TUESDAY: Then Begin

FLASH FICTION WEEK 2024
Second-place Winner

BY NANCY QUINN

Copyright is held by the author.

FIRST, BEFORE you get the Glock out of the drawer, stand by the crucifix on the wall in the kitchen. Lower your head and thank the Lord Jesus for the resurrection and the light. Beg Him for mercy on your soul. Before this, put on your dress uniform, including the white gloves and the sash, the sabre in its sheath, the starched white blouse. Do it in the downstairs bathroom so as not to wake them. Look at yourself in the mirror and salute, not the quick “yesSIR” for the brigadier, but the long, slow salute that you and your sisters and brothers at-arms use at gravesites: the folded stars and stripes, the lingering notes of the bugle, the shots fired in the air. Make sure they’re still asleep: take your black pumps off and walk up the stairs in your stocking-feet to do this. Go to their bedroom doors and look in: JJ in his Batman pajamas, one skinny leg sticking out from the covers, Ellen in the tee-shirt with the Sleeping Beauty castle and the words “The Happiest Place on Earth” across the front. Listen to her soft snore. If she turns in her sleep, stop breathing; wait for 30 seconds, then go down to the kitchen without looking back. Put your shoes on and polish the leather with a tissue to get rid of fingerprints or smudges. Now, get the gun out of the drawer and count the bullets: one, two, three.

Find the little airplane bottle of Jack Daniel’s that you bought at the convenience store on the way home from the bank, the word “DENIED” stamped in red on the papers in your coat pocket. Like all the applications, for months now, all the banks, the smiling loan officers: DENIED, in red letters, again and again. Until there were no banks, no loan officers left: only the Glock.

Feel around for the miniature liquor bottle in the cabinet over the stove, behind the blender. Twist off the cap and carefully place the bottle on the counter. Take a deep breath, and then use the phone on the wall to call Sarah, the best sponsor anybody could have ever wanted. Tell her that, exactly that, in a soft, calm voice, when she answers. Then say that you are going to have a drink, how much you hate to disappoint her, but you are going to your Higher Power so it will be all right. She’ll say wait, she’s coming right over, please don’t do anything rash, she’s calling 9-1-1.

(She’ll be there soon; she’ll be there before the kids wake up.)

Say thank you, my friend, but it’s too late now. Hang up the phone, take off your hat and lower your head to thank Jesus again, His Almighty Name. Drink the Jack straight down. Go directly to the garage, closing the kitchen door firmly behind you. Then begin.

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Nancy Elizabeth Quinn is a San Francisco-based writer whose work has been published in Wild Roof Journal, The Blood Pudding, East by Northeast, Big Whoopie Deal, The Festival Review, and other literary journals. Decades ago she studied writing at UC Santa Barbara with Marvin Mudrick, Raymond Carver, and John Ridland. She is a longtime member of The Writers Studio in San Francisco, and in 2023 completed her Master of Fine Arts degree in Creative Writing at San Francisco State University.