the collector

by Karen Schauber

He arrived in the dead of night. After the busses stopped running. After the taxis quit. Trudging in the snow. His beard steepled with piercing icicles. He stood in the doorway like death. Eyes a deep endless black. Legs like brutalist architecture. The bleak winter canvas inhospitable. Papa did not let him in. Led him to the shed out back. Mama heated up bouillon cubes. A tattered blanket to cover his torso. He’d come to collect fees, long overdue fees, fees from a previous generation we didn’t know was owed. He’d wait till morning, he said. Our father pacing in his pyjamas and slippers. Until he showed me the long gun. Said it was time I learned how to take care of things – rough justice. The man stood in the doorway again. His eyes blurry-grey like a tombstone. I lifted the barrel, heavier than a burden. My father falling too quickly. Blood running like a river. The man turned to go. The debt paid.  

Photo of Karen Schauber

BIO: Karen Schauber’s flash fiction appears in over 100 journals, magazines, and anthologies. Her stories have received nominations for the Pushcart Prize, Best Small Fictions, Best Microfiction, and the Wigleaf Top 50. Schauber curates Vancouver Flash Fiction - an online resource hub, and in her spare time is a seasoned family therapist. Read her at: https://KarenSchauberCreative.weebly.com