'With Mumma You Get More than One Shot.' by Michelle Dickins

Mumma says no guns. The plastic revolver, his gift, is returned to the toy shop. I take aim with a forked stick, pew pew-pew. I shoot the neighbours letterbox to smithereens, pew-pew, and the magpie pooping on mumma’s car, t-t-t-t-t chk chk pew. I hide behind a tree waiting for his car to pull in the driveway. I’m going to shoot the mirror he uses to preen his hair before he forgets to knock and walks right on in, patting my head like he wants to hammer me into the floorboards.
 
Mumma says be nice. I don’t tell mumma when she’s out of ear shot, he hands me a dollar coin and tells me to rack off. You can’t buy much with a buck so I put the coins in a biscuit tin for when mumma needs them more. I ride my bike round the court and over the plywood Evil Knievel ramp leaning against our low brick fence. He says my arm isn’t broken and I’m only carrying on for attention. When my arm’s in plaster he asks to sign it but I rack off before he gets the chance.
 
Mumma says don’t spoil it. He picks the neighbours dahlia’s, bunches them together and tells her a story about buying them especially for her. She doesn’t mention we saw him picking them from Morry’s garden. She watches him stretched out on the couch like he owns the place, his shoes on her favourite poof, remote control in one hand, a beer in the other, flicking between footy and formula one. Mumma’s mouth’s turned down. I can’t remember her smile.
 
Mumma says he’s not coming anymore, and it’s nothing to do with me. For the first time in a while I pretend to be sad.