Flash Fiction: St. Ubaldo Day

Earlier this year, I listened to a podcast about Flash Fiction. The idea of “flash” fiction is to write a complete story, in as concise a way, in less than 1,000 words. I was up for the challenge.

I’d been playing with the idea of a story — maybe a short story, maybe a novel — revolving around a young man who returns to his hometown, and people mistakenly question if he is the messiah based on a number of “miraculous” acts he performs.

I thought a particular part of the story worked within the constraints of “flash” fiction, and so I put my fingers and mind to the test. Just a warning, this story contains images and references to suicide.

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If you’re thinking about suicide, are worried about a friend or loved one, or would like emotional support, the 988 Lifeline network is available 24/7 across the United States.

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Saturday of Memorial Day weekend. If a bird, and you flew overhead you’d see a highway cutting through this part of the mountains in Northeastern Pennsylvania, all thanks to imminent domain. If you looked closer off to the left, you’d see a small town, its narrow streets lined with people, back and front yards filled with games of beer pong, corn hole, kegs of beer, and old Italian women called “Nonna,” carrying out overflowing platters of food and heaping bowls of macaroni salad.

A traditional joyful day in Jessup. The beginning of summer. And summer romances.

If you were able to look inside the house second in from the top of the hill on Church Street, you’d find a man, around 30, sitting on the edge of the bed, the barrel of a loaded rifle in his right hand, the butt of the gun on the house’s original wooden floor. His left hand holds his head, intermittently rubbing it, like he’s trying to wake himself or free himself from a cobweb he’s just walked through.

ST. UBALDO DAY: The traditional gathering in Jessup, Pa. for the Race of the Saints. / Source: City-Data.com

The festive gathering in the streets is for the race of the saints: Anthony, George, and most importantly, Ubaldo, the namesake for this neighborhood gathering, which dates back to the town’s original Italian immigrants, who made the voyage from Gubbio.

And while an entire town, and thousands from towns all over greet each other following the hibernation of winter, rubbing shoulders, slapping backs, hugging, kissing, smiling, rolling eyes, and taking selfies, one man spends his last remaining minutes in his boyhood bedroom, contemplating the end of his life.

BANG! BANG! BANG!

“Are you in there?” His mother pounds on the door. Loud. Italian.