estate

Bollocks by Danielle Goldstein

“Bollocks,” sighed Spencer as he attempted to wriggle his shoulders free. The gap looked much more Spencer-sized before he attempted to get through it. Now he was pinioned to the ground by a dumb metal door, the aged blue paint of which was flaking onto his back like blueberry dandruff. Lifting his neck as far as he could, Spencer blinked into the darkness of the garage, which was faintly illuminated by an echo of streetlamp coming in through the slim gap between the door and the floor. If he squinted he could make out a wooden chair missing a leg that looked a bit like the ones his mum had around their tiny dinner table. Spencer scoffed at thought of their glorified stool being considered a dining table.
There was also a dirty old microwave with its door hanging open, a few mounds of indistinguishable junk piled left, right and centre, and right at the back of the confined space was a tall, boxy shadow. “That has to be it,” he thought. “Where else could it be hiding?” 

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