Fiction · Flash Fiction
Four Ways to Leave a Screened-In Porch
A quartet of very short stories, each under a page, each ending with a mosquito.
One. She stood up, said she would be right back, and walked to the car. She did not come back. Later, they found the porch light still on and, on the screen, a single mosquito, considering.
Two. He said he had forgotten something inside. He went inside. Inside, he stood in the kitchen for a long time, holding a glass of water he had not filled, and thought about whether he wanted to go back out. He did not. On the porch, a mosquito found the empty chair.
Three. The dog got out through the ripped panel of the screen. The child followed the dog. The mother followed the child. The father, who had been asleep in the chair, opened his eyes to an empty porch, a torn screen, and, on his forearm, a mosquito.
Four. No one left. It was a good evening. They sat on the porch until the citronella burned down and the ice melted and the last of the light went out of the Gulf. Then, at the very end of the evening, so late it was almost early, a single mosquito landed on the back of her hand. She let it stay.