Hunted by School Children

A short story about one man's daily commute.

Editor’s Note: I’m excited to share this delightfully strange piece submitted to us by Enda McGovern, a writer based in London. No word on whether it’s a true story.

Submit your own short humor piece of around 600 words to greg@chortle.blog! All our guest writers earn genuine American dollars for their work, thanks to the support of Chortle’s paid subscribers.

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And the next morning John was chased again. By the school children, that is. The same ones that chased him every day for the last four days of the week.

Excited, demented, sporting.

The fact it was Friday made him even more nervous about the hunt. Friday, the weekend coming up, fish and chips for lunch, probably. Beans. Excitement, energy, extra dementedness.

Shit-fuck. Why am I limbering up inside the porch, looking like a wolly?

He saw them gathered on the corner, baying, as he passed the school at the top of the hill. The only way to the station was down. The children waited, transfixed.

It went like it had done every day for the last four: John creates a distance between himself and children (let’s call it a head start); children begin to slowly follow John; John checks shoulders (both), then walks faster. Faster and faster until he is running, briefcase slapping against his thigh, and they, the children, are chasing him.

High knees, John, high knees.

He considered the gall of it as he hurtled down the hill towards the station. Cold air rushed through the nostrils. Chest tightening. The cheek of it. He, John, being chased by them, children. His B.A. versus their lease on life—and not two pubes between any of them to rub together.

Channel your pubus, John.

Briefcase rollicking his thigh all the way down towards the squat station. This is the suburb The Times called the best place to live in London 2024.

Running in unison, the children sounded like one. Right, left, right, left. Military precision. The state schools must be getting their act together then. They ran with a purpose only known to youth, another day in their world of eternal new beginnings. Bold and ardent representatives of The Young Family. Knobbly knees and shitty shoes.

How can this happen in the best place to live in London 2024? They forgot to mention the youths, didn’t they? Didn’t they, mother?!

A buzz on the phone. Fitbit: you’ve reached a new PB! Fuck off.

Piles of children were coming down the hill now, the pack reaching higher as it began to fall over itself. Definitely more than yesterday, but more than Monday?

John vaulted the extended walking stick of Mr. Fredericks as he ran past. Sly bugger. It’s changing round here, John, he’d say when they passed in the street. Something’s changing, something’s been lost. Yeah, your fucking marbles, mate.

The hill stretched on, and the squat station got even more squat—as if when John arrived, it would be the size of his shoe. I’ll pick it up and hit one of these rascals with it, he thought, before imagining himself being engulfed in a mass of school uniforms and knobbly knees on a street corner of London 2024.

But, like an ancient tribe protecting its sacred land, they stopped at the bottom of the hill. Just like they had done the previous four days of the week, panting and quite still.

The horde of children, that is.

John was spat out onto the other side of the road, his shirt hot and wet around the neck and armpits. Drenched already and not even on the Victoria line yet.

On the platform, he checked his shoulders—sweating still, strange looks, briefcase heavy, thighs hurting. Thank god for the weekend.

TRAIN SUSPENDED. RAIL REPLACEMENTS ARE ON THE WAY.

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