“Family In Flames”

He lived in the burning house, frantic, for fifteen years. He kept trying to tell his parents the whole place was on fire.

“The house is on fire! We’ll be burned alive. For god’s sake!” He flailed his arms at the smoke edging beneath a closet door, at the kitchen counter where dishtowels blazed in a small bonfire. “My baseball cards. Your stamp collection, for god’s sake. Your recipe files! Your Chatty Cathy doll,” he told them, depending on whether it was his father or mother or sister. “Somebody call the fire department!”

“Go right ahead,” his mother said. “You know what’ll happen.”

“Take some responsibility,” his father called from another room.

Desperate, he turned to his younger sister. “Susie, just pick up the receiver. It’s easy.”

“If it’s so easy, why can’t you do it?” She was combing out a tangle in her doll’s hair.

“Dammit. You know why.”

“We all know why.” His mother shrugged. She was rinsing her stockings in the bathroom sink. “Your ‘emergency’ is gone as soon as the firemen get here. What makes you think this fire is so real?” Then she hung her stockings to dry near the licking flames.

His father called out again from Susie’s bedroom. “Susie? Come here.” The door was cracked open and he could see his father’s bare feet, crossed at the ankles as he lay on the narrow bed. Susie would be asleep in there soon and then his father wouldn’t answer at all.

No one ever spoke unless it was a request for something.

Save some hot water for the rest of us, will you? You’ve been in there half an hour. Don’t reach for the potatoes, tell your brother to pass them, he’s good for something. Get those bangs out of your eyes. Stop eating so much, you’re getting fat. Here, take the umbrella, it’s sure to rain. Better yet, get a decent haircut. Help me out here, would you, she’s your only grandmother, for god’s sake. Hand me a tissue. Fix my doll, she won’t talk anymore. Cover your mouth when you cough, you want to make your sister sick? Show some respect for your mother. Would you fucking call the fire department! Don’t you dare curse at your father. Get a job, a good one, then get the hell out. Make some money. Give me more potatoes. Do you have to bring your creepy doll everywhere you go? Don’t even ask, it’s your third helping of them. Give me a proper kiss. Come out of Susie’s room, it’s time for you and me to go to bed.  You’re so stuck on your mother, then go live with her in that nursing home. Shut up about my doll! Oh stop whining. Quit smoking so much. How many’s that today, a pack already? If you’re going out, bring some tissues back.

He stored his baseball cards in the garage, a safe distance from the blazing house.

No one knew who called the fire department. The sirens circled through the night like buzzards nearing their feast. Oddly, though the entire house went down, the flames never burned their skin. They all escaped with one of their requests at last fulfilled.

His father kicked through the smoldering embers in search of his stamp collection and uncovered the ring at the end of the pull cord that once allowed Chatty Cathy to speak. It was the only surviving item.

 

Related Posts
Filter by
Post Page
Featured Fiction New Fiction
Sort by

“What the Cold May Bring”

It was 1987. We were at Uncle Frank and Aunt Ruth’s house at Sokoki Falls for Thanksgiving. My mother and Ruth were s
2020-03-23 16:15:27
jdkauf

8

“Family On Fire”

He lived in the burning house, frantic, for fifteen years. He kept trying to tell his parents the whole place was on
2020-01-10 13:16:44
sloansk

8

“Winter Meditations”

The boy’s father is a crow. He imagines his father at the field’s edge, landing beyond the fence and drawing close it
2019-12-20 09:23:43
ramspeck

8

“Winter Meditations”

The boy’s father is a crow. He imagines his father at the field’s edge, landing beyond the fence and drawing close it
2019-12-06 11:04:05
ramspeck

8

“Living In The Burning House”

He had lived in the burning house since he was born. Fifteen frantic years. He kept trying to tell his family that
2019-11-06 23:00:26
sloansk

8

“Miscarriage”

After I died, my mother lit herself on fire. Not a large fire. Not her whole body, although I know that’s how
2018-11-09 07:52:58
katymullins

8

“Women Without No Bottoms”

New Orleans, 1975 The woman slid from an open door in the Quarter, the darkest doorway in the
2018-10-22 10:58:10
skip

8

“What We Don’t Say Out Loud”

Maharishi doesn’t speak to me anymore. Neither does God.  But sometimes, the bald guy behind the counter at the Vi
2018-10-19 10:18:41
jkimbrell

8

“objects/people/spaces”

Shotguns The kids from my neighborhood would come outside to watch bats
2017-09-04 12:58:32
athatj

8

“On the Eighth Day, God Created Golf”

The foursome stands on a desert mesa, an elevated tee in southeast Utah. God the Father, Moses, Jesus, Elijah.
2016-12-12 12:14:05
mforsythe

8

About Kay Sloan

Kay Sloan is a novelist and short fiction writer. Her debut novel, Worry Beads (LSU Press) won the Ohioana Prize and earned excellent reviews from Kirkus, Publishers Weekly, and others. Her second novel, The Patron Saint of Red Chevys (The Permanent Press), won recognition as a Barnes and Nobles “Discover Great New Writers” book. Her novella manuscript, "Give Me You," won the 2014 Faulkner Pirates Alley Award. Paris Review, Southern Review, Threepenny Review, and many other venues, have published her stories, creative essays and poetry.