The Chocolate Box

By Leigh J Leslie

"Life is like a box of chocolates. You never know what you're gonna get."

 

This anthology of short stories is like that box of chocolates.

 

Set in a variety of locations and written over a number of decades, some of the stories are based on fact, others were sparked by an overheard word or phrase. There is a little bit of just about everything, just like Forrest Gump's box of chocolates.

 

Each story is entertaining in its own way. Tane grapples with the hand luck has played in his life, while an old man laments the passing of a one-time acquaintance.

Phoebe struggles to thwart Lyle's advances, and Lightfingers Lolita is in for a surprise. These are just some of the characters you will encounter in this potpourri of short stories.

 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Nolan MacKenzie Books
• Release date: Dec 7, 2020
• ISBN: 9781393197690

Book preview

A GREAT DAY FOR A RIDE

Desmond looked at himself in the mirror as he shrugged himself into his pseudo-leathers. He didn’t look half-bad, he thought. Quite macho in fact. His eyes held just the right amount of indolence, yet still sparkled blue in anticipation. His lack-lustre hair was really beyond reparation, but he was still able to wear it at a fashionable length. He ran his fingers through the ebony locks and despaired at their thinness. He gave his reflection a wry smile and turned to the hall cupboard. Inside he reached up and took his full-face bike helmet from off the top shelf, blew away the dust, and closed the cupboard. One more brief glance of satisfaction in the mirror and he was ready.

He looked at his watch. Time to go. He picked up his keys from off the hallstand and whistled his way out the door. It was a beautiful day. A great day for a ride. Still whistling he strode around the side of the apartment and opened the garage. With meticulous care he walked his bike out onto the driveway.

His pride and joy.

Lovingly he buffed the seat before swinging himself onto the machine. His heart sang as he settled himself. It would just be the bike, the road, and himself for the next seven hours.

His heart sank slightly, at the prospect of such a long ride, but it was necessary, and it would be worth it. He knew that at the end of the day he would find someone with whom he could share his love of the open road with. Well, he didn’t actually know, it was more like a premonition, a feeling that he had. His cousin Derek was always good for a bash, and Desmond felt sure that this engagement party would provide him with an ample choice.

Desmond leant forward and turned the key of his ‘nifty-fifty’ and without, ceremony, rode out onto the road. He wondered if he was game enough to remove his helmet and let the wind blow through his hair. But he already knew that his law-abiding ultra-ego would never allow him such freedom. The freedom that could only be dreamed about now that the police had become more vigilant. Still, he was on a bike, and he was going to a party.

By the time Desmond had ridden for an hour he was starting to feel uncomfortable. After two hours he was riding side-saddle in an attempt to alleviate the numbness that can only come from extended periods of time perched on a 50cc motorbike seat. Three hours was marked by a change of sides.

Wiiiir. Desmond was riding at a steady 45 mph, the wind and sun were behind him and it was still a beautiful day, if numbing.

Desmond heard a deep throb creeping up from the rear. He glanced in his side mirror and wished he hadn’t.

Vroooom. Seven deep throttled rumbling road bikes roared past him. Desmond kept his eyes fixed ahead as the bikies, genuine black leathers, studded and ‘patched’, raised gauntlets in offensive salutes. He could feel his face flush and his hands gripped hard on the handles. With a final burst of declutching and burning of rubber the bikies left Desmond to putter along in their wake.

He changed down a gear as the road started to climb and looked at his watch. He was making good time. The mountain range that his bike was gradually conquering was past the halfway mark. He smiled to himself for the first time in an hour. Damn the bikies and their more powerful machines. They probably had not had to save furiously for years to buy their motorbikes. No, they probably were quaking jelly every time they rode the roads, fearful that the police would stop them and discover their bikes where stolen. Or scared that the debt collector would call and reclaim their status symbols.

Desmond was happy again.

Down another gear and the screaming whine of the miniature motor under Desmond marked further progress up the incline. Desmond started to whistle to himself. It was a great day for a bike ride.

