Leo's Short Stories

The yard was too small for a Eucalyptus really. The roots were a constant menace, pushing at the paving stones, inching them upwards season by season, laying traps for unsuspecting feet. It looked almost lonely in the company of rose bushes and ivy. A displaced Antipodean, abandoned far from home.  The house had been bought by an Australian in the 70s. She'd planted it one spring, a shivering little sapling from a garden centre, leaves a muted teal in the weak English sunlight. A little piece of home. Awkward, trying its best to acclimatise, to settle in. It sent its roots deep, looking for home, sent them wide, looking for compatriots, finding only English stone. But it had flourished nevertheless.  She died some time in the 90s, the Australian. Tucked up in bed in her home away from home. There were worse ways to go. She was laid to rest under heavy English soil somewhere nearby and her tree left alone in the too-small yard. A ghost of her, in a way. Like the flowery wallpap...

The cigarettes were hers. She'd bought them on a night out, passed them over between kisses and told him to ration her. It felt like an outstretched hand, an invitation to influence, to help her become better. She was quitting. Or so she said. But it was harder with drinks on the cards, so she'd folded and bought a pack in the first Tesco they passed.    No more than three. Maybe five, actually. Or six? No, you're right, let's say five. Unless I'm desperate.   He took the pack home with him, six cigarettes lighter, custodian of the rest until next time. Slipped them into his sock drawer where they couldn't tempt him.  Three weeks before he saw her again. The cigarettes stayed at home, tucked up tight, forgotten in the frustration of long silences and last minute cancelled plans. He apologised, half-hearted.  It's fine. I bought a pouch and rolled a dozen for tonight.    Quitting going well then?   Shut up. It's easier said than done. Just don't ...