Flash Fiction by Emma Grey Rose
Evan Schneider and Walter Klein stand in the middle of a field in Kansas, right off the
Interstate. It’s winter.
“You got any more in that flask?”
“Nope.”
It’s just before sunrise. Beside them, is a fence line and a dead horse. It’s brown with
thick legs and a nice coat of hair that had been brushed every day by a little girl. Her daddy’s name is Warren.
Klein is digging with his shovel and so is Schneider until Klein says, “Warren better be
payin’ us.”
“He didn’t tell you he was payin’?”
“You’d think he would, just off principal.” Klein spits a string of tobacco juice. “Ain’t
that right?”
“I guess that’s right.”
Klein grunts. Schneider says, “I think it’s kinda nice.”
“What’s nice?”
“You know. He wants this here horse out before his kid gets up to open presents. She
don’t got to go out in the yard and see some dead animal layin’ there in the snow like shit on concrete.”
The snow comes down in a fine mist. It’s been snowing for several days but today, it’s especially cold.
Klein stops shoveling. He rests his arm on the handle, his foot on the blade and he says, “There ain’t nothing wrong with it.”
“You don’t say so?”
“Ain’t no point in protecting nobody from a dead animal. You think of it this way, right,
better to accept death as we see it than to act like it ain’t happening.”
“She’s only six.”
“So what? Six, eight, thirty. It don’t make no difference.”
Schneider grunts. He asks, “No difference?”
“Nope. No difference.”
Klein grips his shovel again. Schneider keeps digging. They continue in silence, listening to the only sounds they can hear; the trucks and cars making their way on the Interstate, the occasional break of a branch in the forest, and their own breathing.
“You been going to church much?”
Klein smiles. He says, “Yup. Every Sunday.”
“Every week, huh?”
“Wouldn’t miss it for the world.”
“Pastor George still leadin’ it?”
“He’s gettin’ old. Always yammerin’ on about end times and things like that.”
“He ain’t that old.”
“Old enough to be forgettin’ that he preached the same damn thing the Sunday before. I’ve got half a mind to tell him.”
“Tell him what?” Schneider laughs. “How to preach?”
“Somebody’s got to tell him.”
“That don’t make no sense.”
“Half the church fallin’ asleep mid sermon.” Klein spits. “Makes sense.”
Schneider lights a cigarette. He says, “If you say so.” Then, he looks back at the horse.
“How you plannin’ to move this right here?”
“Same way we move everything. Right?”
Schneider puts the cigarette to his lips, pinches it there, and picks the shovel back up.
Klein says, “So. What you and your old lady doing for the holiday?”
“Oh,” Schneider pauses. “We ain’t doing much.”
“No?”
“No. She ain’t been the same since the miscarriage.”
Klein fixes his hat. He says, “Makes sense.”
“How about yourself? You and Mandy still gettin’ along?”
“Sure.”
“What’s it like?”
“What’s what like?”
“Being married all them years.”
Klein stops digging. He says, “Well shoot. I forgot.”
“Forgot what?”
“We got to get her up outta that truck.”
“What truck?”
“My truck.”
“What’s she doin’ waitin’ in the truck?”
“She ain’t waitin’.”
“Now that ain’t right, Klein.”
“What ain’t right?”
“You got your old lady sittin’ in a truck with the snow this cold?”
“She ain’t sittin’ in the truck. She fixin’ to go right here in this hole we diggin’.”
Schneider stops. He looks up. He holds his shovel still and he asks, “This hole for the
dead horse?”
“Yup. Right here.”
“What you mean by that, Klein?”
“I got tired of her lip. That’s all I mean.”
Bio: Emma Grey Rose is a writer based in San Diego, California from Portland, Oregon. Her work has appeared in DoubleSpeak Magazine, Subliminal Surgery, Disjointed, The Rye Whiskey Review, North of Oxford, Panorama Journal, and elsewhere. You can find her and her wonderful art work. HERE.
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