Flash Fiction | “Little Trophies” | Michelle Kelm
A car crash. An onlooker’s anxiety. Trophies of her ineptitude.
Little Trophies | Michelle Kelm | michellekelm.com
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I wanted to drop my grocery bag on the curb and run to the smaller car, the older model Toyota, its front end crumpled like a paper bag. I wanted to run to the aid of the grey-haired woman who was visibly shaken but not visibly injured, hands over her mouth, unsure of whether to get out of her car or not. I wanted to kneel down next to her open door, to take her hand in mine, to ask if she was okay, had she hit her head, was she dizzy. I wanted to say don’t get up just yet, catch your breath, does anything hurt, help will be here soon. I wanted to look at her, straight into her eyes, and let her know she’d be alright. But I was worried that she’d look back at me and narrow her eyes. That she’d slide her hand away, leaving mine empty, with nothing to hold. I was worried someone else would run faster, get there first, and I’d be left breathless in the middle of a wreck, my meal replacement bars spilled onto the sidewalk, everyone wondering what the hell I was doing.
I wanted to call 911 and report the accident, two cars, one pulling onto a busy street, poor visibility, a tough spot for a left turn, the other going too fast, certainly speeding, I’m sure of it. I wanted to be calm and clear, to give accurate details. But I was sure someone else was already calling and I’d just clog up the line. I was sure someone started dialling as soon as the tires squealed and the glass fell like ice in a warm front. The operator would be annoyed at another call about the same accident. I might be the third, fourth even. I’d hear it in their voice.
I wanted to help the old man sweep the debris from the intersection. He’d come out of the barbershop with a push broom and worked methodically in neat lines. He was used to pushing hair across linoleum, and the tiny slivers of glass on the rough concrete fought him, springing into the air like mist under a waterfall. He rested often, and I thought about offering a hand, suggesting he sit down and I’d do the work for him. But I didn’t know if he’d be insulted. If he would think I was suggesting him incapable of the assistance that he so freely provided. That he might scowl and shake his head at me, certain I must be too senseless to identify my own way to be useful.
I wanted to comfort the passenger from the other car, the newer model SUV. She was probably the girlfriend or wife of the driver, the tall man who was pacing, gripping the back of his neck, uttering profanities. The passenger, the woman, was now sitting on the curb, her knees to her chest, face buried. I wanted to sit next to her, to ask what she needed. I could go in the corner store I was standing in front of and buy her a bottle of water, a package of tissues, but I thought maybe she’d think that was stupid or the ambulance would arrive while I was in the store and they’d wrap her in a blanket and give her water and tissues, leaving me to walk home carrying water and tissues that I didn’t need, left to sit on my kitchen table. How many days would I stare at them for? Little trophies of my ineptitude.
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Michelle Kelm is a Vancouver-based writer and professional dog-mom. She has an MFA in creative writing from the University of British Columbia and is currently working on a collection of flash fiction and prose poetry. She received an honourable mention in Room’s 2017 Fiction Contest and was shortlisted in Glass Buffalo’s 2017 Short Fiction Contest. Check her out at michellekelm.com
A previous version of this story appeared on Word and Colour.
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“Little Trophies” appears in our anthology Release Any Words Stuck Inside of You. Sign up to our newsletter to get a free sample!
