The remit, from The Daring Novelist, was to write a piece of flash fiction of 1,000 words or less based however loosely on Hemmingway's six-word short story: 'For sale, baby shoes. Never used.'
This is what I came up with:
The wide suburban street sits empty like a runway. Sunday afternoon. There was joy here earlier; activity, laughter, children, games. Now it's lunchtime. Large houses of family goodness line the sloping banks of manicured lawns.
I walk down the middle of the rain-washed road, footsteps quiet on the tarmac, the air heavy and damp, the smell of wood and drying pavements. An occasional song from a lonely bird, a drop of rain from a tree. Far above me a plane passes through the white clouds.
The slip of paper I hold, crumpled, aged, thumbed, pushes me on to number 37. This road, that house up ahead. It sits slightly back from the others, large white ivy-covered walls, big bay windows, a drive that curves up round past its columned porch. Three cars parked outside - expensive, shiny, valeted by someone else. The lights inside promise warmth, comfort, protection, happiness. Togetherness. A family.
My legs feel heavy as I get near and I pause at the foot of the drive, remind myself why I'm there. I start to walk up to the front door and hear faint sounds of laughter from inside. Panic rises but I swallow it down. In the right hand pocket of my coat sits an old Colt 45 and I close my hand around it. Feel its weight. Pass a finger through the trigger guard. That metal against skin. The power to fail.
At the front door I press the mounted bell button. It rings inside, a tune that I remember from my past somewhere. The start of the Blue Danube perhaps...
Footsteps.
I stand straight, checking my posture. Heart rate rises incredibly. My grip tightens around the gun. Nuzzle aimed through the pocket. What am I doing here? The lock clicks and the door opens, letting out golden light and the laughter, which shocks me. Then he stands before me – the man who broke my world. White hair, an aged and lined face. His small grey eyes study me, looking for a clue, and for a split second there's some recognition, then it's gone again like blinds drawn over a window. He steps out and pulls the door behind him, shutting out the light and the noise. It's just us on that empty street.
'What do you want?' he asks, wary.
I can't speak. I can barely look at him. I know if I make the next move I have to go all the way. He watches me, waiting, and when I see his impatience flicker it stirs me to action.
From my left coat pocket I take out a tiny pair of brand new, polished white baby shoes.
He takes a small, involuntary step back and I hear him gasp; a short, sharp breath.
'What... what's this?'
I bend down and carefully place the shoes on the front step. I don't know why I do this. I meant to make him hold them but I can't. I can't bear the thought of him touching them now. The toes, facing me, just poke over the end of the step. They seem ridiculously small. We both look down at them.
'They were her christening shoes,' I say. The pain lurches inside.
'Now hang on a minute...'
'You know we never even had time to christen her?'
'We've been through all of this. The judge -'
'Fuck the judge.'
I take the gun from my coat pocket, aim it right between his eyes. He stares at me, just his mouth opening and closing like a fish.
'Was it worth it?' I ask 'The night out, the strippers, the champagne and cigars?'
I pull back the hammer.
'The drive home?'
His car slammed into mine somewhere around midnight at a major junction. I'd been driving around trying to get my baby to sleep. He'd passed out at the wheel.
He shakes his head. He begins to choke back tears.
'Every day...' he says but I don't want to hear it.
I look down at the shoes again. The shoes my baby never wore.
'They're for you.'
'I... I don't want them.'
'Your life,' I say. 'That's the price.'
'Please...'
I pull the trigger and there's a phwup sound. His brains explode over the white front door behind him and he drops to the ground. Sold.
From inside comes more laughter. I want to always remember that sound because its how I used to be.
I sit down on the step with my back to the door and watch the blood slowly pool around those little white shoes. Shoes too small to be touched by death.
