Today is International Short Story Day. And, since I love short stories and happen to write them, I thought today would be a good day to post one. Below is a flash fiction story I wrote for the most recent round of NPR’s Three-Minute Fiction contest. No, it didn’t win. You would have heard. But I still like it and am happy to give it a home here. It’s partially inspired by Neil Gaiman’s poem, “The Day the Saucers Came.” Enjoy. And do take a look at all the stuff being posted on the International Short Story Day site and on Twitter.
by Craig D.B. Patton
She closed the book, placed it on the table, and finally, decided to walk through the door. It opened with a wave of her hand.
Outside her bedroom, her little brother and two of his friends tumbled backward in surprise. One wore the blue and yellow plastic stethoscope from the toy doctor kit. Little spies. Caught red-handed listening at her door. She turned them into gerbils, snatched them up, and placed them in a glass tank so the cat would not eat them. Later she would change them back. Wipe their memories. She could do anything. She had read the book.
Downstairs, her mother sat on the couch, undead eyes boring into the television.
“Where are you going?” she asked without turning.
“Out.”
“Be back for dinner.”
“Okay.”
She went out. It was raining. Pouring, really. Another day she would have stayed inside reading. Or at least worn a jacket. Today the rain parted in a circle around her. Today the worms crossing the asphalt made way. She had read the book.
Halfway down the street she stopped. Someone was shouting in the house to her left. A man’s voice. Angry. Harsh as metal filings. A softer voice pleaded beneath it. She looked through the wall and saw the man raise a crimson fist. A woman cowered on her knees at his feet. But the blow never fell. When the woman opened her eyes, she was alone except for a large wolf spider that she soon squashed.
Farther down the street, a soaked and trembling dog bayed mournfully at a door. It opened, even though no one was at home.
An elderly man calcified by arthritis looked out his window and saw weeds wither and flowers bloom in his garden beds.
A Down’s baby girl stood and walked months ahead of schedule while her parents wept with joy.
And when she came to the intersection with the busy street which, even now, she was forbidden to ride along with her bicycle, the traffic stopped. Drivers’ mouths hung open in mid sentence, cell phones pressed to their ears as she wound her way across. Nothing on her journey troubled her. She had read the book.
But her heart pounded an uncomfortable beat when she reached his house. Remembering the book, she went up the driveway, up the front walk, up the steps, and rang the doorbell.
He opened it. His eyes widened.
She crossed her arms. “I don’t care that you didn’t call.”
“I’m sorry?”
“I don’t care if you’re sorry either.”
He continued to stare at her. Funny, that was how this had started. Only now, she knew, he was staring because she was sunshine in the rain. Because she had stopped traffic. Because a raven had landed on her shoulder and was eyeing him as she reached up and scratched its chest.
For just a moment, he saw all that she was and all that she could be.
Good. So now he understood what he had lost.
She nodded once, her mouth a hard line. “Goodbye.”
“Wait,” he called as she descended the stairs.
He would beg for forgiveness and invite her in. He would tell her she was beautiful and brilliant and magical and that he had been a fool, all of which she already knew.
“No,” she said, without even looking back. She had discovered the deep wellsprings that lay within her. She understood the eternal cost of giving herself for less than she was worth.
She had read the book.
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