The wide sweep of the road ahead disappeared around a bend in the distance. Wiiiir. Desmond rode the ‘nifty-fifty’ around the bend. He groaned and slowly eased himself back into a conventional seating arrangement before rolling to a stop.

Ahead of him was a line of cars. The last five cars that had passed him, and the seven road bikes. Gleaming black Harleys and Kawasakis dead in the queue. Seven black leathered bikies sitting astride their saddles, hands on hips creating an aura of defiance and magnitude.

Ahead of the congregation was a yellow bulldozer. But it was not the bulldozer obstructing the road. With deliberate precision the driver of the rig was slowly endeavouring to remove the debris from a raw scar on the side of the road. Desmond looked up at the slip. It appeared as though half the range had come down and landed on the road before tumbling into the ravine on the other side. The bulldozer driver had his work cut out for him for sure Desmond thought. He looked at his watch. He really didn’t have the time to wait for the way to be cleared.

With deliberation he rode slowly towards the face of the slip. He passed the car in front of him, smiling at the occupants. They smiled back, unperturbed by his apparent queue jumping. As he passed each car their occupants were increasingly anxious and impatient. Desmond reasoned that they were adverse to his intrusion, especially as the bikies had preceded him in impudence. Finally it was only the bikies that separated him from the slip. He stopped, the ‘nifty-fifty’ idling.

Desmond gulped, but he was resolved. The engagement party, and its bevy of beauties was within his reach. If he had to pass through a barrage of the bikies jibes, then he would. He took a deep breath, revved his ‘nifty-fifty’ and slowly moved forward. The bikies looked around and laughed as Desmond putted past them. He didn’t look at them. He didn’t care.

When Desmond reached the face of the slip he stopped and cut the engine. He sat for a few moments, oblivious to the jeers from the bikies. He removed his helmet and shook his head. Gingerly he eased himself off the bike and waited for feeling to return to the lower half of his body. He looked at the scar, and the slip, and the bulldozer.

Carefully he walked towards the slip and bent down and picked up a clod of dirt. He absent-mindedly sifted the soil through his fingers as he gauged the distance to the clear road ahead. He brushed his hands off, then wiped them down the back of his bike pants. Oh, that felt good, he thought, get the blood circulating again.

He walked back to his ‘nifty-fifty’. He looked back at the queued cars and smiled before putting his helmet back on. He then flexed his hands and stretched his arms out in front of him. Theatricals were not part of his makeup, but he did need to psych himself up for the task ahead. He bent down, and with effortless ease and the amazement of the spectators, picked up his bike. Deftly he turned his back on them and mounted the slip and, to the cheers of the crowd, Desmond picked his way across the slip. An accolade of horns followed him.

Once he had cleared the expanse of the slip he put the bike back on its two wheels, flexed his limbs again and looked at his watch. He had not lost much time. He looked back at the stopped traffic and gave the motorists a cheery wave, mounted his ‘nifty-fifty’ and turned the key. Desmond was once more on his way to the engagement party which he was convinced would change his life.

Wiiiir. Cheerfully Desmond whined along as only a 50cc bike can scream. It was still a beautiful day.

And uneventful till he was almost at his destination. That was when Desmond heard a deep throb creeping up from the rear. Anxiously he looked in his side mirror and groaned. Carefully he resumed a forward sitting stance and steeled himself for the onslaught of abuse which he just knew was coming.

Vroooom. Desmond kept his eyes fixed ahead. A chorus of horns accompanied the seven road bikes as they rumbled past. Genuine black leathers, studded and ‘patched’, gauntlets raised in a friendly triumphant salute. He could feel his face flush and he waved back. It was a beautiful day, and a great day for a bike ride. 

A NEW CAR FOR A NEW BABY

I ’m worried, Ben mused , eyebrows puckered. He squinted across the darkened cubby he and his younger brother Peter had made under their bunkbeds.

