This story is based off of four prompts given by
as part of the Stacktember 2025 contest. Thanks, Nico!I intended to post four flash fiction pieces this month, but decided to put them all together instead. Enjoy!
Christopher S.
“Da-e!” He used to call me that. He’d say, “Da-e, I love you.” Or he’d say, “Da-e, horsey,” and I’d get on my hands and knees. “Giddy-up, partner!” I’d shout. I loved the warmth of his little body pressed against my back and his tiny arms wrapped around my neck. I guess that’s why, twenty years later, I’m lying here listening to the sounds of dirt scatter against a coffin lid. I guess that’s why—even though he stopped calling me years ago for anything other than to ask for more money—I’ve given my life for his. Buried alive in the middle of nowhere. Payment fulfilled: one life. Da-e saves the day. Giddy-up, partner.
When Nicholas was ten, he asked me to stop smoking.
“Not that easy, Nickie,” I said.
A commercial told him that if I didn’t stop, I was going to die.
“We all gotta go sometime, Son.”
When Nicholas was seventeen, he said I shouldn’t work so much. “There’s more to life than selling paint, Dad.”
I laughed. Not because I didn’t agree with him, but it’s one thing to know you gotta do something big with your life, and another to actually know what that big thing is. And anyway, how the hell can you do anything if you don’t got cash? But now…now I can think of a million and one big things I should have done. I count them alongside the sounds of dirt and rock landing on the pine wood like dice. After a moment, the sounds soften; soil upon soil.
Dillan is up there, dead-eyed under the stars, burying me alive. Got the sense he didn’t want the side of the token he got, but that’s gambling for ya. I offered him money. He shook his head like a cow shaking off flies, said, “No, no, no—that wasn’t the bet.” I told him I’d go to the police. He said, “One shall witness and one shall die. Is your son a man of his word?” He held out the token. “One shall die.”
Now it’s quiet. Da-e’s long nap begins.
Will Nicholas care? Last time we spoke, he told me he hated me. Said I was the reason he was so messed up. Said I worked too much and never truly supported him or his dreams. Guess he doesn’t remember the horsey rides.
I know I was a shitty dad, but all dads are—it’s baked into our gender. We’re cold because we know the world is cruel. We feel guilty about it, because it’s the men of the world who make it so. We cause all of the pain. We shoulder all of the pain—eat it up until it makes us sick.
But at least Nickie is out of debt, for now. But gamblers gamble, and Nicholas will play again. Oh, he’ll lose, like he always does, but he’ll play. He’ll flip that token, the one with the lidless eye on one side and the daises on the other, and he’ll lose.
The scent of pine reminds me of when Nickie was a boy; I stare up at the darkness until I’m back at the Christmas tree lot on Crow Canyon Road, paper cup filled with coffee in one hand, a Marlboro Gold in the other. A perfect Winter’s morning. Nickie wants the smallest, most pathetic-looking tree. I nod. Whatever you want, Nickie. Whatever you want and it’s yours.
There’s just enough room in this pine box to reach my hand up to my breast pocket. I fish around for my smokes and wonder if Dillan will tell Nickie how Da-e paid up.
Shelly S.
My dearest son. My baby boy. My heart. My poor, poor Christopher.
When I was a young woman and pregnant with you, my mother—your grandma—told me something horrible. She said you’d kill me one day. She said that men were hard on the world, but even harder on themselves, and that all that pain would pour out of your soul one day, as it will for all men, and destroy the people who love you. I didn’t believe her, but here we are—I’m standing over a mound of fresh soil talking to myself.
I’ve brought a shovel, but I’m not naive; I know you’re dead. Dillan told me as much. Still, I won’t let cruel men decide where your bones rest. I’ve brought help. Your cousin Jake is in the car waiting for me to give him the word. He doesn’t understand why I haven’t gone to the police. But you understand, don’t you?
Do you remember that time your father took off his belt and snapped it at you? I guess I should narrow that down a little. Do you remember the last time he snapped his belt at you? You laughed at him. He was so angry—that you should have the audacity to laugh at this threat! At him! He hit you over and over, but you wouldn’t stop laughing. Then, and I think about this a lot, he went into his office and shut the door. Never struck you again. Do you remember? Do you?
But you were a good father to Nickie. I know you don’t believe this to be true, and I know Nicholas might disagree, but you did what you felt was right for him. Sure, you were hard on the boy and worked a lot, but only because you loved him. He’ll realize that one day. I’ll make sure of it.
I’m not going to tell Nicholas I’ve moved your body. I’ll tell him you’re buried right here. I’ve brought flowers to leave on this soon-to-be empty grave. I’m taking you somewhere peaceful and Holy, Son. Somewhere to rest easy.
I know what you’re thinking: Why not tell Nicholas? Because, my sweet boy, Nick needs a monument to the pain he’s caused the world. Caused me. You’re gone because of a stupid bet he made with a cruel boy. If only Nicholas were more like you.
Christopher S.
I need to get out of here-I need to get out of here-Oh dear God, what have I done?—I need to get out of here! No-no-no-no—stay calm. Stay calm. Breathe. It’s only been thirty minutes—an hour tops. You’ve got air. Okay, that’s better. Stay calm. Yes, that’s it—in, out, in, out.
Think about Christmas. Watch the boy running through the corridors of pines, laughing and shouting. You were smaller than most of the kids your age, Nickie. But you were strong. I’m right behind you, Son. It’s crowded—don’t trip!
