Three is my favourite number. But after that candle-incident, it’s now four.
There are four candles in my cake. Mom and Dad want me to blow them all. I didn’t. Mom shouted, but not at me. She cried, wailed on the floor while I group the pasta strands in three, silently. She went inside their room then went out with her four-wheel bag. She hugged me tight. She said sorry and I love you, four times each. She left.
I think her favorite number is four.
Dad hugged me, told me not to cry. I didn’t. I can’t count my tears. I don’t like things I can’t count. Just like my mouth don’t like words it cannot say, which is all.
24 days after, mom’s still not home but I am happy. ‘Cause for the first time, Dad and I went out of the house. I can’t look at people’s eyes but I am amazed to see the long staircase. Excited to count them, I run and climbed up, up and up. I am in 44th step when I looked back.
I can’t see Dad.
Maybe his favourite number is five.
Word count: 190
©2016 Rosemawrites@A Reading Writer. All Rights Reserved.
Photo credit: Louise of Storyteller’s Abode
In response to Flash Fiction for Aspiring Writers (FFfAW) March 08, 2016.
- a flash fiction challenge (stories in 100-175 words or less)
- each story should have a beginning, a middle, and an end
- no serial (continuation) stories
- include a pingback to the challenge post
Thank you for a beautiful prompt, Priceless Joy! ❤