What about? Peter asked and reached into the bag of goodies that sat between them. He pulled out an apple and bit into it. Ben could be so boring at times. They were supposed to be playing quietly and it had been Ben’s idea to make the cubby and play in it. But all they had done was eat apples. All Peter wanted to do was read his book, or, seeing he was too little to read, at least look at the pictures. But no, Ben wanted the cubby, and it was too dark in here to see the pictures in his book.

Ben twisted his hands like he had seen his mother do when she was worried. She had said that rubbing her hands together was meant to rub the worries away, but he didn’t see how that worked. He was still worried. Money, he said as he reached into the bag. But Peter had taken the last apple, there were only cores left in the bag.

Money?

Uh-ha. Money.

But why are you worried about money? I saw you put money into your piggy-box yesterday.

Ben was glad of the dark as he rolled his eyes. Little brothers could be so dense sometimes. It wasn’t his money that was worrying him. He sighed.  I heard Dad tell Mummy last night that he didn’t have enough money for a new car.

So? Peter took another bite of his apple, and wiped his hand across his chin, then licked the juice off before munching loudly.

Ben scowled. He would have liked another apple. Well, we need a new car because the one we have now doesn’t always start and we need a car that will always start when we want it to.

Why?

Because we are getting a new baby and babies always arrive in the middle of the night and they are always in a hurry.

Was I in a hurry to get here?

I guess so. I can’t remember.

Why don’t you remember?

Because I was too little when you came.

Will I be too little when this baby comes?

No.

So we want a new baby?

Yes, I think so. But we need a new car more.

Why?

Because we need to get Mummy to the hospital in time to get the baby before someone else takes it home.

Peter thought about that for a bit, nibbling at his apple the way a rabbit nibbles at a carrot. What about me?

What about what about you?

Don’t you want me anymore?

’course I want you.

What about when the baby comes? You won’t want to play with me anymore. You’ll want to play with the baby.

What makes you say that?

Well, I’ll want to play with the baby.

No you won’t.

Why not?

Because babies are dumb.

Was I dumb?

All babies are dumb. All they do is sleep and cry and scream and eat.

Then why do we want one?

I don’t know.

Peter looked at his apple core and sighed. What are we going to do?

Ben looked at Peter strangely, do about what? all the talk of babies had made him forget the original discussion.

About the car, about the money.

Oh. I don’t know. That’s what I’m worried about.

Maybe we could dig for buried treasure, exclaimed Peter who was always looking at pirate picture books. I’ve got a real super map in my box. And before Ben could stop him, Peter had rolled out from under the bunk and dashed to the toy box. Books and toys were flung into the air as he rummaged for his old shoebox of treasures.

Here it is, he said as he crawled back to Ben grinning as best he could with a piece of paper between clenched his teeth. Once back in the cubby he proudly handed the map to Ben.

Ben could not see a thing in the dark so he stuck his head out from behind the blankets that made the cubby and looked at the sheet of paper. The juvenile scrawls of crayon meant nothing to him and he wondered what he was meant to be seeing. What is it? he asked Peter.

It’s a treasure map. See? Peter pulled the blanket aside and pointed to a black squiggle. That’s where the treasure is.

Ben couldn’t see a thing, but, knowing how crest-fallen Peter would be if he didn’t show interest, and how mad his mother would be if they disturbed her rest with Peter crying, he nodded his head.

Well? asked Peter.

Well what? replied Ben.

Well, when do we start?

Ben scratched his head. He’d seen his father do that when he was thinking.

Can we start now? Peter whispered, his eyes sparkling at the thought of uncovering buried treasure.

Ben looked at his brother. Bouncing in excitement Peter was almost hitting his head on the bunk above and Ben mentally sighed before answering. Alright. How would you like to be the leader? At least that way it would not be his responsibility to read Peter’s treasure map.

Peter couldn’t believe his ears. Ben, his older brother, wanted him, Peter, to be the leader!

Together they crawled out from the cubby.

"First, we need