Mine!

The evening sun cast long shadows of rich amber across the park, and the heady, perfumed smell of late summer filled the air. But strewed across the well-kept grass were pieces of brown packaging, fluttering gently in the breeze. An empty envelope skittered into a flowerbed, and a scrap of white paper drifted along until it hit an upturned shoe. It strained for a moment against the polished black leather, then gave up and sank to the ground.

The postman struggled against the rope, tight against his chest, and felt the gnarled bark of the tree digging into his back. He squeezed his eyes shut against the pounding in his head. His legs churned restlessly, and he clenched his fists.

A short distance away, three boys sat cross-legged in the grass. One looked up from the heap of packages and torn paper in front of him. His face was ruddy and freckled, with little blue eyes peering out above a piggish nose. He watched the man shifting uncomfortably, and his upper lip drew back into a grimace.

‘Stop squirming! You want me to hit you again?’

The postman slowly shook his head, and the boy turned back to the pile. The others watched him as he pushed aside bundles of discarded wrapping, grasped a slim parcel, and tore it open. His eyes lit up as they beheld the precious contents.

‘Nice - an iPad,’ he said, then quickly added: ‘Mine!’

One of the other boys stood up, frowning.

‘No fair, Boyle! You already got a bunch of games, and the RC car,’ he said. ‘And that dirty magazine! Why don’t you let us have some stuff?’

Boyle’s expression clouded. His eyes flitted between the three faces of the other boys, all now looking at him, and he clutched the iPad box to his chest.

‘This is mine. I called it!’ he cried. ‘You can have one of the games instead.’

The third boy stepped forward, emboldened by Boyle’s concession.

‘I want the car!’ he said. ‘I didn’t get anything good yet.’

Boyle turned a shade darker - this was mutiny. His features twisted in thought as he weighed his options. He looked again at the valuable prize in his hands.

‘Fine,’ he said, at last. ‘I didn’t want the car anyway. It’s dumb.’

He sat back down in the grass and put the iPad in his lap, then started looking for something new to open.

The other boys took their haul from Boyle’s stash and exchanged smiles. One of them, a slim boy with short, blonde hair, picked up a sheet of paper from the grass; it was a credit card bill. He folded it carefully in half, then bent the corners down on each side, running his thumbnail over the crease each time to sharpen the edge. Finally, he held the finished paper plane up for the others to see.

‘What d’you think of Pete’s plane, Boyle?’ said the other boy.

Boyle was bent over the heap of packages. He shot a sideways glance at the plane.

‘It’s shit.’

‘Bet you I can get it as far as the fence,’ said Pete, admiring his handiwork.

‘I bet you can’t,’ said the other boy, grinning.

Pete made a show of licking his finger to test the wind, then tossed the plane into the air. It glided smoothly for a second, then a gust tossed it sideways. It veered sharply to the right, tumbling into the lap of the postman. He looked up with a dismal expression; his face was pale and sweaty, and his eyes seemed unable to focus.

‘I think we should untie him,’ said the other boy, biting his lip.

‘You’re such a wimp, Scott,’ said Boyle. He tossed away the envelope he was holding and walked to the wasted figure under the tree. His features hardened. He threw a heavy kick into the man’s leg and watched him thrash against his bindings.

‘Where’s the good stuff?’ he asked. ‘Ain’t you got more parcels?’

The postman groaned, and his head lolled forward. Boyle gave him another kick.

‘Leave it, Boyle,’ said Scott, approaching. ‘Let’s just go.’

Boyle turned on the dissenting voice, his face a violent ball of fury and excitement. He swung a wild fist, and felt it connect with a crunch. Scott crumpled, howling with pain. Blood streamed from his nose.

‘Jesus, Boyle!’ cried Pete, jumping up.

Boyle looked around. He saw Scott, writhing in pain, and Pete, wide-eyed and pale, and he hated that he felt powerless.

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Written for the weekly short story competition on the 'Writer's Block' Discord server.