Counting Dead Flowers

A 500 word flash fiction story

The story below is one I wrote last year for the NYC Midnight 500 word contest. I’ve held onto it, thinking maybe I would expand it and put it into a book of short stories, but the longer I put that off, the less interest I have in editing. There are folders on my computer filled with half-finished stories. At least this one is complete, although it could have used a few more words. But it’s enough for now and it gives me something to post on the weekly blog.

One of these days I’ll pull those other stories together into a book. I don’t feel too guilty letting them sit. I’ve started work on a novel, and I’ll use that as an excuse for now.

This one is a horror story and it’s a bit dark, so be warned.

Counting Dead Flowers

On my fourth trip to the cellar, the rotten step collapsed. Luckily, most of my weight had shifted, my foot planted on the next tread. Cursing, I gripped the handrail, glancing over my shoulder at the gap where the middle board had been. Much of the stairs lay in shadows due to the burned-out bulb at the top.

I could imagine my sister Ivy chiding me for not replacing it. She’d be angry enough that I was here alone. “Don’t go without me. I’ll be there by Thursday at the latest,” she’d said.

Three days had passed since our father’s death. Eager to begin the search, I had sorted through the mounds of newspapers, broken dishes, empty takeout containers, and discarded electronics that filled the home like barnacles on a ship.

I’d arranged our father’s cremation. There was no point in a funeral—the man had no one other than Ivy and me. He had lived alone in this house for twenty years.

At the bottom of the stairs, I weaved through the cardboard boxes I’d moved to clear a path to the back. The place stank of mildew and the damp earth of the cellar’s dirt floor. My shadow, cast by the pale light of the bare bulb on the ceiling, hovered over the old chest that I had uncovered. Made of cheap particleboard, one end had rotted out, spilling the contents. A child’s jump rope lay coiled on top of the chest. Lifting the rope, I recalled the rhyming song we had chanted.

I know a secret. Can you guess?

which little flower he likes best?

Setting aside the rope, I scooped out folded sheets of paper, yellowed and dotted with black and green mold. Childish handwriting covered the pages that could still be read. I shivered, remembering the scratch of pencil against paper as I created a list of names.

Daisy, Rosy, Violet, Belle,

hide in the cellar, and don’t you tell.

Upstairs, the front door creaked open, followed by my sister’s voice. “Lily?”

Frantic, I tried to stuff the papers back into the chest, but they slid out, along with a stack of Polaroid photos.

Sister doesn’t care, sister doesn’t mind.

How many petals will you find?

Her heels tapped along the wood floors. I turned over the first photo. A pale face stared at me. One of the missing girls we’d planted in the cellar dirt. How many were there? I kept getting the number confused with the count at the end of our jump rope rhyme. One, two, three, four—we stopped when he had the first stroke, when I was twelve, Ivy fourteen.

“Where are you?” Ivy’s steps halted.

“Down here.”

She wanted to confess, to set the past right. Would a jury forgive our acting as lures for the innocent? No. We clipped them, gardeners deadheading blooms.

Counting the steps as Ivy descended, I picked up the rope. If the broken tread didn’t do the job, I would finish it.

THE END