| General Fiction posted September 20, 2024 |
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but they are just words, right?
Life's Lesson
by Begin Again
I stood by the window, staring at the backyard. I could see Patches, my Australian Shepherd, chasing squirrels and doing her signature "bark dance" around the oak tree — at least, that's what I saw when I closed my eyes.
Tomorrow, I'd turn eight. I'd begged for a new video system, hoping for the state-of-the-art Atari. My father had nixed all possibilities other than new clothes and cologne — the dollar store variety.
Now, they'd changed their minds. I say minds because I doubted my father had a heart, and my mother's mind, though warmer, remained silent. Today, she'd overruled his decision and wanted to go shopping, promising me the best birthday gift ever.
But at seven years, three hundred and sixty-four days, I'd learned what the phrase "Be careful what you wish for" meant and its price. I didn't want an Atari anymore. I didn't want anything. I didn't want to celebrate my birthday ever again.
I wanted yesterday to have never happened.
After hours of arguing about whether she was worth the money, my parents had taken Patches to the vet; at least, that's what I was told. I'd stood in the doorway, my fists clenched in my pockets, as my father explained it was time for Patches to go. She was fifteen, her back legs failing, and the pain medicine was too expensive. "It's for the best," he said. As the car pulled away, I repeated the words in my head — like a command — a twisted life lesson.
I never saw Patches again.
"It's for the best" wasn't just something I heard when big things happened.
In fourth grade, I spent all night making a poster for class president, but Mrs. Hawk suggested Tommy, a straight-A student, would be a better fit. Dad agreed and said, "It's probably for the best."
When I missed the school trip because Mom wasn't feeling well, Dad's parting words as he left for work were, "It's for the best. There'll be more trips."
Or when I asked for new shoes to try out for the basketball team. His cold eyes stared at me like I'd ask for the world. Finally, he told me missing out would build character. Since money was tight, it was for the best if I didn't play.
It was a phrase that echoed throughout my childhood. Each time I heard it, it felt like someone — namely, my father—chipped away another piece of me.
On the verge of becoming a teenager, one of the worst times Dad's words echoed in my ears was at Grandpa's funeral. I'd been told to stand by the casket as strangers came and went, offering their condolences. My mind couldn't accept it — I kept willing Grandpa to open his eyes, to sit up and tell everyone it was all a cruel joke. Then Dad, in his usual flippant way, put his hand on my shoulder and offered his emotionless wisdom. "He was getting up there in years, son. Just last week, he said he couldn't help with the farming anymore. If he could talk to you now, he'd say, 'It's for the best."
I didn't believe him. Grandpa wouldn't have given up. He'd have found some way to keep going — to help out. I couldn't help but wonder what had happened between Dad and Grandpa that night — the muffled sounds, the long silence, and then, Dad coming out of his room — muttering, "It's for the best." Mom stood there trembling, unable to utter a word. Blame it on grief or a young boy's wild imagination, but I knew what had happened.
By the time I was seventeen, dreaming of fast cars, girls, and leaving the farm, those words were painful reminders. My father believed in hard work and harder fists — and if that didn't work, there was always the reliable leather strap.
He'd been clear that college was a waste of time. I was expected to help with the farm, and one day, after years of back-breaking work, it would be mine. Every day felt like a battle — a war of words that usually ended with the crack of his belt.
Then came the night that everything changed.
We were arguing, as usual. This time, it was about the girl I'd been seeing. Dad disapproved — she came from a wealthier family and was college-bound. His bitterness and years of being labeled as the poor Wilsons boiled over. "She's not right for you," he sneered. "It's for the best."
I laughed — knowing he knew nothing about love or what was best for me.
His face turned red, twisted, and ugly. He lunged at me, fists clenched, and I stepped back, instinctively trying to dodge him. He tripped — or maybe I pushed him. I've never been sure.
He fell hard — like a tree being chopped down. His body hit the floor with a thud, crumpled and unmoving. His eyes were open but distant. The house was deathly quiet. I stood over him, breath ragged, knowing he'd taken his last.
I didn't move. I didn't call for help. I just stood there.
I don't know how long I stayed frozen, but in the silence, those words — the ones that had haunted me my whole life — crept into my mind.
