Cierra Reyes
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Father's Day
Flash fiction submission for NYC Midnight 2024. Placed 1st in Round 1.
Prompt: Ghost Story/Dropping a phone/Rat
A woman has to make it through the one-year anniversary of killing her husband.
It was self-defense.
That’s what I tell myself as I place clean blades back into their slots. One space remains vacant, the carving knife likely still covered in blood and rusting in an evidence room. I haven’t gotten around to buying a new one yet.
Wind pounds the walls, echoing accusations throughout the house.
Guilty.
My therapist said the first anniversary would be the worst. It didn’t hit me until Mila skipped off the bus this afternoon.
“My Father’s Day project!” she giggled before showing off her creation.
Uneven circles stare up at me now with a wretched red smile. They’re the perfect shade of Daniel-Stone-Blue. I read the six-year-old chicken scratch with lead in my stomach.
WORLD’S GREATEST DAD
My Dad’s name is: Daniel
His favorite color is: Orange (Ew!)
My Dad’s favorite food is: Chiken.
My favorite thing to do with Dad is: Bring flowrs to the cemitary with Mommy.
My Dad is the best because: He never yeled at me, only Mommy.
Acid makes its way up my throat as I hang it on the fridge. Santana’s ‘Smooth’ breaks the silence and my body stills. It was the ringtone Daniel chose for me—I haven’t changed that yet, either. I place a fake smile on my face as if the caller will hear my false enthusiasm for the late-night check in.
The bright light assaults my eyes as I read the name.
DANIEL (HUBBY<3)
I blink back tears as the hairs on my arms stand on end. The phone slips through my hands, smashing against the ground. My body trembles until the serenade stops. I brush my fingers against my neck and swallow hard. The cops said anyone can buy a phone number these days.
Kids are cruel.
Candles line the rim of the tub and I take a breath of lavender before sinking into the warmth. Baths are supposed to cure the depression—or the guilt—I can’t really remember. Something soft brushes against my ankle and I yank my leg back on reflex.
And then I scream.
Dozens of rats erupt from the drain and skitter across my bare skin. I slip as I stumble over the edge and pain slices into my ribcage. Ringing fills my ears and shrill squeaks disappear back into the pipes they came from. Vomit burns my stomach as I retch into the lavender-sewer-scented water.
A shadow catches the corner of my eye and my heart threatens to rip from my chest. Air escapes my lungs as pressure builds against my windpipe. I claw at the space around my neck and my eyes widen at the form that haunts my dreams.
Daniel, covered in crimson with our carving knife still stuck in his neck. He grins and I try to choke out familiar pleas for mercy. Only when my ears begin to ring and darkness seeps in does the pressure let up. Hot breath assaults my ear as he laughs.
“Where’s my present, Baby? It’s Father’s Day, you know.”
Idioms are for Idiots.
Flash fiction submission for NYC Midnight 2024. Honorable mention in Round 2.
*Post-submission edits made*
Prompt: Romance/Deleting an email/Martini Glasses
A man learns the meaning of "falling in love".
Idioms are for idiots.
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That’s what I always believed, anyway.
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Before my first baseball game, Dad told me to “break a leg”. I cried. When Mom told me my new apartment would “cost an arm and a leg”, I pondered the logistics of holding down a job with two missing limbs. It was possible.
​
Yesterday, my therapist that claims to specialize in autism, told me I am “falling in love”. I haven’t fallen and I’m not sure what it means to be in love. I love many things; Sudoku, consistency, the smell of coffee beans. I cannot fit inside of a Sudoku book. My therapist is an idiot.
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Maya uses idioms, but I don't think she's an idiot.
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“Bite the bullet,” she’d told me on her seventeenth visit to Daily Grind.
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I like working at the coffee shop. I hate the name.
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Maya encouraged me to apply for college because I’m a “bookworm”. When I googled the average college classroom size, I deleted the email to the admissions office before it was even sent. Maya told me to “go back to the drawing board”.
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On her twenty-first visit, she recommended online schooling. I just finished my first semester with a 3.9 GPA.
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“A penny for your thoughts.” Maya leans over the counter as if my space is hers.
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I don’t back away. They say space is a near-perfect vacuum; I think, if Maya became an astronaut, it could be perfect.
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“Your hair is blue,” I comment.
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She grins and I think I have heart palpitations.​ “I’m in my mermaid era.”
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Last month, Maya dyed her hair red and called it her “revenge era”. The month before it was pink, and she deemed it her "fairy era". I don’t think she knows how long an era is.
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“You change your hair a lot.” The optimal time for eye contact is 3.3 seconds. But Maya's eyes are coffee bean brown, and I stare for 7 seconds.
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Maya doesn't look away when I slide her order across the counter. A double espresso cinnamon latte with whipped cream. Maya has the same order every Wednesday at three-fifteen p.m. I make it at three; she likes her drinks lukewarm. I like Wednesdays.
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“And you never change yours. We’re like yin and yang,” Maya smirks. “Three-twenty; time for your break.”
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We settle in the corner she’s deemed “our spot”. A Mary Poppins purse sits on her lap and she pulls out a set of wide rimmed cocktail glasses. Maya is strange.
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“We’re celebrating. I knew you’d pass with flying colors,” she pours half of her order into each glass.
“So, we’re drinking coffee like martinis?” I ignore the way her thumb print on the glass makes my brain itch.​
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Silently, she untangles her mess of earbuds and hands me one half. We share, leaning in so the cord stops pulling like a tightrope. Maya smells like vanilla and it mixes with the scent of freshly brewed espresso. A song starts playing with the volume low; for once, the bass doesn’t make my teeth grind. This is…peaceful.
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“I brought the club to you!” she laughs.
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My stomach warms as I fixate on the freckles along her nose. They spatter her skin like the stars cascade over the night sky, and I'm sure now, that Maya would make space the perfect vacuum. The realization makes me feel like I'm falling.
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Weightless. Careless.
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Full of adrenaline as my lungs seize.
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“You…‘take my breath away’,” I confess.
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Maya glows pink as her lips part and form a small heart.
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My therapist was right. I’ve fallen in love.
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Idioms are not for idiots.
