Flashfiction 2/9/11: 52 Pick-Up

It was approaching that time of year again. Although there were no spotty patches of thin snow attempting to blanket the ground, flurries danced between frozen branches of the naked trees. Strung from house to house, cords of blinking red lights created their own constellations accompanied by the robotic movements of skeletal reindeer fighting the biting wind. Ice hadn't quite formed where anybody could see, but there was a distinct frost growing over the browned lawns. Anybody with decorations seemed to be prepared, their unsightly properties masked by menorahs in windows or inflatable snowmen. The few houses without cones of white light around their shrubbery looked far more like something from a Halloween tale, the only thing missing being a row of rotting Paul-o-laterns. The holidays came around again like an ugly hydra, and Brian was least likely to participate in the festivities of his own volition. No, instead he would partake in a warm mug of tea and a slew of screwball comedies from the video store. Anything to avoid the falling snow and the reminder that he could barely afford presents this year.

The tree in the living room was more for the little guy, a bundle of excitement who leaves any room in a complete disaster. A blonde cyclone spewing crayons, plastic dinosaurs and Goosebumps novels from its spout. Brian was puttering again. He pushed his son’s soccer ball gently with his foot; he straightened out the stack of cooking books on the kitchen counter again; he teased the knots in the oak table, but he couldn’t help but fear the inevitable silence he would be battling. The rustic floorboards above made the rambunctious thumping sound like a thunderstorm, and it was always easy to hear when Sam snuck out of his bed. The same excited stumbling pounded like a drum as the little boy scurried around the room looking for as many toys as would fit into his plastic backpack.

He managed to cram in a final tin soldier into the side pocket when the familiar horn began to blare from the driveway. Sam looked down below through the bedroom window as a tall man in a sweatshirt and jeans pushed himself out of the car. His eyes widened, and he sprinted down the stairs, leaving a trail of trading cards and uncapped markers behind him as he went. The hallway was lit up by a glass chandelier casting shadows on the grand front door. He leapt straight for it, but was tackled by his father from behind.

“Gotcha!”

The little boy giggled and squirmed away from the playful man, tripping towards the light-up sneakers Santa had brought him early. The chiming of the doorbell didn’t startle Brian, but he still felt his heart racing from the pit of his stomach. He undid the lock and pulled towards his body, the aching gray light peering into the house. Paul was a big man, but not the kind people feared, and his presence sent Sam into another frenzy. His un-tied shoes laces bobbed up and down as he ran to clutch his legs.

“Papa!” The boy’s voice echoed back through the house.

“Hey, bug,” the man said, stroking his son’s hair. “Go hop in the back seat.” And with that, he did, stopping only to hug the other man goodbye.

He dashed down the brick stairs and over the lawn. The back door was already open, swinging back and forth in the mid-evening wind.

“He has everything. A few pairs of socks, books, and I packed some crackers and a juice box,” Brian said, his once eloquent voice beginning to break.

“Do you think I don’t have food where I live?” Paul’s voice was clear, accented by his upbringing downtown Chicago.

“No, I just—“ he started, “Sorry.”

The wind blew again, and Brian in his polyester button-down looked like a wet cat. “Look, if you wanted to wait until the traffic dies down, you could—“

“Brian.” His eyes were severely narrowed, his face grimaced and tired. “Brian, I’m not letting you anywhere near my wallet. Even if it is my back pocket.”

The man he used to comfort when upset was now looking pitiful in front of him, but all he wanted to do was leave.

“It was just a few time.”

“It was not just a few times!” He turned back towards the car and watched the oblivious child run his plastic racecar up and down the window. “Brian, you set our-- my savings back seven years. And this? This here?” Paul motioned at car. “You did this to yourself.”

A few words missing.

Intriguing details, I like. I might caution with some passages that some might consider as unnecessary or a small "infodump." The story is ambiguous, which is fine, but might leave some feeling a bit shortchanged. It does take quite a bit of time to get into any kind of conflict for such a short story.

Now me personally, I can easily overlook such things. Didn't really rob my reading experience any. But I'd remember that others do like their action pretty early on so considering how short the story is, might want to introduce the conflict just a little bit sooner.

Firstly, sorry it's taken me so long to respond to this. Really, I was hoping that somebody else would workshop it, too, but you and I seem to be the only ones interested in this side of the forum. Disappointing.

But anyway, thanks for the feedback! I definitely ran into the issue of trying to pack so much into such a small word span. The story started out in a mall a few months ago. Really, I just like how warm and fuzzy they are during the holidays, so I sat in the food court while my boss had a meeting at the Apple Store, and I wrote the first paragraph while watching people struggle with their shopping bags. When I suggested this prompt, I remembered the small start and went with it. The issue is that I came up with the plot about two seconds before the ending. It's about a spouse who has a gambling addiction. I didn't want it to be the obvious divorce-due-to-infidelity plot.

Yuck. I hate infodumping. Fiction has never been my strong suit (especially flash fiction). :-)

Infodumping is a bit strong of a term for this. lol

It's good that you got this on the spot. As I said, it is well written. It just doesn't seem to have too much story in terms of the overall length.

I understand having trouble with flashfiction. I'm a novelist so developing a character in so few words is a bit difficult.

And BTW, I love talking about writing ad nauseam. I can make this place booming just with the two of us. All you need is me.