"It's for the best."
Days later, I stood by his grave. A flicker of Grandpa and the grief I'd felt when he passed washed over me. Today was different. There was no sadness — just an empty stillness and victory for those I loved.
I glanced across the field and imagined Patches running through the tall grass. The sound of the river made me think of Grandpa fishing. Then I saw Dad — lying there on the cold floor. And in that moment, I realized I was free.
A voice whispered — my voice — hollow and flat, like Dad's, "It's for the best."
I walked away, knowing I'd never be back.
Chilling Secret writing prompt entry
I stood by the window, staring at the backyard. I could see Patches, my Australian Shepherd, chasing squirrels and doing her signature "bark dance" around the oak tree — at least, that's what I saw when I closed my eyes.
Tomorrow, I'd turn eight. I'd begged for a new video system, hoping for the state-of-the-art Atari. My father had nixed all possibilities other than new clothes and cologne — the dollar store variety.
Now, they'd changed their minds. I say minds because I doubted my father had a heart, and my mother's mind, though warmer, remained silent. Today, she'd overruled his decision and wanted to go shopping, promising me the best birthday gift ever.
But at seven years, three hundred and sixty-four days, I'd learned what the phrase "Be careful what you wish for" meant and its price. I didn't want an Atari anymore. I didn't want anything. I didn't want to celebrate my birthday ever again.
I wanted yesterday to have never happened.
After hours of arguing about whether she was worth the money, my parents had taken Patches to the vet; at least, that's what I was told. I'd stood in the doorway, my fists clenched in my pockets, as my father explained it was time for Patches to go. She was fifteen, her back legs failing, and the pain medicine was too expensive. "It's for the best," he said. As the car pulled away, I repeated the words in my head — like a command — a twisted life lesson.
I never saw Patches again.
"It's for the best" wasn't just something I heard when big things happened.
In fourth grade, I spent all night making a poster for class president, but Mrs. Hawk suggested Tommy, a straight-A student, would be a better fit. Dad agreed and said, "It's probably for the best."
When I missed the school trip because Mom wasn't feeling well, Dad's parting words as he left for work were, "It's for the best. There'll be more trips."
Or when I asked for new shoes to try out for the basketball team. His cold eyes stared at me like I'd ask for the world. Finally, he told me missing out would build character. Since money was tight, it was for the best if I didn't play.
It was a phrase that echoed throughout my childhood. Each time I heard it, it felt like someone — namely, my father—chipped away another piece of me.
On the verge of becoming a teenager, one of the worst times Dad's words echoed in my ears was at Grandpa's funeral. I'd been told to stand by the casket as strangers came and went, offering their condolences. My mind couldn't accept it — I kept willing Grandpa to open his eyes, to sit up and tell everyone it was all a cruel joke. Then Dad, in his usual flippant way, put his hand on my shoulder and offered his emotionless wisdom. "He was getting up there in years, son. Just last week, he said he couldn't help with the farming anymore. If he could talk to you now, he'd say, 'It's for the best."
I didn't believe him. Grandpa wouldn't have given up. He'd have found some way to keep going — to help out. I couldn't help but wonder what had happened between Dad and Grandpa that night — the muffled sounds, the long silence, and then, Dad coming out of his room — muttering, "It's for the best." Mom stood there trembling, unable to utter a word. Blame it on grief or a young boy's wild imagination, but I knew what had happened.
Or when I asked for new shoes to try out for the basketball team. His cold eyes stared at me like I'd ask for the world. Finally, he told me missing out would build character. Since money was tight, it was for the best if I didn't play.
It was a phrase that echoed throughout my childhood. Each time I heard it, it felt like someone — namely, my father—chipped away another piece of me.
On the verge of becoming a teenager, one of the worst times Dad's words echoed in my ears was at Grandpa's funeral. I'd been told to stand by the casket as strangers came and went, offering their condolences. My mind couldn't accept it — I kept willing Grandpa to open his eyes, to sit up and tell everyone it was all a cruel joke. Then Dad, in his usual flippant way, put his hand on my shoulder and offered his emotionless wisdom. "He was getting up there in years, son. Just last week, he said he couldn't help with the farming anymore. If he could talk to you now, he'd say, 'It's for the best."
