Randomness

The laughter coming from outside brings with it great pain. The hard wooden rails of the chair dig into his spine. He rotates a miniature chocolate candy in his hand. The silver wrapper crackles as he looks for evidence of perforations. There are none. It’s impeccable. He drops it into the paper bag laying at his feet. There it joins the untainted. Randomness, pure randomness, just like life.

The tapping at the door brings him to his feet. He strides forward as his shoes make loud knocking noises on the hardwood floor. Once outside, he looks down at the monsters that stare back at him. Their eyes waiting for him to move.

“Trick or treat,” they yell. Among them are the quintessential ghost made with holy sheets, a witch carrying a cobweb filled cauldron, a dinosaur with razor sharp felt teeth, and a jack-o-lantern that waddles up behind them. Counting them, he knows these are the last ghouls of the night.

He lowers himself holding the paper bag by the rolled down brim. He gives it one last shake, one last play with fate. He drops a chocolate in each bag as the children push them to the front. Past them he sees the smiling parents. One father kneels down and snaps photos of the pumpkin toddling towards a red wagon. The squeals of joy pierce his soul. They remind him of times long past, times removed by fortune.

He expects sirens, screaming, and crying. But all that follows is silence, cold dead silence, like the last three months. From his pocket, he pulls out one final chocolate. Slowly he removes the silver wrapper and pushes the bar into his mouth. He lays himself down on the porch. He closes his eyes. Now he waits.




Here are other 300 word stories:

God is a Place

Lightning flashed. He waited for the crash of thunder, but it never came. He walked among the miniature tombstones searching for his daughter, carrying a dozen red lilies.

“I don’t want to go this year," his son told him this morning.

It broke his heart. He always envisioned her as his son’s partnered angel. She existed, sight unseen, looking over him, watching, guiding, protecting. She, above all, loved him.

He found her tombstone: Infant Williams. He regretted not naming her. Alexis he decided, two years too late. He knelt down, slid his finger over the grooves in the granite, and brooded. She would have been six today.

Tears flowed as memories flooded his mind. He remembered her birth. She was light as a feather. Her lungs pulled in a single breath. Her eyes opened, flashing a sea of blue. A holy spectacle, which he thought would last forever, lasted only for him. In his dreams, she was alive and crying.

She sat across the tombstone from him. Her legs folded, her head resting in her hands, she sank her deep blue eyes into his soul.

Don’t cry for me, father.

“I want to hold you in my arms. I want to feel your face on my cheek. I want to see you play. I want to find you again.”

You will. God is a place. We'll wait for you there. She stood and turned, her wings folded against her spine. Don't worry about brother, I've talked to him. The wind howled, kicking up dead autumn leaves. She ran into the cold, damp air, and disappeared into the fading image of her mother.

He set down half the lilies and walked to the other side of the cemetery. Now he could hear the thunder.





(Inspired by the song Two Headed Boy Pt. 2 by Neutral Milk Hotel)
Many thanks to Cherie Reich for hosting this.