COLOURING ROSES by Anita Goodfellow (3rd place, Flash Aug22)

Another letter from school. I handed it over to Mum and looked at the stains on the kitchen floor. When she had finished reading she said I had to control my anger.  ‘Where are your listening ears?’

I’m ten not five. I didn’t say this I just mumbled ‘sorry,’ before hurrying to my bedroom.

Then I had my idea. I would lock my anger away.

So where to put it. Dad’s tennis racket case? No he would find it and then there would be trouble. It had to be somewhere safe. Dad was cross enough without having my anger too.

In my bedroom I found my old plastic chest under the bed. The one I used to store my pet worms in. Would it be large enough to contain my anger?

I sat on my bed and concentrated. I held the box close to my mouth, breathed in and out like my teacher had told me. When I had no breath left I shut the lid. I pictured my anger bright red like Dad’s cheeks when he yelled at Mum.

Now where to put it? I didn’t want my little brother finding it – he had enough temper tantrums. Somewhere high then, but what if Mum found it? It would make her sad and she cried enough already especially when Dad came home late slurring his words.

The garden. The overgrown spot at the end. The patch where Dad had promised to build a climbing frame. I was too old for climbing frames now.

I started to dig with my brother’s plastic spade.

I imagined my anger bubbling like a saucepan on the cooker when Mum cooked us pasta.

The stupid spade broke.

My anger would have escaped if it wasn’t for Mrs P calling out, ‘digging for treasure, pet?’ I wiped my hands down my jeans. Dad called Mrs P a nosey old cow.

‘It’s my anger,’ I said. ‘I’m burying it so everyone can be happy, but the ground’s too hard and I’m worried someone will find it.’

‘I tell you what. I’ll put it in my garden under the rose bush. What colour is your anger?’

‘Red, of course.’

‘Well it’ll help to colour my roses – you wait and see’

I passed the box over the fence, stood on tiptoe and watched her dig. When it was buried, Mrs P gave me a thumbs up.

Soon the rosebush was covered in buds and I smiled at the thought of my anger making something so pretty.

One day Mrs P cut me a bunch of the roses and wrapped their thorny stems in tinfoil. I gave them to Mum who put them in her last remaining vase. She closed her eyes and sniffed the roses. She smiled for the first time since Dad left.  I saw my anger rise from the blooms and disappear through the open window.