Shackabomble
Shackabomble: a call-out when someone is telling an obvious lie which requires them to admit they are full of it and to tell the bloody truth already
Stephanie hurdled into the cinema. "My brother was in a car accident. He was driving and a meth head ran him off the road but the police thought it was his fault and he was arrested. Luckily someone saw the other driver smoking a pipe earlier and they let Jacob go." Everyone else in the group huddled around Stephanie, hugging and consoling her. Everyone except myself and Ricky. 10 years I'd been hearing her bullshit stories. She didn't even have a brother called Jacob. I'd lost count of how many siblings she'd invented over the years. 12 by my count. In a three bedroom house where her grandmother also lived (actually - not by her delusional mind). I was fucking done. All of these lies designed to make people feel sorry for her middle class life with a father, grandmother and actual brother who loved her. "Shackabomble," I said, quietly at first. Everyone stopped talking. "What?" Stephanie said uncertainly. "Shackabomble. Shackabomble. SHACKABOMBLE." I got progressively louder with each Shackabomble. She could see the anger in my eyes as I advanced upon her, sending our friends scattering. She stepped back with each of my steps. "Shackabomble, bitch," I demanded. "Okay," she conceded. "Dad had to drop Eugene [her actual brother] at soccer practice." Everyone stared between us. The power had shifted. Finally someone had called her out. Ricky, a family friend of Stephanie's who also knew the truth, grinned at me. At last. Someone had called her out. Check mate, fucker.
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The Frame
Evelyn leant against the wall, an empty hook above her, a frame three feet from her lay on the ground looking a little more tattered than moments before. It contained a photograph from four years prior of herself and her only love, Henry. Her heart was racing, her mind confused - this was the second time the photo had hurled itself backward off its hook. “Are you there, love?” she thought, focusing on trying to bridge the void between the world and the other side. He’d been gone for two years, three months and 17 days now, yet she could still feel his hand in hers, butterflies in her stomach as though it were the first time 61 years ago. “If you’re there, do it again,” she silently dared him. She braced herself as she rehung the picture. Nothing. She sighed and wandered into the kitchen to make herself her 10:00am international roast coffee. Just as she was opening a packet of scotch finger biscuits to have on the side, *THWACK!* the biscuit packet split open wide as Evelyn jumped through the roof. She dared to glance into the living room. Sure enough, the picture frame was in the middle of the room, face up, perfectly centred with Henry’s shining eyes looking directly up at a photo of the two of them together on their wedding day. “What a beautiful day that was, love. The happiest day of my life,” Evelyn urged through the void. With that, the lamp beside the couch flickered. Evelyn’s grandchildren had told her that the morning Henry had passed, they had all experienced varying power failures at their houses. They’d speculated it was Henry’s sign that he was still somewhere in the universe, a play on their surname of “Power.”
By Renessa Norton10 months ago in Fiction
Comments (2)
I'm been unfortunate to know a few pathological liars like this. I wish I used this one them though, lol!
Wow, what a twist in the story! Shackabomble, really? 😄