Flash Fiction
$25 Prize
by Sara A. Lewis
There’s lots to do when you bleed out your baby.
When you feel the jelly of it in your panties seeping out
onto a brand new pair of Lululemon Enlighten Crops.

The first thing isn’t to call your partner and tell her it didn’t
work. Again. The first thing isn’t to think about the
doubled-over pain you ignored at breakfast. The first
thing isn’t even to think about your loss. How in the next
week it would have grown from the size of a grape to the
size of a kumquat. How in about a month your
it would
have been a he or a she. The anniversary of fingernails.
The mourning of lungs. That’s all later.

The actual first thing is to find a place to clean your baby
off of yourself. You don’t plan to look too closely,
because you don’t need to see what you already know.

You’re walking Oreo, your black and white border collie
through town. A town that yesterday felt so delightfully
devoid of clutter, but now has no safe place to offer you.
You’re near the corner of Second Avenue and Maple
where there’s a fancier version of a 7-11, a café, and the
public library. You don’t want to do this in the Stop-In,
even if they don’t make you check out a key. You don’t
want to have to ask the hostess at the café to use the
restroom and have her look at you like “Why didn’t you go
before you left the house?” You’re not a child. You don’t
want her to put that word on the tip of your brain.

So you tie Oreo up near the book deposit outside the
library. You find the restroom and look for other shoes in
that gap between the stalls and the floor. You’ll wait for
the lady in brown leather Clarks to finish her business in
the handicap stall. And when she opens the door you
shuffle by so close to her that your shoulders graze. You
wait inside the stall for her to wash up, but she doesn’t.
She just walks right out.

When you see what a mess
it is, you realize it’s going to
be easiest to take your shoes off, then your pants, and
just throw the panties away. You step back into your
shoes and dart out bottomless to the bathroom sink to
wet some paper towels. With bunched up underwear in
one hand, you use the other to wipe yourself out, paying
close attention to the red stains at the tops of your thighs.
These are stubborn.

You wrap your soiled undies in toilet paper and rest them
on the bar that runs along the side of the stall. You step
out of your shoes again, then slide those compression
pants back on. They feel weirdly cool around your ass
with nothing between the nylon blend and your skin.

You lace up your trainers and you’re ready to go. You
can’t go, though. Not yet. You sit right down on the toilet
and look at the wadded up ball of baby on the handrail.

It occurs to you that you are about to be a woman who
leaves her baby in a bathroom. You’re going to have to
flush it down the toilet. Maybe leave it with the used pads
and tampons. You’re obviously not the kind of person
they talk about on the news. You know this. Intellectually.
You know this.

You look over at that metal waste basket mounted on the
wall. A string hovers just above it. The kind of string you’d
pull on to open the shades, let some light in. You follow
this string to a sign above telling you to pull if you need

This isn’t a decision you thought you’d be making today.

A voice blares from an overhead speaker, reverberating
from all the metal pieces jutting from the tiled wall. “Will
the owner of the white and black dogs please come to
the front desk? Will the owner of the white and black
dogs please come to the circulation desk?”

And you think
dogs? But I tied up just the one.

This is the next thing.

Sara A. Lewis is a doctoral candidate in fiction at the University of
Southern Mississippi's Center for Writers. She received her MFA from
Western Connecticut State University. She has been an Assistant
Editor for the Mississippi Review, and is currently the Managing Editor
of the Memorious blog and an editorial assistant for the magazine. Her
work can be found in FORTH, Black & White, and elsewhere.