Runner-up, 2026 Contest for Flash CNF
All my friends are over. Like it’s my birthday, only it’s not. Fourth grade ends this week and summer is almost here. We skip rocks on the lake. We kick the soccer ball around. We play endless rounds of tag, weaving through the people gathering at the house.
The grownups talk quietly, giving each other hugs. They walk towards our backyard where a bunch of chairs and a microphone are set up. Where I’ll need to go soon to sit with my family.
Winded from running, Sam and I take a break from tag behind the garage. Aren’t you sad that your dad died? His deep brown eyes catch mine.
The first time we hung out, maybe a year ago, Sam and I played catch with a Nerf football. His throws were really good and I could always catch them, but Sam said sorry whenever a throw was even a bit off. I told him he didn’t need to, that my throws weren’t perfect either, but he would just shrug and say sorry again. I liked him right away.
Yeah, I respond.
I’m sorry, he says.
I’ve heard that a lot in the last few days, but with Sam it’s different. A tightness in my throat starts to build. I look down at my white Nikes, unsure what to say.
Then a tap on my shoulder. You’re it! Sam says as he bolts away. I smile and chase after him, my feet light as summer.
Noah Lane Browne is a full-time lawyer, part-time yoga instructor, and some-time gardener. Tomatoes, mostly. His work appears in Unbroken, The Good Life Review, Qu, Disco Kitchen, Voices, and others. He lives in Washington, D.C., with his badass wife, miraculous newborn, and intemperate cat. Get in touch at noahbrownewrites@gmail.com.
Image Credit: Flickr Creative Commons/Ishmael McGumphrey
