Issue Two
December 2024
Four Idioms And An Unsuspecting Wife Pay For the Perfect Lawnmower
J P Relph
NEW IN! LAWN DRAGON ONLY AT NEVILLE’S GARDEN MAGIC!
UNBEATABLE GRASS SCULPTING! WHAT ARE YOU WILLING TO PAY?
The line of eager Grassmen stretched the length of Poplar Street, passing the bakery doing unprecedented trade in bacon butties and ending with a cluster of forlorn latecomers outside the bookies. At the front of the corduroy and flannel-clad line: four good friends who’d arrived at 5am, armed with flasks and foldaway stools. Ted, the unspoken leader, thirty-plus years of grasscraft; Clarence, a Welshman with classic training; Roger, muscular in pressed jeans, a master of the chequerboard cut; and Big Mike, a reptilian-faced Scot with an ironic nickname. Big Mike’s wife, Penny perched on a stool beside him, looking utterly confused. A pretty woman for sure, but a little vacant where it counts, she hadn’t noticed she was the only wife there. All four Grassmen were shuffling with anticipation, feeling sweat ooze and hearts pummel. They were so close now; they could smell the oil and the new paintwork, could almost hear the purr as they sculpted their magnificent greens.
Ginger Snap: original artwork by Anne Anthony
The Lawn Dragon.
A limited-edition upgrade to the revered Lizard; a few barely noticeable bells and whistles made it a wholly unnecessary purchase, but the Grassmen didn’t care. It was candy-apple red with flame decals and a price-tag that was alluringly extreme, lending an exclusivity to the glossy cutter. Only the most resolute and committed Grassmen would pay the price, one that would be heftier for some than others.
Ted glared at his watch: a perfect cutting morning was quickly vanishing. Still, a better morning for him than for the tardy buggers outside BazzaBets. Finally, someone appeared at Neville’s door, his pasty face creating a level of excitement he had never known it do before. He pointed to Clarence and Roger, who’d pressed closer to the crudely painted line on the pavement. The two men walked swiftly inside to pay for their majestic mowers, in the only ways they could.
Soon after, from the depths of the store, Clarence’s powerful voice burst to life, regaling the irascible men outside with a haunting version of Green Green Grass of Home. Along the length of Poplar, Grassmen nodded their respect, murmured their envy that one of them had it in them. There were even a few tears shed into tea and overcooked bacon. Beneath the verdant melody, those at the front heard a bandsaw churring. Ted glanced at Big Mike and they both winced: Roger was certainly paying.
Ten minutes and a cup of stewed tea later, Roger and Clarence finally emerged. Lawn Dragon’s successfully paid for and being packed for delivery. Roger was smiling weakly from a face like cottage cheese. Clarence received a number of hearty back slaps, Big Mike acknowledging how he’d played a belter with the song, what a way to get the mower.
Conversely, everyone grimaced at poor Roger, slumped as he now was in a wheelchair; his right trouser leg and left jumper arm pinned up, emptied. Ted choked up at the sacrifice Roger had made, a substantial cost indeed. One which Grassmen would speak of for many seasons to come. Ted did wonder how Roger would manage the monstrous power of the mower now he was … reduced.
Pasty-face was back at the door, beckoning to both Big Mike and Ted, who nodded and crossed the painted line. Big Mike had his arm around the shoulders of dull-but-pretty Penny. It was no great price for him to pay, she was a terrible cook and he had already set romantic sights on Janice from the Herbaceous Bedders. He liked the way she wielded her trowel, and he knew she’d go moist and giddy over his Lawn Dragon’s fertiliser attachment.
Ted was grinning so hard his face ached. Soon he’d be the envy of many Grassmen, certainly those at the literal end of the line. He knew his wife Marjorie was shagging one of them; a skinny wannabe called Carlton. Ted imagined him scratching his crotch outside the bookies, any hope of getting his own Dragon fading. Well, Ted thought, you reap all the cheap grass-seed you sow buddy. He looked back before he went inside Neville’s to pay; damp-eyed Grassmen raising fists and marvelling at his ingenuity. Finally, he stepped across the threshold and into the shiny, flame-decaled glory of grass mastery. Penny was being escorted into the back of the store, even more confused, Big Mike cheering. Ted stood by the cash till, content to wait a little longer. In the scuffed Waitrose bag-for-life he placed on the counter, the bomb trailed bright wires, ticking like a mower on a hot day.
About the author
J P Relph
JP Relph is a Cumbrian writer hindered by four cats. Tea helps. She mooches around in charity shops looking for haunted objects. JP writes about apocalypses a lot (despite not having the knees for one) and her collection of post-apoc short fiction was published in 2023. She recently got a zombie story onto the Wigleaf longlist, which may be the best thing ever. Words seen recently in Suburban Witchcraft and Frazzled Lit and upcoming in The Wild Umbrella and Moss Puppy Magazine.