Quiet

I received word that I got fifth place in my group in the first round of the NYC Midnight Short Story 2025 contest on 1st April and it wasn’t an April Fool’s prank. While I was excited, of course, my heart sank. Between signing up for the contest and that day, I’d made plans for a busy weekend that first weekend of April. Plans couldn’t change because I was attending two events, but I figured since I’d never made it past round one in this competition, I’d be safe.

Nope. On to round two.

Round two is shorter and more challenging. Word count drops to 2000 and now participants have three days to write instead of eight. Normally not too much of a challenge, but it happened to fall on a very busy weekend for me.

I got the prompts while I was sleeping on Thursday going into Friday at midnight. I woke up to find out I got three challenging prompts. The first, genre, was horror – which I’ve never really written. The second, character, was a flagman. The third, subject, was a side hustle.

I didn’t have much time to ponder, as I was whisked away by a friend to be dropped off at the New Haven train station to catch the commuter train to NYC. I got there, walked a very long way to my hostel (stopping for lunch along the way), checked in to my teeeeeeeeeny room, changed, then made my way over to the Gemini and Fourth Fan Meeting (two Thai actors I love).

I spent the evening at the fan meeting, where I had a blast and got to meet Gem and Fourth.

I got back to the hostel at 11pm, got a few hours of sleep, then in the morning at 5:30am Saturday went over to Penn Station to catch an early train that would take me to Baltimore. My husband met me at the station (he’d gone down Friday morning). We drove straight to a Metro stop and took a train in to DC where we spent the next nine or so hours at AwesomeCon (where I got to meet Sean Astin *sigh*).

We were exhausted when that was over and went back to my husband’s aunt’s house and basically crashed.

That left all of Sunday to write my story. It was due Sunday night at midnight, so I tucked myself away in a quiet spot in the house and struggled with my story. Throughout the weekend, I had jotted down ideas in a notebook. I didn’t completely ignore the contest entry during down times of the busy weekend, but writing this was not easy. I had plenty of ideas to fit a flagman into the story, but the side hustle would just. Not. Work.

Once finished, we spent the day with the hubby’s family, which was lovely. When everyone left, I spent the evening trying to polish my story and make all the edits I needed to. Unfortunately, my regular beta reader wasn’t available, so all I had to go on was hubby’s opinion…and one of his step-cousin’s opinions. They both liked it.

I found out a couple weeks ago that this cobbled together story got me another fifth place, shoving me into the third round. I honestly couldn’t believe it. The feedback for it was pretty amazing – and I wholeheartedly understand (and agree with) the constructive criticism the judges gave me.

So here is my horror story. Trigger warning for death and stuff like that. It’s more horrifying than horror, but…I mean…horror. Read at your own risk!

QUIET

“Do you have to go?”

The question irritated him.  What did she think?  Did she realize how stupid she sounded as she slathered peanut butter on a slice of white bread? 

“You know I do,” he responded, unable to hide his anger.

She flinched and he hated her a little more.  It had been this way for a year since she’d quit her job for the surprise baby.  Their other children were teenagers.  A few more years to freedom from packed schedules and running two active kids around.

Then, bam, another kid.  He should have had the vasectomy she’d urged him to get.  He’d wanted her tubes tied, but they argued about it constantly.  Neither wanted to give up and their therapist sided with her.  A man who should have sympathized with him.  Her stupid argument vasectomies could easily be reversed while tied tubes couldn’t won and he was sick of arguing.

He’d never gotten the vasectomy.

Hence, a kid.

Another round of arguments began, and she won again.  He couldn’t dispute if she kept her job they’d need expensive daycare.  He couldn’t dispute her staying home made sense.  It emasculated him, though.  He always lost to her.  He wanted one win.  One.

She hadn’t responded to him, so he twisted the knife a little more.  “You want to eat, don’t you?  Don’t you?”

“Y-yes…”

“You want those kids to eat, don’t you?”

“Yes,” she said, her voice going weak.  How did she always win when she argued like a limp noodle? 

“Starve them, huh?  You know I do this to pay for their food!”

A last whimper, then silence. 

She’d finished the sandwich, but her hands didn’t move to wrap it up.  Instead, he snatched it from the counter and drew plastic wrap around it.  She’d been sloppy with the jelly, which oozed over his fingers.  ‘Strawberry,‘ he thought as he licked it off.  She stared at him.

