Sweat Stains | Flash Fiction

Caleb stood on the sidewalk, the weak sunlight of a dreary fall afternoon barely warming him. Even the color looked disappointed, he thought. Plaster crumbling, stairs lopsided. The house was yellow. Normally yellow houses were cheery; speaking of sweet smelling mothers working in the garden and fathers that came home from work every day and read stories to you before bed. The boy nudged a loose stone in the weedy walkway. This yellow walled shack of a house gave no promise of any of that. It was a dead color, a color that didn’t care about you or your sick mother. Caleb just stood there, refusing to take another step forward. He hated the color. Hated the cracked terra cotta roof. But most of all, he hated the man whom he’d never seen, who lived behind these putrid colored walls. A curtain moved; the front door opened. “Are you Caleb?” The man asked. Caleb only nodded, eyes fixed on the yellow stains on the man’s wrinkled tank. He realized the sweat stains matched the color of the exterior walls exactly; like the whole house was some unwashed garment in the armpit of fate. “How’s your mother doing?”

“Good,” Caleb lied.

“That’s nice.” The man offered no smile, so Caleb gave none in return. “Well, you just gonna stand there all day?” Yes, thought Caleb.