I didn't believe him. Grandpa wouldn't have given up. He'd have found some way to keep going — to help out. I couldn't help but wonder what had happened between Dad and Grandpa that night — the muffled sounds, the long silence, and then, Dad coming out of his room — muttering, "It's for the best." Mom stood there trembling, unable to utter a word. Blame it on grief or a young boy's wild imagination, but I knew what had happened.
By the time I was seventeen, dreaming of fast cars, girls, and leaving the farm, those words were painful reminders. My father believed in hard work and harder fists — and if that didn't work, there was always the reliable leather strap.
He'd been clear that college was a waste of time. I was expected to help with the farm, and one day, after years of back-breaking work, it would be mine. Every day felt like a battle — a war of words that usually ended with the crack of his belt.
Then came the night that everything changed.
We were arguing, as usual. This time, it was about the girl I'd been seeing. Dad disapproved — she came from a wealthier family and was college-bound. His bitterness and years of being labeled as the poor Wilsons boiled over. "She's not right for you," he sneered. "It's for the best."
I laughed — knowing he knew nothing about love or what was best for me.
His face turned red, twisted, and ugly. He lunged at me, fists clenched, and I stepped back, instinctively trying to dodge him. He tripped — or maybe I pushed him. I've never been sure.
He fell hard — like a tree being chopped down. His body hit the floor with a thud, crumpled and unmoving. His eyes were open but distant. The house was deathly quiet. I stood over him, breath ragged, knowing he'd taken his last.
I didn't move. I didn't call for help. I just stood there.
I don't know how long I stayed frozen, but in the silence, those words — the ones that had haunted me my whole life — crept into my mind.
"It's for the best."
Days later, I stood by his grave. A flicker of Grandpa and the grief I'd felt when he passed washed over me. Today was different. There was no sadness — just an empty stillness and victory for those I loved.
I glanced across the field and imagined Patches running through the tall grass. The sound of the river made me think of Grandpa fishing. Then I saw Dad — lying there on the cold floor. And in that moment, I realized I was free.
A voice whispered — my voice — hollow and flat, like Dad's, "It's for the best."
I walked away, knowing I'd never be back.
We were arguing, as usual. This time, it was about the girl I'd been seeing. Dad disapproved — she came from a wealthier family and was college-bound. His bitterness and years of being labeled as the poor Wilsons boiled over. "She's not right for you," he sneered. "It's for the best."
I laughed — knowing he knew nothing about love or what was best for me.
His face turned red, twisted, and ugly. He lunged at me, fists clenched, and I stepped back, instinctively trying to dodge him. He tripped — or maybe I pushed him. I've never been sure.
He fell hard — like a tree being chopped down. His body hit the floor with a thud, crumpled and unmoving. His eyes were open but distant. The house was deathly quiet. I stood over him, breath ragged, knowing he'd taken his last.
I didn't move. I didn't call for help. I just stood there.
I don't know how long I stayed frozen, but in the silence, those words — the ones that had haunted me my whole life — crept into my mind.
"It's for the best."
Days later, I stood by his grave. A flicker of Grandpa and the grief I'd felt when he passed washed over me. Today was different. There was no sadness — just an empty stillness and victory for those I loved.
I glanced across the field and imagined Patches running through the tall grass. The sound of the river made me think of Grandpa fishing. Then I saw Dad — lying there on the cold floor. And in that moment, I realized I was free.
A voice whispered — my voice — hollow and flat, like Dad's, "It's for the best."
I walked away, knowing I'd never be back.
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Writing Prompt You are prompted to write a 1000-word flash story answering the mystery of a "chilling secret" and how it affects your protagonist. Use your writer's mind to imagine a secret so powerful and consequential that when revealed changes your protagonist in climactic ways. Think about the secret, and weave your story around the details that you imagine--the secret itself becomes the core and genesis of your story. See where you writer's mind takes you ... will it be horrific, thrilling, or mysterious? *This contest is brought to you by "The Little Workshop of Horrors" club* Contest parameters are as follows: --1000 words or less --MUST be written in 1st Person (I, we, my) --MUST reveal the "chilling secret" to the reader, either at the beginning or the end --All warning labels available: you may incorporate violence, language, and sex as you see fit |
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