Assistant Editor Lily Meyer: Abbie Barker’s “Snowfall” uses plain, relaxed language and subtle humor as decoys, drawing the reader’s attention from the utter weirdness of its plot. As a result, it manages to pack a lot of surprise into very few words — and some uncanniness, too.
Click below to hear Barker reading the piece:
Snowfall
By the time we left the store, it was already shin deep. My son and I lugged armfuls of groceries through the parking lot. Enough to restock the pantry. Enough to last a week. But the snow pelted us, stung our cheeks, left welts. My son trembled and dropped a bag of cold cuts. I didn’t have the strength to pick it up. I sheltered his face with my scarf, and we stumbled to the car.
Traffic limped. Four miles took four hours. We snacked on pretzel crisps. My son peed his pants. I nearly drove off two bridges—road and sky a blinding white. I couldn’t tell what direction we were headed. Maybe toward our house, maybe somewhere else. “Right or left?” I asked my son. He always said “right.”
We dug through the groceries. The bread had begun to mold. “How long have we been inside this car?” my son asked.
I glanced at the rearview. He looked taller, his voice a note deeper. “I really don’t know,” I said.
We turned down a street faintly resembling ours, a shadow of what we once knew. “I’m tired,” my son said. We could only make out the shapes of roofs, the indistinct outlines of cars.
“Just a little longer,” I said. We came to a halt inside a canopy of white. We feasted on crumbs.
Later, the snow melted, and a neighborhood emerged. Grass grew. Birds sang. We left the car and wandered toward a house that reminded us of home, but nobody was around. We drifted through an unlocked door and found half-familiar beds. “Should we call Dad?” my son asked.
“Yes,” I said, “just as soon as we rest.” We closed our eyes and slept, our dreams as white and blank as snow.
Abbie Barker lives with her husband and two kids in New Hampshire. Her flash fiction has appeared in Hobart, Monkeybicycle, Pithead Chapel, Atticus Review, and others. She teaches creative writing and is a reader for Fractured Lit. You can find her on Twitter @AbbieMBarker.
