He Never Wore It

A father ignores a phone call he should take while cleaning out his son's room.

Welcome to the 20th edition of This Nick Writes.

Well, I did it! I placed 8th in the first round of NYC Midnight’s 500 word fiction challenge - a competition where one must write a 500 word story in 48 hours based upon prompts randomly assigned. You can learn more about the competition here.

It’s incredibly exciting to get a little recognition for something I created, especially considering the writing talent in the competition is off the charts amazing.

Now that I’ve placed, I get to move one and compete to create another 500-word story in 48hours in round two. Wish me luck!

Without further delay, here is my flash fiction story He Never Wore it.

My Prompts:

Genre: Drama

Object: Price Tag

Action: Ignoring a Phone Call

How did I do? Let me know in the comments. 

The kid’s room had become an itch he had to scratch.

The bin was knocked over, leaving an eclectic array of toys sprawled across the floor. The closet door barely shut, its contents ready to burst. Stacks of clothes piled high on the dresser, and there was no room for them inside its drawers. 

He couldn’t bear to look at it anymore.

He clenched his fist around the black garbage bags in his hand and dispelled the dismal thoughts from his mind. Dropping to his knees, he opened a bag and began to fill it.

Stuffed Animals, blocks, balls, puzzle pieces, parts of toys he couldn’t remember, and fragments of broken things long lost in the messiness of raising a son. 

The phone vibrated in his pocket. 

He knew what it was about but didn’t want to deal with it, though he promised his wife he would. It was one of the few things they recently agreed on in their many heated arguments that ultimately led to catastrophic breakdowns. 

The call ended. The guilt lessened. 

With a full bag and a cleared floor, he moved toward the closet. Wedged inside were bins of toys, blankets stuffed into any open crevice, and a wooden climbing set his son barely used. His baby boy was always more interested in climbing on the things he wasn’t supposed to, like furniture and bookshelves.

He felt a chill, beckoning a darkness he wanted to detach from but couldn’t. He slammed the door.

Clothing would be easier. 

Stacks of clothes were tossed into bags with no regard to their condition. It would be someone else's problem to assess what was worth donating and what was trash. He worked faster and faster, attempting to bury that which wanted to surface…

…Until the phone vibrated.

Its tremble begged for his attention. He knew what would happen if he relented and didn’t think he could handle it right now. 

But then his wife would have to deal with it…

He pulled open drawers and brushed his hands across the fabrics.

Green. Blue. Yellow. Red. Brown. Black. White. Grey. 

He felt the soft texture of the blanket given to his son when he was born. He remembered the boy's first cry as he entered this cold world—a sweet whimper that brought joyful tears to his eyes.

The phone vibrated. 

It brought the wave that would breach the wall he built. The knot in his throat, the ache in his chest, and the tears, always the tears, found their exit. So, with unsteady hands, he answered. 

All he heard was the end of a question - Cremation or Burial?

There wasn’t an answer. He and his wife had never talked about it, and now neither wanted to deal with it, but he promised her he would.

He hung up the phone and looked at the 24-month-old onesie in his left hand. It was green, white, and blue, with “Momma’s Boy” screen-pressed on the front.

The price tag was still attached.

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