The Neighborhood Picnic
Halloween Frights and 100 Word Fiction/October and July 2021
tiny frights/Fall 2023
Shortlisted for the 2022 Brave New Weird Award
First, the Very Old
Neighbors stand in the street, in driveways, on sidewalks, they grab drinks and paper plates. The sound -the crash - a large noise- comes from the oldest house, the house with the drooping shutters, the one covered in ivy. Neighbors freeze, look at each other, the house, back at each other. Inside, Mrs. Stipley gasps from the floor, stretches her wrinkled arm up from below, presses a sweaty hand to the glass, leaving a print, outstretched fingers. The sun twirls, changes color, the air is hot and still. The neighbors unfreeze and get back to the business of the party.
The Lonely
Spying on the party through her window, Molly eyes the ice-filled garbage cans overflowing with alcohol. Baby Fox is always crying and will just keep crying. Eddie, gone for the Saturday shift, will never know. Molly places Baby Fox in his crib, leaving his red mouth raw and open, fists punching, legs kicking. The front door closes softly behind her, relief sweeps as she steps outside into the almost unbearable bright light, snaps the tab, feels that first gulp of sweet alcohol. Better already, Molly approaches the beckoning circle of women who open their arms to receive, to swallow her.
Those Who Will Not Be Missed
Mike sits alone, one of the few single people at the picnic. The tub of Mich Ultras looms under the dead apple tree, darkened by a shadow. He reaches in, sits the closed can on his knee, imagines putting it back. He misses his kids. Years ago, they’d be yanking on his sleeve, needing him for something. Last year, he sat here with Janice, whose mood memorably worsened with each sip he took. He feels a certainty: everything that matters is gone. Mike grimaces, fixing his lips to the cold tin, knowing this bad choice is the last one left.
Finally, the Children
The large young woman, the one who wasn’t invited, singles out three little boys playing stick fight in a side yard. She lumbers closer to the oldest boy who stands looking solemn as she approaches. “You want to see something cool?” she says, already moving toward the deck, as though she expects all three will follow, like baby ducks. Leaning over, she points underneath. “See? There? A bunny with her babies.” When they line up, she says, “You need to scoot forward!” The solemn boy’s face reacts with fear as something like arms reaches out and pulls the boys down.
The One Who Remains
After wandering the yards of his abandoned neighborhood, 12-year-old Gavin cannot find his family and cannot escape the fireworks’ finale. “Too loud,” he cries, rocks, holds his hands to his ears as he stands alone. The booms and sputters of colored spark light up the sky and yards around him, but Gavin responds only to the noise, running from it. Finding the closest house, he punches through glass. Shards explode, cut his skin, blood runs in streams. His face turns upward as he howls into the emptiness. The fireworks persist, insist on celebrating the end of this, all of it.
