[Short Story]: "The Gift of a Green Mood"
A flash fiction piece (600 words) with the theme of "Birthday" -- from the Tampa Writer's Alliance May workshop.
It ended with him shoving me into the table, and though I had a concussive landing, I still remember all the presents and the cake crashing down with me.
His birthday was a week before mine, and it had passed without any fanfare. My calls to his house went unanswered. When I told him “Happy birthday!” at lunch that Monday, one of our bullies said:
“Michael’s too poor to have a party. Ha! He has to live in a trailer!” The weight added to the air by all their laughter concentrated on his shoulders and slumped them.
His eyebrow twitched, and he abruptly got up and shouted “Shut up!” Then he threw his lunch in the trash, tray and all, and stormed off. A teacher from another class gave him detention for that.
The next morning, I gave him a cupcake with a candle in it, already lit for him. My mother bought it for him after I told her what had happened at lunch. He just looked at me with a faded smile and slapped my shoulder.
“Thanks.”
The teacher didn’t let him walk five steps into class before scolding him for the candle. Michael said, nonchalantly, that he wouldn’t put it out. Knowing him, he intended to keep that cupcake all day, untouched and prominent on his desk. But when the teacher accosted him, Michael bolted to his seat, hiding the flame with his hand. Once the teacher was in his face, he blew out the candle.
“I wish you’d go fuck yourself.”
When I saw him again after lunch, I asked him how it went with the principal. He scoffed, arms folded, and said “Does that cupcake mean I have to come to your stupid party?”
We laughed together. I gave him a playful push and said, “What else would it mean, you prick?” He smiled.
On the day of the party, I was in the kitchen laughing with my father—in his rush he grabbed a “7” instead of a “1,” so I turned “70” that year—when Mom came to tell me Michael had arrived. He tumbled out the car from the way his older brother shoved him from the back seat. His mother yelled something at him, and he screamed back “Alright, alright!” before slamming the door. The car screeched away around the bend. I leaned expectantly against the porch balustrade for my guest of honor, and watched him trudge and sway up the driveway with his hands tucked in his oversized, faded jacket.
As he came onto the porch I shot at him with my Nerf gun. He swatted the bullets away and laughed with me, but his was uneasy, forced.
“Sorry I didn’t bring a present.”
“Don’t worry about it.”
He spent most of the party staring at the bounce house—my parents’ grand surprise to me. We watched each other through the black mesh wall, and his eyes, expressionless and glossy, followed me as I bounced. I went out to check on him, but he had already wandered to the table with the cake and the presents. He seemed lost in his gaze at those presents, towering over him like Everest.
“Come on, the cake’s not till later.”
He pulled away from me, and after some heavy steps he turned back and looked at me. His fists were clenched, shivering, and his brows pressed his eyes closed and squeezed out slow tears. He tried to lunge at me, but hesitated.
“Why do you make me do this?” His voice was shaking.
“Do what?”
Then he shoved me and the bedlam started.
As always, thanks for reading. I’d love to know what you think. What do you think of Michael’s behavior? What about the narrator?
Cheers,
-Ricky
For more from Analog Stories, check out this Table of Contents.
Feel free to email me at rjr.analog.stories@gmail.com.
Very powerful and clear. Not a word wasted. 💔
damn, this is exquisite