young mind desperate to find a way out of this predicament. “Because Freddie told me to do it. If you see my sticky fingers, it’ll look like my fault. It’s not fair that I get in trouble instead of Freddie.”
The feline in question was fast asleep on a barstool tucked under the kitchen counter. Jeanette’s mother looked over at the cat before turning back to her daughter.
“Go and wash your hands.”
“But mummy-“
“Don’t do it again Jeanette. That’s all I’m going to say.”
Skipping cautiously to the kitchen door while keeping her hands in front of her, Jeanette left the room, dumbfounded by how her mother had figured her out so easily.
Showing posts with label Sticky Fingers. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Sticky Fingers. Show all posts
Saturday, 12 May 2012
Thursday, 10 May 2012
Sticky Fingers by Emily Chadwick
I can’t help it, all right? I mean, sometimes I just come out with the stuff. I don’t mean to take things, really I don’t. It just kind of happens.
Like, take the other day, in Primark. I didn’t really need to go in there for anything, but my mum wanted to take a look around. There were these socks, bright neon and fluffy warm, just hanging there. Like Eve’s forbidden apple, right?
Then, the tingling started. An itch, in my fingers. Like a desire to prove myself. Not that anyone really knows I do it. But I want to prove myself to me, if that makes any sense. A dare. I dare myself. Goad myself.
Bet you can’t take those socks without anyone seeing you.
I can so.
And then, before I can really think it through, the socks are in my hoodie pocket. My fingers are closed around my prize, clutching, clasping. Knuckles white with tension.
When we leave the store, the socks come too. The tension fades away and the rush comes, like getting high.
And I smile.
I guess I was just born with sticky fingers.
Like, take the other day, in Primark. I didn’t really need to go in there for anything, but my mum wanted to take a look around. There were these socks, bright neon and fluffy warm, just hanging there. Like Eve’s forbidden apple, right?
Then, the tingling started. An itch, in my fingers. Like a desire to prove myself. Not that anyone really knows I do it. But I want to prove myself to me, if that makes any sense. A dare. I dare myself. Goad myself.
Bet you can’t take those socks without anyone seeing you.
I can so.
And then, before I can really think it through, the socks are in my hoodie pocket. My fingers are closed around my prize, clutching, clasping. Knuckles white with tension.
When we leave the store, the socks come too. The tension fades away and the rush comes, like getting high.
And I smile.
I guess I was just born with sticky fingers.
Sticky Fingers by Sam Smith
‘That’s my superpower?’
‘Yes.’
‘It’s not very good, is it?’
‘You can take it or leave it. I’m very busy.’
‘No, I’ll have it, but what does it mean?’
‘Your fingers will be sticky.’
‘I guessed that.’
‘What else would you like to know about your power?’
‘What does it do?’
‘You will be able to hold things very well.’
‘Can I, like, climb up walls with my hands?
‘No, they’re not that sticky.’
‘That’s a bit shit.’
‘I’m sorry, you are quite heavy. Maybe if you lost some weight you-’
‘Hey, steady on!’
‘I apologise. Is there anything else you would like to know?’
‘Well, can I turn it off and on?’
‘No. You fingers will be constantly sticky.’
‘How am I going to be able to saves lives with that?’
‘You probably won’t.’
‘That’s stupid! Where’s the “With great power comes great responsibility” or whatever?’
‘You do not have to worry about that phrase.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because having sticky fingers is not a great power.’
‘Yes.’
‘It’s not very good, is it?’
‘You can take it or leave it. I’m very busy.’
‘No, I’ll have it, but what does it mean?’
‘Your fingers will be sticky.’
‘I guessed that.’
‘What else would you like to know about your power?’
‘What does it do?’
‘You will be able to hold things very well.’
‘Can I, like, climb up walls with my hands?
‘No, they’re not that sticky.’
‘That’s a bit shit.’
‘I’m sorry, you are quite heavy. Maybe if you lost some weight you-’
‘Hey, steady on!’
‘I apologise. Is there anything else you would like to know?’
‘Well, can I turn it off and on?’
‘No. You fingers will be constantly sticky.’
‘How am I going to be able to saves lives with that?’
‘You probably won’t.’
‘That’s stupid! Where’s the “With great power comes great responsibility” or whatever?’
‘You do not have to worry about that phrase.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because having sticky fingers is not a great power.’
Sticky Fingers by Lesley Whyte
The cake sat in the middle of the table, the five children eyeing it hungrily. Fat and round and covered in chocolate, their stubby fingers twisted as they waited for the all-clear, for the go-ahead.
Dad walked in and cut himself a slice. He carried it out of the kitchen in his hands, fingers sinking into the thick chocolate buttercream. The children looked at each other, daring each other.
By the time Mum walked in, there was nothing left but a few crumbs and a single smear of cream across the plate.
Dad walked in and cut himself a slice. He carried it out of the kitchen in his hands, fingers sinking into the thick chocolate buttercream. The children looked at each other, daring each other.
By the time Mum walked in, there was nothing left but a few crumbs and a single smear of cream across the plate.
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