On the Refrigerator Door
A flash fiction story about the tales we tell others on our refrigerator door.
Photo by Majestic Lukas on Unsplash
On the top left is a large magnet in the shape of a cougar’s paw. It’s ready to rip into flesh. Across the paw in scripted font is: Riverdahl Elementary.
The once white surface is yellowed from decades of cigarette smoke and burnt food.
Below the paw print is a row of five pictures. A young boy in a variety of uniforms grips a baseball bat. His forced, childish smile decays with each picture. His grip on his bat tightens as the smile on his face deadens.
Beneath the pictures of the boy is a grocery list on ripped paper: beer, eggs, cheese, potato chips, sausage, Children’s Tylenol, bandages.
At least once an hour the fridge rattles and shakes and hisses.
On the top right is a series of pictures of a young family — a husband, wife, and son — taken with the same Easter Bunny at the CherryVale Mall. Only the husband smiles.
Near the bottom of the fridge, barely hanging on, is a metal clip that clings desperately to a list of expired prescriptions for Vivitrol.
In the middle of the refrigerator is a piece of paper ripped from a bill from Saint Anthony’s Medical Center. In faded blue ink are the words: “Don’t call or look for us.”
