Suburbia by Alex Wright

suburbia

By: Alex Wright

Mrs. Jones checks the timer on her oven. It reads 5:32 and ticks down second by second. She cracks the door and peers in at the roast cooking within. She smiles the dainty smile that she is known for and closes the door again. Mr. Jones sits at the table with little Billy and his older sister Sussie. Mr. Jones flips through the virtual pages of the daily newspaper. He prefers the newspaper version over the news feed because it “reminded him of simpler times.” Mrs. Jones smiles at her silly husband and his silly thoughts. Simpler times. Funny thing is, that’s the name of the newspaper too! Mr. Jones flips past the headlines filled with armies, tyrants, and bombs and heads straight to the sports section.

“Dinner’s almost ready guys!” Mrs. Jones says with a smile. “It’ll be a few more minutes, but you all look absolutely famished, so I fried up a few bacon-wrapped scallops to hold you over!”

She places a small plate to the left of the large rotting hole in the center of the table and stands back with a smile. Little Billy stares

at his game projected onto the surface of the table. The splinters and moss that cover the table almost make it look like a real battlefield! His little soldier avatar shoots another and he smiles. The semitransparent scoreboard hovering next to his face shuffles the names into new positions. Sussie waves her hands in a strange, flowing dance in front of herself. The holo-shades across her eyes shows streaks of various colors swishing around in similar strokes. She’s painting another picture!

“Eat up everyone!” Mrs. Jones says with a wider smile. No one stops what they’re doing. No one even looks up. “What’s wrong with you all? I slaved over a hot stove for hours to make this!” Still, no one moves. No one even blinks.

“Hey now!” she says defiantly. “This roast will be done any minute now and you need to eat these scallops before it comes out nice and hot! Woo, is it hot in here? Maybe I should turn the oven down a bit.” She turns around to grab the dial, but it falls off.

“Um, Jerry, I think the stove is broken,” she says as she looks up at the timer. 5:32. She turns back to her family, dial in hand, and begins to speak, but she’s cut short by the sight of a steady drip of water from the ceiling. She looks up to find a large hole torn in the roof. Water drips from a rusty pipe directly onto Mr. Jones’ new shirt.

“Oh dear!” she yells as she rushes to grab a rag. “Honey, move out of the way! You’re getting all wet!” She dabs the rag on his shirt and he flips to a new page in the newspaper without a second thought.

“Where did this hole come from?” she asks.

“Why aren’t any of you answering me?” she pleads.

She stops her protests and stands up straight, staring out of the pristine and spotless window over the sink to the road outside. She tilts her head and moves toward the window. With every step, she can hear the steady clomping of hooves coming up the road a little clearer. She pops her head out of the broken window pane in the bottom left. A blast of hot air reddens her face as she stares up the road in awe. A man on a horse rides up the street, past the Johnson’s house, past the Jenkins’, and past the James’.

She smiles her famous smile as the man and his horse come closer. The man wears a helmet, which covers his face with some sort of breathing apparatus. The horse wears something similar. A cowboy hat rests on top of the man’s helmet and he has a rifle, pointed up and propped against his hip. She nervously smiles a bit wider and, through the broken window, squeezes her hand out, cutting it a little. She waves to the stranger as blood runs down her forearm.

“Hello!” she yells. The man brings his rifle up to his shoulder and aims it at her. He spurs the horse to force it into a light trot and doesn’t take his eyes off her as he moves by. She continues to wave and smile.

“Hello, kind sir! Lovely day, huh?”

He keeps on moving, not looking away from her until the horse turns the corner onto Baring Street. She sighs and pulls herself back into the house.

“Such a nice man,” she says. “I wonder if he’s a friend of the Helgen’s!”

She walks back to her husband and frowns. She grabs his chair and pulls it backwards with surprising ease until the water no longer drips on him. His head rolls back and he stares up at the ceiling as he flips to another page in the newspaper.

“There you go, honey,” she says sweetly. “What would you do without me?” She kisses his cold, blue forehead and walks to little Billy.

“You should really stop playing those games, young man!” she laughs. “They’ll rot