Be a good boy, and maybe I’ll let you have a candy cane while we watch the man tie the tree to the roof of our car. Would you like that, Nickie? It’s hot out, but I can’t seem to get my jacket off—I don’t want to spill my coffee.
Nick! Nicholas! Come hold my coffee for me! I saw your shoe, Nickie! I saw you heading around those big fir trees! I hear you laughing, Nickie! I hear you laughing and shouting and…I hear you singing! I don’t recognize that song. Is that a Christmas song, Nickie? Is that a Christmas song, Nickie? Nick? Why are you running away from me?
It’s time to pick a tree, buddy. Just need to get this jacket off. Need to get these gloves off. Need to get this goddamn scarf off—I can’t breathe with this damn thing on. Let’s get the tree and go, Nick. The firs are making me sick—I can taste them on my lips. I saw your shoe, Nickie! I saw your shoe! I know you’re right around that corner—I’m not joking anymore. Come help me, Nicholas! Come help me take this scarf from around my neck. Hold my coffee and cigarette. Help me, Son. Please—for the love of God!
Nickie, what are you holding? Open your hand. Don’t make me ask again—what do you have in your hand, Nicholas? Daisies? Where did you get those? Yes, they’re nice flowers. But where did you find them? That mound over there? Son, that’s a grave. Someone is buried there. Someone…oh dear God…dear God no…
Dillan! Dillan, I’ve changed my mind! Dillan! The coin wants Nicholas! The coin decides, Dillan! We don’t get to decide! The coin decides! You were right all along!
Get off my back, Nicholas! You’re too heavy now! Your arms are choking me! You’re choking me! I can’t breathe!
Nicholas S.
Goddamn you, Dad. You had no right…
And now look, you’re dead. You think this means I’ll live forever? I’ll be dead soon enough. So this sacrifice, it won’t be worth shit. I’m going to kill that mother-fucker. I swear it. He had no right to change the terms—the bet was between him and me. ‘One shall witness and one shall die.’ My life or Dillan’s. No proxies. No pinch hitters. The terms were simple.
Do you know how hard it is for me to stand here knowing that you died for my sins? You’ve always been a reluctant Jesus, haven’t you? My begrudging savior. You’ve never understood sin—not my kind of sin. I never hurt anyone…not intentionally. My sin is as clean as your sin. Vanilla sin, is what it is. Sin as fine-grained as baby powder. You worked too much, and I play too much. You smoked too much, I gamble. You bore the world on your shoulders like Hercules giving Atlas a breather, and I…I was that world. The heaviest boulder you could shoot out of your dick, right?
So now what? I visit you here every Sunday at the church of regret? I’m just…I don’t know what to do with any of this. I’ve been trying to remember the good times…but it’s hard. I remember walking on your back as a kid….and…riding you like a horse. When did that stop?
The flowers Grandma left on your grave smell like piss. This brown-sugar-soil was meant for me.
I walk back to the truck and sit in the cab, taking in the scent of vinyl upholstery and the surrounding pines in small sips. I consider my life and watch plump droplets of water explode on the windshield. I stick my hand in my pocket and feel the token, turning it, running my finger over the embossed daisies. The eye. Daisies. Eye…
Half an hour later, I grab the shovel from the back of the truck, kick the flowers from our mound of dirt, and dig.
I need to see your face one last time—to tell you how much I hate you, and to confess how I’ll always love you more than anyone I’ll ever know. My exalted father.
When the shovel scrapes the lid of the coffin, I stand there staring at the exposed wood. It feels as if it might pop off on its own, but it doesn’t. It won’t.
It smells like Christmas; it’s the pine wood; it’s your cigarettes.
I say a prayer.
Dear God in heaven. God of mercy. God of luck. God of pity? Please hear me. The last time I reached out to you, you didn’t answer my call, but hey, maybe you were busy not saving children from being blown up by bombs overseas? Maybe you were out not saving women from being raped? Maybe you were off giving rich men more wealth and letting the poor starve? But maybe—if I ask really nicely—you’ll hear me today.
I’ve been thinking about you a lot lately, God. I’ve been thinking about what it would take for you to intervene, and I think I’ve worked it out. I’d like to propose a bet—I know you enjoy those! That’s the entire reason we humans are stuck here on Earth, right? So, here’s the deal, God: Let’s flip? What do you say? If it lands on the eye, I open this coffin and find Dad’s dead body—I shall witness the horror. But, if it lands on daises, then the coffin is empty.
I know what you’re thinking: what’s in it for Me? Well, God, if the coffin is empty, I’ll get in—one shall die. You still get your pint of blood. What do you say?
…
I’ll take that silence to mean you accept these terms.
I fetch the token from my pocket, take a breath, then flip it. I catch it in mid-toss and slap it to the back of my wrist.
Daisies.
I reach down, pop open the lid, and lift. One shall witness, one shall die.
Prompts used:
The Bargain
A deal struck under duress. The cost is greater than the reward.
The Offering
A gift or sacrifice that changes everything.
The Threshold
Crossing into a place you can’t cross back from.
Buried Alive
What refuses to stay dead.
Heart-stopping and absolutely amazing, a Möbius strip pain and anger and generational grief. LOVED. THIS!
Bloody hell, Sean! You are a fantastic writer. This took my breath away, very well done.