“I’m gonna have to wash my hands,” he said, his voice returning to normal.  It was a relief to feel normal again.  “You made such a mess,” he added.  She responded with that sad-looking stare.

Stepping past her to the sink, he turned on the hot water, lathered up, and rubbed his hands under the stream.  Ribbons of red jelly swirled around the sink and the dirty dishes.  He scrubbed longer than he should have.  For some reason, he couldn’t get that damn jelly off.

“Mom?”  The questioning voice of his teenage son caused him to look over his shoulder. 

His wife didn’t respond, just stared back at the boy. 

“I’m about to head into work,” he said, keeping his voice in that normal tone.  “Your mom was making me a sandwich for my lunch.”  He felt stupid having to explain it to the kid.  His son was smart with decent grades but relied too much on charm.  It was something that annoyed him.  His daughter inherited the ambition his son should have.  Weak boy.

“But…”

“Shut up!” he shouted, immediately regretting it.  The kid had flinched, unconsciously mimicking his wife.  The two gestures were so similar it brought a sharp pain to his chest.  It swelled with affection for his family.  He loved them.  They were just going through a rough patch.  Shouts and anger sharply contrasted with the gentle teasing and affection present before the baby.

Stress.  Commitments.  Responsibility.  They weighed heavily on his shoulders.  He didn’t regret the baby.  The baby just made things harder and more expensive.  Kids need food, uniforms, sports equipment, clothes, and new laptops.  Bills mounted. 

He’d had to take a side job, working construction overnight when crews turned bright spotlights on the road for night closures.  The job was easy.  Hold a pole with a sign on it.  One side said “Stop”.  One side said “Slow”.  Sip coffee and energy drinks as he rotated the pole to either flag traffic to stop or urge cars to creep forward around the large machinery and gaps in the road.  Pay was good, but working all day and all night took a toll on his health.  Mental and physical.

Put stress on his marriage.  Strained his relationship with his kids.  He couldn’t bond properly with the baby, rarely seeing it whenever he was home.  He hated what he’d become and hated to see his family tiptoe around him.  They’d always been a loving family, a picture of perfect happiness. 

Not so much anymore.

“I’m sorry,” he spat out.  He was always apologizing.  At the bank during the day when customers couldn’t understand overdrafts or loan denials.  At his side gig when he turned the sign too fast and the crackle of static over the walkie-talkie chastised him.  At home when he disappointed his family.  The word ‘sorry’ took on a bitter quality, puckering his lips and salting his tongue every time he said it.  He was a pussy, apologizing for nothing.  Sorry sorry sorry.

“Dad?”  The word squeezed out as if his son was choking on it.  So emotional.  He knew the boy was sensitive – a sweet soul, his teachers always said.  Always willing to help a classmate, stop a bully, befriend an outcast.  Why couldn’t the boy be more manly?  Why didn’t his daughter get those traits so his son could toughen up? 

“I’m sorry.  I just need quiet right now,” he told his son.  “It’s gonna be a long night and I don’t need anyone nagging me.  Just.  Quiet, please.”

His son understood, just like his wife understood.  He went quiet, staring in the same haunting way at him.  He smiled.  “See?  It doesn’t take much to make your old man happy.  I’m sorry,” he apologized again, wincing at the acid in his mouth.  “But you know I’m doing this for you and I’m so tired.  So very tired.”

The boy made a sympathetic whimpering sound.  God, the boy was like his wife.  Sickening.

Soon.  Soon.  The therapist was working wonders for his family.  An extra cost partly covered by insurance.  They were working through issues.  They’d be a happy family again, once past the crying and diaper stages of the baby.  Then things would smooth out and they’d be back to their norm.  A rough patch.  That’s all this was.

He should say goodbye to the baby before he left.  Stepping around his son, who watched quietly, he trudged up the stairs to his bedroom.  The baby shared it with them, another unavoidable annoyance.  For now, the baby had a crib in their already cramped room, putting a damper on their love life.  Not that he had much time for that anymore.

The baby was asleep, breathing heavily.  Probably had a cold.  It was always catching something, though he didn’t remember his wife mentioning anything recently.  He shrugged, leaning over the crib. 

