Honorable Mention – Flash 405, April 2026: “Saudade”
Fiction
This morning
I was watching from the café opposite when you pulled up. You ducked out the car as if you feared missiles. As if you thought I’d do that to you. I wondered how it would be if we were strangers, starting over.
You carried out the boxes and the picture, posted the keys through the letterbox. Say hello wave goodbye was playing inside my head. I didn’t wave. You weren’t looking anyway.
I scrubbed my eyes dry and crossed the road to my home, our home, my home.
A pale rectangle gleamed above the fireplace, otherwise there was no trace of you.
Last month
“Come outside,” you said. “It’s stifling in here.”
You opened the door and I breathed in the scent of summer.
The cosmos was amazing. The flowers bobbed over the back of the bench like friendly faces.
“Just sit down,” you said. You plucked a flower off its stem, swivelled it, your head down. “It’s not working. Stop. Just listen.”
Last year
“Happy thirtieth,” I sang out, and put the tray on the bed where you lay huddled. “I’ve got cards and presents—wake up, sleepy.”
“It’s Saturday,” you said.
“All day. Would you like sex?’
“I don’t want to be thirty,” you said. “I don’t want to be here. I’m sorry. I just don’t.”
I stared at your tousled head, your sleep-encrusted eyes. My breath jerked.
Two years ago
You held the record between your palm tips, lowered it onto the turntable, lifted the needle arm with a gentle finger. Plans bubbled in my head: next week, next month, next year.
We lay on the carpet in a rectangle of sunshine, our fingers touching.
Three years ago
I pulled the bedcover taut, sat down, stood up, grouped the shells on the windowsill, moved them back. I leaned out the window till I found your red Fiesta.
You got out, looked up and waved. One painting, ten boxes. Mainly vinyl.
Five years, one month ago
“Hello,” you said.
Some people collect chat-up lines; not you. Sweet, I thought: nice eyes.
It was hard to breathe in there, the volume dense, no room to dance. You pointed upwards, just as glitter showered down.
“We’re sparkling,” I said.
You leaned in, cupped your ear, laughed. You stretched out your hand, sure I’d take it. We stood under a street lamp, the silence making our ears buzz. You pulled me toward you.
Judge’s Comments: I’m a sucker for a read with multiple angles to approach it. Reading this piece from top to bottom, as it is written, provides an optimistic longing of the past, sitting in present gloom and reminiscing as if we sat in the café together. Reading it from bottom to top clearly illustrated the heartbreak, taking us from the first meeting to the last non-meeting. The writing is short and sweet, relying on form to address the theme.
Sarah Masters lives in York and teaches English for speakers of other languages. Her tiny stories have appeared in a few places including Funny Pearls, Full House Literary, Roi Fainéant, The Hooghly Review, CafeLit, FlashFlood Journal, and Shooter Flash. Last year she came first in The Propelling Pencil Spring Charity Competition. Contact @serrey.bsky.social
Photo by Victrola Record Players