Flash fiction, Rachel M. Hollis

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Static

I open my mouth, and ocean sounds come out. Waves crash, gulls cry. Salt stings my lungs. I try to say, “Don’t jump,” but the sea rushes in first. A moment later my son hits the floor, crying. I hug him tight, moisture clings to his hair. 

Later, I try again. Rainforest this time: wind through the treetops, insects buzzing. The air is thick in my throat. I mean to call the dog back from the street, but I’m drowned out. He returns hours later, burrs matted through his coat. I sit with him on the porch, pulling each one free. He licks my fingers. 

That evening, my husband comes home, drops his bag and asks about my day. I smile, nod. He tells me about a meeting. Then another.

By bedtime, I realize I haven’t spoken today. Not really. I open my mouth. 

Static. Salt and ash on my tongue. 

He exhales slowly beside me, lulled by the noise. 

I stay awake, afraid of what might come out next. 

Rachel M. Hollis lives in the San Francisco Bay Area with her husband, child, and a deeply unmotivated dog. Her work appears or is forthcoming in Star 82 Review, Scapegoat Review, Blink-Ink (print) and elsewhere.