Snuffling and drooling, the kid lay there like a slug, twitching a little in sleep.  He wondered what babies dreamed about.  What could the baby know other than the breast of his wife and the way his daughter sometimes pretended to eat the little toes poking up from a foot.  The baby laughed when she did.  Maybe that’s the dream.  The baby’s feet were kicking as if trying to boot away his daughter’s chomping teeth.

Stupid baby.  It seemed suddenly restless.  It gurgled and grunted as he stood there, arm over the crib rail as he tried to soothe it.  It happened, of course.  Babies were predictably unpredictable in their fussiness.  His wife would calm it by singing, songs that rattled his nerves because she had an awful voice. 

He persisted, though it didn’t seem to work.  The baby kicked harder, but his hand was steady, and the baby drifted back to sleep, calm now.  Even the snuffling seemed to disappear.  Was he a miracle worker, able to wave his hand and make colds vanish?  How rich would he become if he could cure the common cold?  He wouldn’t have to work at all, let alone a main job and a side job.

The clock on his nightstand reminded him it was time to go.  Wouldn’t want to be late and make his foreman angry.  He needed the damn money for this damn family he loved so much.  “Bye, baby,” he muttered, turning his back on the crib.

He wished his daughter were here, but the wife had mentioned she’d be out late with ‘friends’.  He seethed at the thought.  He had suspicions about one friend, a harmless-seeming boy.  He wasn’t a violent man, but he’d go feral if anyone touched his daughter.  His wife laughed when he said such things.  She knew he hadn’t a mean bone in his body.

Gathering his keys and the lunch made by his wife, he said goodbye to them and left.

The lights on site gave him a disorienting feeling.  They were bright and made him question what time it was.  Someone was moving cones into position and the roaring of the bulldozer vibrated the air.  He nodded at the cop sitting in his car; the city required one at all construction sites.  The cop nodded back, sleepy and cozy in his seat. 

He took his position, checking his walkie-talkie was set to the proper channel.  The boring part began.  Flip sign.  Cars stop.  Flip sign.  Cars move.  Lather, rinse, repeat.  The crackle of the walkie-talkie as his counterpart a mile away said“Flipping Flagman” and he’d laugh and repeat “Flopping Flogman”.  A little joke between them.  When the last car passed, he’d flip the sign to “Slow” and watch the cars pass him by.  Then he’d say “Flipping Flagman” and would get a “Flopping Flogman” in return.

It added a little humor to his shitty life.

The cop had perked up sometime around midnight, leaning forward and talking on his phone.  It was strange enough to catch his interest as he waited for the “Flipping Flagman” to crackle over the air.  He steadily kept at his job, mindlessly flipping and flopping until flashing lights approached, moving alongside the row of waiting cars.

The cops approached him, along with his foreman.  “Let Chuck take your place,” his foreman said, voice tight.  “These gentlemen have a couple of questions.”

Well, that was a lie.  They had a lot of questions.  Mostly about his wife, his son, and the baby.  When did he last see them?  What happened before he left for work?  What time did he leave?  What time did he get to work? 

It was annoying, especially in this brightly lit room with a cold cup of coffee in front of him.  He was confused and insistent that he’d seen his wife before he left, silently staring at him as he said his goodbye.  His son, too, quiet and staring.  The baby asleep in the crib.  He’d left at the normal time.  Taking his peanut butter and strawberry jelly sandwich with him.

His wife hadn’t been stabbed when he left, right?  With vicious wounds to the stomach, chest, and face.  Twisted knife wounds made with hate and the knife still lodged in her sternum.

His son hadn’t been strangled when he left, right?  With angry welts and bruises on his broken neck.

The baby hadn’t been smothered when he left, right?  With a pillow over the face and bruises around the abdomen.

Why couldn’t these cops understand that?  They were alive when he left.  They were just quiet and staring.  Like he wanted.

Then he remembered his wife mentioning that they were out of strawberry jelly and asking him if grape was okay. 

Where did the strawberry jelly come from?

Wasn’t it strawberry jelly his daughter found on the floor when she came home, giddy with stories about the boy to tell his wife?  The cops said it wasn’t.

He begged for quiet.  No more questions.  No more words. 

Just sweet silence.

Like his loving family gave him.