Flash fiction by Kelly Murashige

The Prize

You have never wanted anything more than you want that giant rodent.

You bounce on the balls of your feet, your eyes glued to the pile of capybara plushes sitting behind the glass in the claw machine. Your mommy and daddy have been trying to win one for you for the past ten minutes, and you’re starting to lose hope.

You love capybaras. They’re your favorite animal in the world. That highly coveted title once belonged to unicorns, but then Justin Chun told you unicorns weren’t real and therefore don’t count, and you had to keep yourself from shouting, Or maybe YOU don’t count, JUSTIN in his stupid, ugly face.

You were sad for a while, about the unicorns. Now that you’re older—it’s been a whole three weeks—you have come to believe capybaras are the better animal. Unicorns, if real, would have turned you into a human shish kebab anyhow.

“Two more seconds,” you say, staring at the timer display. “Daddy, two more seconds!”

“I got it,” your daddy says, lifting his hand from the joystick.

He slaps the center button. You pray with all your might. You’re afraid begging God for a toy might be what your mommy would call sacrilegious, but you can’t help it. You want it so, so much.

If You give me this, you think, I swear I will be good.

You watch, your fists clenched, as the metal claw descends. 

Two silver prongs poke the capybara’s butt. Three suspenseful seconds later, they pull themselves back out.

You exhale, disappointed. Your mommy shakes her head.

“Again,” you tell your daddy. “Daddy, try again!”

Your daddy slips his fingers into his pocket. When he comes back empty-handed, just like that stupid claw, he says, “Give me a second, sweetie. I have to get more tokens.”

“More?” Your mommy frowns. “Is that such a good idea?”

You make a face. Your mommy’s silly. Of course it’s a good idea. More tokens mean more plays, which means more capybaras.

Your daddy turns away.

“I’ll be back,” he says.

Your mommy’s brows pull together. You’ve learned this means she’s mad. You try to tell yourself it’s because your daddy hasn’t won anything yet, but you’re not sure that’s it.

You’re still staring at the pile of capybaras, hoping you’ll magically develop laser vision and melt the glass separating you from the only things you’ve ever wanted in your whole entire life, when it hits you. You remember. What Katherine said yesterday.

You don’t like Katherine Miller. She stole your best friend twice. Then, yesterday, during lunch, she stood up and announced to everyone that soon, you will be poor. Her daddy is your daddy’s boss, and according to her daddy, your daddy’s losing his job.

On the way home, you told your mommy what you’d heard. She went quiet. Said don’t worry. That was a grown-up thing.

You knew then that it was true. That Katherine was right, and you’re going to be poor.

You know being poor isn’t always bad; Cinderella and Snow White were poor, and they got their happily ever afters, didn’t they?

You’re just afraid you’re not pretty or sweet or a good enough singer to make a handsome prince want to marry you.

They’re taking over you now. The Big, Ugly Feelings. You don’t know why they come, but when they do, they hit hard. All you can do is go dark. Shut down.

“All right,” your daddy says. “Let’s get you that capybara.”

You open your eyes. The tokens in his hand shine like Katherine Miller’s teeth.

You shake your head, your throat tight.

“I don’t want it,” you say.

Your daddy frowns. “What do you mean?”

“I don’t want it,” you say again. “I don’t want some stupid toy.”

Your eyes dart to the plushes. They stare back at you sadly.

It might be the guilt, or the noise, or the stress, but whatever it is, it makes you start to cry.

Your mommy and daddy exchange a look.

“Honey,” your daddy says. “What’s wrong? What happened?”

“I want to go home,” you tell him, and this, at least, is true. The music’s too loud. The lights are too bright. You’re going to be poor soon. Capybaras can’t fix that.

Your mommy looks up. Behind the panes of glass, the claw hangs limp, a wilted flower. “We didn’t get you your capybara yet.”

“I don’t care,” you say, even though you really do. “Take me home. Take me home. I just want to go home.”

They ask you, three times over, if this is what you want.

“Take me home,” you say again. How long will you have a house?

You look to the capybaras, as if you expect an answer.

They avert their gazes. They don’t want to break your heart.

“What’s wrong?” your mommy asks. “Can you just tell us what’s wrong?”

You shake your head. The Feelings. They’re too much for you again.

“Okay,” your daddy says. “We can talk this out at home.”

Your parents both reach for you, moving in perfect sync.

Yet for a moment, you’re certain they won’t be able to find you. Not when you’re lost in a sea of Big Emotions.

They pluck you out like it’s easy. Like they can’t lose sight of you. They raise you up and hold you in their safe, warm arms.

“I’m sorry,” your daddy says. “I wish I had gotten you that toy.”

You shake your head. Close your eyes. Rest your cheek against his neck.

You did not get a plush, but you won anyhow.