Flash Fiction / Autumn
As a child, my mother used to tell me to make the most out of life. She would always say that I had the power to make my dreams a reality. I wish she had taken her own advice before it was too late.
It was a clear cool fall morning and the wind was whistling through the maple trees behind my shabby apartment building. Standing on the tattered wooden balcony, I took in the fresh air and closed my eyes. Autumn has always reminded me of my mother’s rhubarb, crisp fall leaves, and death.
I thought about my mother a lot that day as I drove down I-35 to my childhood home. She used to tuck me in every night and sing me lullabies until I drifted off into a deep slumber. During the summer, she would take me to the pool and patiently wait for me in the shade until I had worn myself thin. And even though we didn’t have money, she always made Christmas a magical time full of cookies, carols, and wonder.
I parked down the block from my family’s home and casually walked down the sidewalk. There were some light snowflakes falling but no accumulation as of yet. I crept around to the backside of the house because I wanted my entrance to be a surprise. Watching my breath hit the cold air and turn into condensation, I contemplated what I would say when I went inside.
Opening the rear door as quietly as possible, I entered through the kitchen. It looked the same as it did twenty years ago. In the family room, I found a man sleeping on the couch that I barely recognized. It was my definitely my father but all the years of alcohol and cigarettes had really taken its toll. Without another thought I pulled out my .22 caliber and unloaded three shots into his chest. He never opened his eyes.
Tucking the weapon into my jeans I let myself out the back door and inconspicuously sauntered back to the car. Tossing the revolver on the passenger seat I sat down in the car and began to cry. The snow was much heavier now and was creating a layer over all the windows.
It was twenty years to the day when my father came home late one autumn night and beat my mother to death. She always talked about leaving but simply could not. Where would she go with a nine year old son? She had no family, no job, and no options. My father only served fifteen years in prison while I lived a meaningless life full of anti-depression meds and foster homes.
As the windows fogged up and my tears subsided I realized that murdering my father would not bring my mother back. But at least I could stop thinking about killing him now.
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If the mother was killed twenty years ago and the father spent fifteen years in prison, what’s the likelihood that he would still have that house to come home to when he got out? I guess it’s possible. It would seem he’d be in an apartment or something and the house got auctioned off back in the 80’s.
Anyway, I didn’t see the murder coming when you went in to such detail about the season and the description. It was a nice build-up, but I felt a little deflated about the whole murder scene.
I mean, you spent four paragraphs setting up the serene setting. And it was a good job too. I enjoyed it. But then, the murder came and went in a couple of lines with no emotion whatsoever. Even if the murderer has not emotion for her father, she still has emotion for her mother. The murderer has had this building in her for twenty years. I would have liked to have read about how she felt when she walked in and saw him lying there on her mother’s couch while her mother slept eternally in a grave and how she resented him for his freedom in more detail. How she felt while she pulled the trigger, etc… THAT’S the story, not the autumn leaves and familiar smells (though those were nice touches)
Good job. It’s a chilling story.
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The jarring transfer from golden autumn idyll to premeditated patricide was a shot to the chest in itself. Which is to say, “well done.”
I appreciate both your candor and your reluctance to layer something raw with overcooked language. I think that was a Fine Young Cannibals album, back in the day.
Generic phrases can be handy when you’re in a rush to get the bones down, but should be replaced once you’ve fleshed the writing out. For example, exhausted children do not so much wear themselves thin as grow heavy and get limp.
The snow and your tears falling in the same paragraph makes for much interested chin-stroking. I sure would like to see you work with that.
Don’t be afraid to cut straight to the meat of what you mean. Some of your descriptors touch the blister but don’t draw the poison out.
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