Every month we feature 250 word flash fiction pieces as submitted by our readers. If you would like to submit a flash fiction, please email us with “Flash Fiction Submission” in the subject line.
The Red Sweater
The Walk of Shame
By Melissa Delport
By Gary Phillips
Red is the colour of blood. It is also the colour of Uncle Jim’s favourite sweater, which mommy says brings out his eyes, but eyes are never red. Eyes are blue, green, brown, sometimes even the caramel colour of mommy’s hair, but never red. So mommy is lying. She must be.
The wall felt like velvet, against my back, almost feline. It soothed me as I teetered on the edge of no return. Soon I would be in that place where tomorrow doesn’t matter.
Everybody lies, even I know that. They lie about things all the time. Like when daddy told the pretty waitress at the burger bar that my food was good, when in real life it wasn’t. It tasted like apple juice left out in the sun. Or like when mommy told grandma that I was under the weather so we couldn’t come over, when actually we were inside and the weather wasn’t. Uncle Jim and his lying red sweater, which is not an eye colour at all, calls lies ‘secrets’ but I don’t think that secrets and lies are the same at all. Telling mommy I played Monopoly with Uncle Jim, when really we didn’t, isn’t a secret... it’s a lie. I’m almost sure of it. I don’t like Uncle Jim’s games. I like Monopoly, but I don’t think Uncle Jim knows how to play. I think that’s the real secret that he doesn’t want anyone to know. But I lie and pretend he can, when he tells me to… because if I don’t something bad might happen. I lie about something else, too. I don’t really like Uncle Jim’s red sweater. I hate it. But that’s my own secret.
A hand on my shoulder brings me back from the dark spider web of my psyche. With Spartan effort I lift my head and laugh, “Sorry I missed you, but I had a secret meeting in the basement of my brain”. “Whatever dude! Here, have a bump of this, it will put you right.” A small heap of off-white powder balanced on the tip of a car key moves in slow motion towards my face… “Here I go again! The walk of shame!” That dull sense of disbelief that I did it again. “What happened last night? Those black spots scare me!” In a few hours I will shake it off, the hangover, the guilt, the depression. The shame hangs around a bit longer. Self-disappointment and selfloathing is a constant companion, a drunken tattoo that I will take to my grave. Right now I feel so lonely, and yet everyone’s watching. “They know! They all know. It’s written on my face, in my eyes. It’s in my body language. I might as well be wearing a bright scarlet cape. I better pull the hood low. Everyone knows. “ “Walk tall. The foetal position will give me away. I can get through this if can I just get to the shadows.” “I hate this feeling. I hate myself.” AUTHORS MAGAZINE | 31