The Worst Possible Moment
Angry Flash Fiction
Readers, I’m angry.
I just got word from Andromeda Spaceways Magazine, which I’d previously submitted this story to, that it did not pass their third round of reading, and therefore they were obliged to reject it.
That’s all fine and dandy. I’ve been rejected before. Dozens of times.
And there’s even a silver lining here.
The first and second readers’ comments were wonderful. The former loved the story, and thanked me for submitting it. The latter said it was a fun read as well.
It’s the reaction of the bastard third reader that got my blood boiling.
Here’s how his (well, their, although I can’t help picturing a middle-aged, pot-bellied white guy) review begins:
A pleasant enough diversion, but this story is gimmicky, and somewhat cliche. The idea behind it is insubstantial.
I mean, what a pretentious ass, right?
So, as a middle-finger gesture to this unknown rude person, I’m withdrawing the story from all the other magazines I submitted it to, and posting it here, for your enjoyment.
Insubstantial, my ass.
CW: some swearing, light gore, body horror
At least you weren’t dumb enough to do it in front of the kids.
Smart move, dropping them off at Ashley’s tonight.
But they won’t stay there forever, will they? And when they get back, you’ll have to explain where their mommy is. And you know how smart they are. They’ll figure it out. Unless you do a really good job cleaning up after yourself. So how about it?
You haven’t even settled on an instrument. Let’s see. Cleaver, bone saw, machete, and…a katana? Seriously, Reg?
If I wasn’t dead, I’d do this myself. Better than seeing you mess it up.
Honestly, though? When I saw you lifting that fire iron, I was surprised. I mean, for the first time in twenty years of marriage, you took charge, Reg. Circumstances notwithstanding, I’m sort of proud of you.
Of course, any other guy would’ve killed me long ago, if he hated me the way you did. You always complained I was too controlling, that I never let you do anything by yourself. But how could I, Reg, when you’re not even capable of the most basic tasks?
Remember when I asked you to help Tiffany bathe, and she ended up with a rash all down her arm? Who knew dog shampoo wasn’t good for people, right? Or that time you slammed the door on Joey’s leg? He needed three surgeries, Reg. Three.
Maybe I exaggerated a little, too. Maybe I shouldn’t have asked for the credit card back. Then again, fuck you.
Let’s face it. Whatever story you made up in that demented brain of yours to justify this, it’s all your fault. You’re a fuck-up; were a fuck-up from the start, before you ever took to drink.
The cleaver. A classic. Got it sharpened just last week, as I recall.
Look how easily it sinks into the skin. As if my body was nothing but cheese.
And look at you. Steady, meticulous, with a smile on your face that tells me you’re enjoying this. Maybe you finally found your calling.
That’s it, Reg. Hack away. Let out all that rage you’ve been storing up. How does it feel? Do you feel in control now, you fucking bastard?
You don’t know it yet, but you just made the worst mistake of your life. Too bad I’m dead; I could have told you sooner. Would have, too.
If my math is correct, you’ve got about six hours to live.
It’s so fucking funny. How long have you wanted to do it, Reg? Five years? Ten? And when you finally worked up the courage to kill me, you chose the worst possible moment.
The tea you drank tonight was poisoned, idiot. You know, the one you said tasted “bitter like my own heart”, the one I’d poured with so much love in the teacup you threw at the wall before you punched me.
You fucked yourself better than I ever could.
Look at you, laser focused on your work, oblivious. I almost wish I could tell you, just to see your face change, all that smug concentration melt away like fat from fried pork.
All done with the legs, you move onto the arms. Pretty soon, I’m just a torso with a head. I bet I look terrible right now. Less human, more shapeless monster from The Thing, huh?
With a final chop, head and body separate. You lift what’s left of my head by the hair and shove me in a plastic bag.
Then, darkness.
Movement. The bag swishes and I swing, back and forth, like one of Tiffany’s baby toys. I used to get motion sick easily, but now it feels strangely calming. Where are you taking me, Reg?
You throw me somewhere. A door slams, and I realize it’s the trunk. Then, the ancient Volvo sputters to life. So, we’re doing the “throw her in the water” bit, huh? Cliche, but if it works, it works.
Finally, the car coughs its last and we stop. The veil lifts and I can see the lake, still and heartless. That makes two of us.
I hid the antidote in the drawer underneath our bed. You weren’t supposed to die right away. I wanted to see you beg, fall to your knees and implore me for one last shot at us. You might have even convinced me. Guess we’ll never know.
Maybe you’ll find it yourself. I doubt it.
Most likely, you’ll spend your last night on Earth getting wasted, watching snooker or some other shitty sport you can’t play, the volume all the way up. And when your lungs stop working, maybe you’ll think of me one last time. Maybe you’ll think it was my curse that killed you. Which, in a way, it was.
With a splash like a thunderclap, my head hits the water. It floods my mouth like thick juice. And then, I sink, sink, sink.
Six hours, Reg. Make them count.
That’s it. I hope you enjoyed this bit of mayhem. In closing, I’d like to thank and , my generous beta readers for this piece. Without you, the story might be lingering in my files still, cowering from the light. 🙏
I think the third reviewer read a different story haha. I won't spoil your story in the comments, but the theme is far from a "diversion" lol. The use of that word is kind of strange considering the topic of your story (which I enjoyed very much).
That third reviewer is a sad, sad person. I picture the food critic in "Ratatouille," unable to enjoy the finer things of life, empty and desperate for meaning. Meanwhile, this story crackles!