The Accidental Suicide

First published at Short-Story.me.

Whack!

Jessica swings the axe and curses Wendy, her thirteen year old daughter. She’s in her room sulking, as usual. An annoying noise she calls music escapes to the backyard where Jessica continues her therapy.

Whack!

She takes another swing, this one for ten-year-old Albert, who continues to whine about not getting the right baseball mitt for his birthday. He’s not a catcher. What do I know about baseball? His dad goes to the games. He’s the one who bought the glove. “A guy thing,” he said.

Whack!

Speaking of . . . Jack's no angel, moping around the house all weekend complaining he’s bored. Jessica offered him a to do list to help fill in his time. 1. Rake the leaves. 2. Mow the lawn. 3. Plug the hole in the fence so our terrier Frankie doesn’t sneak out and bring home a new friend, or worse friends. 

“I just remembered,” Jack says and trots out the door to meet up with Max, his high school buddy, for a beer. So much for his husband of the year trophy.

Whack!

Jessica's never swung an axe before. She didn’t know they owned one until she went to get a rake. It is a great way to rid one’s mind of negativity. Much better than raking leaves.

“Mom, ” Wendy yells from her bedroom window. “Mr. Roberts called. He said he’s coming over to help and that you shouldn’t do anymore chopping until he gets here. He said you’re doing it wrong.”

Whack!

What could that old buttinsky want? 

Whack!

Jessica takes one more swing, moves a few paces away, and hears a loud prolonged groan as the tree falls in the opposite direction she thought it would.

The Wedding’s Off

First published in Bright Flash Fiction Literary Review

Spring was Ella’s favorite time. The birds returned from their winter vacation, filling the air with music, while colorful foliage blossomed in barren trees. But this year was different. This year her wedding occupied every minute of free time. Sometimes more, depending on what crusade her mother was on to make everything perfect. Today was the caterer’s turn for last minute instructions.

“Hey, Mom,” Ella said, looking at her watch. “I’m going to the church to make sure everything’s set for tonight’s rehearsal.”

“Okay, Hon, I’ll be over shortly.”

“No hurry. Take your time.” Please.

Ella arrived early for her appointment with the minister. She smelled it first, then saw the smoke coming from behind the church.

She parked along the street, so as not to block the fire truck. Sirens announced their impending arrival. She raced down the driveway and saw someone in a dark hoodie and jeans run into the woods.

Ella followed not thinking about what might happen next.

Ahead she saw the person look back and trip on an exposed root. Ella reached the arsonist, pulled off the hoodie, and was surprised to see someone she thought she knew.

“Andrea?” Ella said to her Maid of Honor. “What are you doing?”

“Stopping your wedding. I hope.” Andrea tried to get up. Ella pushed her down, anger spreading through her limbs like an unattended wildfire.

“I…I thought we were friends. Why would you want to stop it?”

“Because I saw Tom first. I’m the one who introduced you two. Remember? I should be the one getting married.”

Ella sat for a long time, watching the branches waltz in the treetops. Finally, she opened the top buttons of her blouse, turned so her back faced Andrea, and exposed the belt lashes inflicted when Tom arrived home early last night and dinner wasn’t ready.

Pulling off her engagement ring and handing it to Andrea, Ella said “You can have him.” 

Ella walked back to her car with a purpose. She took a few deep breaths, allowing her body to release the tension that had built up over the past weeks. Her suitcase was in the trunk ready for the honeymoon trip. She’d heard Portland was nice this time of year.

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Jim Harrington lives in Huntersville, NC, with his wife and two dogs. His stories have appeared in The Yard, Short-Story.me, Ariel Chart, Spank The Carp, Flash Fiction Magazine, and others. More of his works can be found at https://jpharrington.blogspot.com.