Mrs. Henderson rounded the corner wheeling her recycling bin and nearly tipped it over when she spotted something utterly out of place: a pair of gleaming, blue boxer shorts, displayed neatly on the pavement. No mud stains, no grass clipping – practically museum-quality cleanliness.
It was the most interesting thing to happen in Spring Blossom Avenue in years.
By lunchtime, Mr. Pennington, retired librarian and ringleader of the Neighbourhood Watch, was staked out at his upstairs window with binoculars. He watched too many detective shows and was developing future plots in his head: a love declaration gone awry, a covert spy operation (coded briefs for secret agents?), simply a mishap with a charity collection.
Neighbours paused in groups, speculating, but nobody picked them up to hang on a fence like people did with dropped gloves or kiddies’ bootees.
Next day – no shorts. The pavement, once graced by that immaculate cotton, lay barren. No footprints, just a faint circle of dew.
So…where did they come from, and where did they go?
Mrs. Whitaker’s collie, Mr. Snuffles, was put in the frame. He had nabbed clothes off washing lines before. But where was the proof?
No one entertained my theory: an Urban Art Collective calling themselves ‘Civil Underwear’ – think Banksy meets Body Shop – stage pop-up exhibitions of underwear on lampposts, pillar boxes and bus stops; always clean, always cryptic. Next day, they reclaim their installation before the police get involved.
What’s the truth? Only the breeze in Spring Blossom Avenue knows for sure.
Words: Richard Rooney
Illustration: A.I.
Flash Fiction 250
Flash Fiction 250 