SmokeLong Quarterly

My father’s head breaks open and out comes my own. It’s a melee of flesh of flesh, bone of bone, a battle for life in oxide red and umber brown, ligaments clasping hands for dear life before buckling to rip, the old is gone and the new has come in blacks and blues. In my eyes are pits the shape of my father, gulfs tinged purple on the edges for depth with no end. I draw a cross over the painting.

I light a joint and sit bare-buttocked on the tile, look up at the skylight.

I’ve always had a vague knowing that I will end my life someday. This is where the ideation ends. No elaborate plan takes root, not one thought of when will I do it, where will I do it, how will I? It appears in my head as the fact that it is, and I acknowledge it, and go on with my living. After a couple more pleasures, after checking my bucket list (win the Nomura, find God and crush his head), I might just up and go.

My father cackles. “You want to die?” He doubles over, slaps his thigh. “Ha! It’s easy to die! If God hasn’t killed you, you are not dead!”

He walks to the shelf and pulls out a tome. It falls open at a page oft read.

“Listen, Abigail, listen!” Thigh slap. “What did Gaius say? Qui se ultro morti offerant facilius reperiuntur quam qui dolorem patienter ferant!”

He paces the room. His words meld into static. He recites the chapters, then pauses to translate into English. He says to himself, “No, no, Mike, the better meaning is endure, not suffer. Enduuuure.”

It’s the usual sort of conversation, where he sits you down for a good hour or two, launches into a monologue about his interests and fears and passions while you emote, try to contribute your thoughts but cannot, your voice packed back into the back of your throat while you think, I suppose this is his way to love? He peppers his spiels with quotes from philosophers by whom he calls first (or worse, middle) names. What did Gaius say! What did William say! What did Annaeus say! What did Friedrich say! What did Immanuel say! What did Aristocles say!

Today’s skylight offerings are three crows perched and pecking at the glass. They break the glass. They shit on my face.

A crow shits on my face in my childhood home. I run for my father. Through the crack in the bathroom door, my father, naked, facing the mirror. Spugna cradled in his left hand, scourge in his right, he mutters in tongues. The dropping is white and dripping down my lips. I want to call out to him, but, shit.

He lifts the scourge. He strikes the skin of his back. An old vineyard reopens.

“What did Paul say?” he says.

“I rejoice to suffer—no—endure. I fill up my flesh with Christ’s afflictions,” he responds.

“What did Job say?” he says.

“May the day of my birth perish,” he responds.

“What did John say?” he says.

“In heaven, there will be no pain,” he responds.

He lifts the scourge. I eat shit at a scream. He drops his things.

“Oh, Abigail, is that you?”

“Daddy?”

He crouches down, cups my face in his hands. His eyes are joyous. “It’s a new dawn! The new has come! Christ gave his life and isn’t that wonderful! What did John say?”

“Daddy?”

“What did John say?”

“Daddy?”

“You will be okay.”

“Daddy?”

“What did I say?”

“I will be okay.”

The susurrus of oaks outside my studio carries over. Their crowns pretend to meet for the first time, performing courtesies of a first encounter, respectors of personal space, like and like repelling, hushing on touch like little girls. The sun has no patience for such niceties. It breaks through the shyness, hard and phallic, God’s penis in everything, cracks of light on the ground, through the window, over the painting, eternal life.

My father is seated under the tree. He beckons. I drop the joint and run outside. I sit on the ground between his legs. I take the second koshka from his hand.

He holds my wrist. “Do like this.”

“Okay.”

“And like this.”

“Okay.”

“And like this.”

“Okay.”

“And like this.”

“Okay.”

“And like this.”

“I can’t do it.”

“No, don’t worry, do like this.”

“No, I mean, I can’t do it anymore.”

“Oh, don’t worry, just do like this.”

“Can you listen?” I drop the koshka. It rolls away from me. It stops between us.

“What’s wrong?”

“Five months. When will it stop?”

“What’s wrong?”

“I don’t know.”

“What’s here?” He taps on his heart.

I trace my finger on his neck, the ring around it, a battle for life in oxide red and umber brown, ligaments clasping hands for dear life before buckling to rip, the old is gone. Did he struggle?

“Abigail?”

“Daddy?”

“What did I say?”

We play and sing until the day closes. Night comes like a thief in the night. The dark creeps over, a million halftones superimposing on one another, soft and hazy around the edges, endlessly, until it’s tenebrous.

I look around me and he is nowhere.

_____________________

“What Did Mike Say?” is a finalist in The SmokeLong Quarterly Award for Flash Fiction 2026.