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Easter Sunday – Flash Fiction

July 1, 2010

Howdy…I’m sorry it’s been awhile. Here’s a little piece of flash fiction I wrote for my writing club with my friend Joe Kovacs. Let me know what you think! It’s called ‘Easter Sunday’


Every Easter, to celebrate the holiday, I make the drive to my family’s gravesite and sit against my father’s stone.

I imagine my family rising from the dead, like Jesus Christ, and my life with them.

I see my mother, my father – I wake up on Easter Sunday, drive to my old family home to find them in the kitchen among heaping plates of French toast and bacon, and God, the smiles on their faces, a celebration of being alive through love and breakfast. After we eat, my parents go upstairs to make love and celebrate the warmth of each other’s bodies.

And my brother, my sister – they hurry me along as I wash my dishes so we can start searching for the Easter baskets. They both forget that we are no longer children, but age is not so important anymore. We prowl around the house like detectives – it has never seemed so big, so open.

I move into a new house, closer to theirs, so I can spend more time with them – to devote myself to life as part of a family again.

A few months pass. My father has started looking for work and my mother has begun to restock the wine cellar. My brother is just thrilled to carouse around town and smoke marijuana with his friends, and my sister reunites with her ex-boyfriend – there is no more time for the resentful pride and egotism that once ruined them as a couple.

Now it’s almost been a year since the resurrection. I pick my brother up from the sheriff’s office on a DUI charge, and we go to the family house for Good Friday dinner. I walk in and my mother sneers at me with familiar tannin-stained teeth. My father asks for money – when I inquire about his job, he pins me against the kitchen door with whiskey on his breath. My sister is pregnant again. She hugs me and scratches her cheek with nicotine-stained fingernails and tells me she wants to keep the baby this time. She bursts into tears and falls into my arms.

I excuse myself, walk outside, load the shotgun I keep in the trunk of my car, and shake my head.

Jesus, this is why I killed them in the first place.

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