HONORABLE MENTION, Winter 2024
The Screw Turn Flash Fiction Competition
BY ROBERT GARNER McBREARTY
The four of us had played football together in high school, and for 20 years now we’d met once a month on Sunday mornings at the old high school field to play touch football, two on two. The field was quiet then and we had it to ourselves. In earlier years, we’d gone out for beers afterwards, but now with wives and kids at home, we just went out for coffee.
As I said, it was supposed to be touch football, but now and then the old instincts kicked in and things could get a little rough. Ed and I were usually the peacekeepers because Stan and Chuck were hot-headed and had a kind of ongoing grudge match.
On this particular cool autumn morning, I’d thrown a short pass to Stan. He caught it, turned upfield, hip-faked at Chuck, who had been a linebacker. Maybe it was because Stan had burned him twice already for touchdowns that day, or maybe it was because Stan had a bigger house and a better car and a prettier wife and smarter kids, but instead of going for the touch, Chuck lowered his head and tackled Stan. I mean he hammered the poor guy, hit him at the waistline, drove him back and slammed him to the hard earth.
Stan lay there, motionless, eyes closed, as we stood above him and stared down in concern and then squatted over him, touching his shoulders, then shaking him a little.
Not cool, Chuck, Ed said, not cool at all.
Stan opened his eyes, sputtered, rose shakily and glared at Chuck. What the hell is wrong with you, man?
Chuck wasn’t much at apologies, but he gave a kind of guilty chuckle and muttered Sorry, I got carried away.
Stan touched his ear. His brow creased with alarm. I think something is wrong here, he said. A moment later his left ear separated from his head and fell to the ground.
We all, including Stan, stared down at the ear. What the hell, Ed said.
Guys? Stan said nervously. Then his other ear fell off. He stared at us in horror, wanting us to do something. I suppose we stared back at him in horror.
I really am sorry about this man, Chuck said.
Stan pitched forward and his head fell off and rolled and came to a stop a few feet from us.
God, I’m sorry, Chuck said.
Then we noticed the wires and steel column in the neck where Stan’s head had been. Ed bent over and puked.
Stan’s a . . . Stan’s a fucking robot, Chuck said.
We processed this for a bit. Maybe there’s another explanation, I said.
Like what? Chuck demanded. I don’t see how he could be anything but a robot.
Ed had stopped puking. Like a bionic man, he said. Like he was blown up, like that guy in that show, and they rebuilt him.
That was just an arm, Chuck said. This guy is missing his whole fucking head.
We looked at each other. Wow, do you think Cindy and his kids know? I asked.
Ed’s lip quivered. What if . . . what if they’re robots too?
Of course they’re robots, Chuck said. I knew they were too good of a family. Nothing but fucking robots.
Stop it! Ed, said. This is Stan, this is Stan, he’s not just a robot.
How do we tell Cindy? I asked.
We can’t tell her, Ed said. It would kill Cindy.
We bury him, Chuck said.
Bury him? I asked.
Sure, if he’s some sort of government experiment and we report it, it will be our asses. They’ll disappear us to keep us from telling anybody.
Bury Stan? Ed said, bury Stan? This is all wrong guys. It’s still Stan. I don’t think he ever knew he was a robot. He stared at us in alarm. What if . . .
Don’t say it, I said, don’t say it.
But he said it. What if, what if we’re all robots and we don’t know it?
Keep your head on, Chuck said. Keep your fucking head on! We’re not robots! I’m not a robot! I’m not a robot. His voice cracked. He was near tears. Oh my God, look!
Stan was crawling forward. First, he retrieved his ears, stuck them back onto his head lying there face down on the grass. Then he lifted his head in both hands. He slipped it onto his neck and twisted it into place. There was a sound like an internal motor whirring, after which Stan stood up and looked at us. He blinked. Crap, Chuck, he said, you trying to kill me or what? Touch, man, it’s touch. He picked up the ball.
What? Stan said. What’s wrong with you guys? He tossed the ball to me. I held it for a moment, then tossed it to Ed. He looked at it, then tossed it to Chuck.
Shit, Chuck said, let’s play ball. Screw those hip fakes of yours, Stan, they don’t fool anybody.
The game resumed, just like old times, just like the way we’d played for 20 years. Pretty soon Chuck was snorting and grumbling and knocking the rest of us around and pretty soon Stan was just Stan, the same guy we’d known all our lives.
Robert Garner McBrearty is the author of five books of fiction, with a new collection of short stories forthcoming from University of New Mexico Press. He’s been awarded a Pushcart Prize, a Sherwood Anderson Foundation Fiction Award, and fellowships from MacDowell and the Fine Arts Work Center. His stories have appeared widely including in The Missouri Review, StoryQuarterly, New England Review, Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine, Narrative,Fiction International, North American Review and New Flash Fiction Review.