by John Durham
Honorable Mention: Flash 405, August 2016: “Connect”
Fiction
You need to please everyone; that’s why you text “drinks tonight?” to your roommate, even though you can’t stand to be around her constant boyfriend-bitching for more than five minutes. The phone vibrates just as the message sends. Unknown appears on-screen. You swipe right.
“Hello?”
“You have a collect call from an inmate at the Washington State Penitentiary. Please say ‘yes’ or press one to accept the charges and connect the call.”
You’re curious, but reject the urge to satisfy the electronic voice’s request, and continue eating your lunch. You don’t know anyone in prison.
Twelve bites, and a glass of chardonnay later, the waiter is clearing your dishes from the table when the caller ID tells you Unknown is calling.
“Hello?”
“You have a collect call from an inmate at the Washington State Penitentiary. Please say ‘yes’ or press one to accept the charges and connect the call.”
You pause, debating the direction of your finger’s movement, as if the choice determines the outcome of a capital murder trial.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t understand that. Please say….”
You end the call, a pin of guilt pricking your stomach.
“Can I get you anything else this afternoon?” The waiter smiles at you, deliberately making eye contact. You can’t deny him.
“Yes, the double-chocolate brownie. To-go, please.”
The waiter nods with a “right away” and returns with your dessert and check. You leave him a ten-dollar bill—twenty-eight percent gratuity—even though he didn’t deserve it.
Two blocks from the restaurant, you’re walking the shortcut through the park back to work when your phone vibrates—once, twice, three times—you rush to remove it from your purse. Unknown.
“Hello?”
“You have a col . . .”
“Yes.” You react almost instantly, like auto-correct taking over your mouth.
“Please hold while the call is connected.”
You hear silence; then, click. There are voices in the background—maybe a television, a gameshow. Someone exhales, shuddering.
“H-Hello? Elizabeth?” An old man’s raspy voice seeps like vapor from the earpiece. “P-Please, don’t hang up; j-just listen. I . . .” He’s crying like a timid child before a strange beast. “I wanted to say . . .” Your mouth opens to stop him, to tell him the name doesn’t match the number; but the sound of his fragile desperation mutes you stiff, as if the slightest movement will suddenly wash him from existence. “. . . good-bye.”
John Durham is a composer and writer who teaches web design/development and has recently rekindled his nearly-forgotten affair with sci-fi. He is currently participating in NYC Midnight’s Flash Fiction Challenge 2016.