Category: Flash Fiction

A week ago, Silvia saw him standing in the door to Maddie’s nursery, a gaunt figure with restless, sunken eyes. He stepped over the threshold and approached the crib, unfazed by Maddie’s shattering cries. The light from the hall filtered through his thin frame, bending at odd angles on the floor. An uncanny absence hollowing out every ordinary thing in the room. The nightlight flickered and faded. The music from Maddie’s sleep bunny stuttered to a stop. The figure leaned over the crib and began to whisper. Her daughter stared up into his eyes and hiccupped once. As he talked, her eyes grew heavy. Finally, she slept. When the ghost finished whispering, he disappeared.

Silvia wept from relief.

Since birth, Maddie hadn’t stopped crying for more than an hour at a time. The pediatrician assured Silvia that everything was fine, that Maddie would grow out of it.

She hadn’t.

That first night, she had tried to scream, but the sound died in her throat. Now she waits for him every night, exhausted from Maddie’s tears. He arrives, as the sun sets, conjured from nightmares—though whether hers or Maddie’s, she doesn’t know. There are times she thinks she should speak; tell him he can leave. That she is enough. That a silver thread binds her to her daughter, thrumming, even in the darkness. But all she can do is watch, barely breathing, until Maddie settles, sleeps, and the spirit disappears.

Last night his whispers grew more urgent. As if his time here were short. She dared to stand, to step closer. And when he turned to her, his eyes opened a door to everything Silvia had ever feared. He leaned close to her ear. And whispered. Silvia felt herself falling, felt the silver thread tying her to Maddie fray. She reached out into the darkness, helpless against its unraveling. The thread snapped. And her heart broke.

Today Maddie is as good as gold. When Silvia’s friends visit, they congratulate her. The hardest days are behind you, they tell her. But to each other they say how cold Maddie’s eyes seem, and how her cheeks are just a bit sunken. When they leave, Silvia picks up her daughter and holds her close. She goes to the nursery and sets the sleep bunny to play Maddie’s favorite songs. When Silvia puts her down, Maddie looks up at her with a stranger’s eyes. She watches as they begin to close. The child will nod off any minute now.

As long as the ghost standing at the foot of her crib keeps talking.

Copyright 2021. All rights reserved.

My daddy bulldogged all across Texas when I was growing up. I’d sit with my mama in the stands of some small-town rodeo eating funnel cake and watch him wrestle a 450-pound longhorn into the dirt. He died broke racing the clock to pay the bills. When I went on the circuit, mama cried. But that day the purse was even sweeter than the buckle bunnies. If I was smart—and lucky—I could walk away rich.

But I wasn’t smart. And I wasn’t lucky.

My first mistake was being anywhere near that bull pen. Daddy was a firm believer that you got the horns you deserved. But I liked to look an opponent in the eye. I slid a leg over the fence and sat on the rail, watching the herd. A pretty Corriente, with spots the color of Georgia clay, sidled up and flicked his tail at me. I nodded. 

And then, in a voice as smooth as whiskey, I heard him say it: 

“Son, you might want to sit this one out.” 

Another man might have fallen to his knees right then and prayed to the good Lord.

I just laughed. 

The Corriente snorted, took a step closer to the fence, and chewed a bit of cud.

I looked around, thinking some cowboy was having a fine joke. But there was no one there. Even the other cattle ignored us. 

“$50,000 is a lot to walk away from,” I said, finally. “You got a good reason I shouldn’t ride today?”

The Corriente didn’t answer. He just looked at me for a second, then turned and trudged back into the scrum of the pen. 

That day, every cowboy out there had a good run.  Every horse ran true. Every hazer did his job. The slide, the drop, the twist. All of it perfect. It wasn’t just a good day to ride. It was a day to break records. 

I wasn’t surprised when I saw the Corriente in the chute. 

I backed my horse into the box, then nodded to the judge. The Corriente flew through the barrier and we followed. I slid, hugged his barrel, grabbed those pretty horns and twisted. 

The Corriente went down, feet in the air. The flag dropped. 4.5 seconds. A record. I let go, hopped up, and tossed my hat high. 

That was my second mistake. 

Because when that hat floated back down, it hit the rump of my horse and she bolted straight for me. I jumped, but not fast enough, and went head over haunches, my face in the mud, my ass in the air. 

When I finally sat up, the Corriente was standing close by, looking smug. The next day, it was all over YouTube. No mention that I’d taken home the purse—and the buckle to boot. 

I bought the Corriente for $800. He never said another word. The horse? She tells that story every chance she gets. The two of them haven’t stopped laughing since. 

Copyright Bonnie Burns, 2019. All rights reserved.

Image: Copyright Tim Burns, 2019. All rights reserved.

This story first appeared as a subscriber bonus to Indie Authors’ Advent Calendar 2019.