Lit Up | FLASH FICTION

Swallowed by a Whale

A hoarder’s deadline to declutter fast approaches

Photo by Anita Jankovic on Unsplash

She lights a Winston Menthol cigarette and, with a deep inhale, holds the smoke for a few seconds before coughing it out. She looks around the room and says, “I can’t let any of you go.”

Lillian is a kind yet troubled woman who will lose her apartment if she doesn’t get rid of her enormous clutter. “It’s a fire hazard,” the landlord said.

But where to put it all? Her garage is full, and she can’t afford storage. Some days, she moves the piles around, as if that would make a difference. Other days, she wallows in the chaos. She sees her clutter as a collection with a life of its own, an alter ego, or, as some would say, an evil twin.

With the deadline fast approaching, she’s made no progress. She can’t part with memories, remnants of childhood, artifacts from loved ones, and snapshots she promised never to discard. That kettle still in the box means something personal. So does the Betty Boop figurine she received from a friend. The flower vase, even though she doesn’t like flowers, is priceless. And all those socks, gloves, and old TV Guides she never discarded will come in handy one day.

Time is running out. The landlord has threatened to evict her. She has until 5 pm. Perhaps if she temporarily stores her belongings in her neighbor’s garage, she could bring them all back when the landlord leaves.

She knocks on her neighbor’s door. “Eleanor? It’s Lillian. I have an emergency and need your help. Please open the door.”

She must be in there. The light is on, and Lillian can hear the TV. Sometimes Eleanor doesn’t answer. She says she’s hard of hearing, but she answers the door when her family visits.

Lillian paces and thinks. Crying worked last time. She’ll remind the landlord what happened to her son, and he’ll feel sorry for her. She’ll promise him anything and never complain about the plumbing, the termites, or the annual rent increase. If she has to get on her knees and beg, she’ll do it, hoping he’ll show her mercy.

The piles are like skyscrapers that reach the ceiling. They’re stacked in the dining room and spill into the kitchen. They block the sunlight from the windows and create a maze that Lillian can barely navigate. The only sound she hears is the “cu-coo” of the cuckoo clock.

After some searching, she finds a narrow path and slides sideways past the boxes of encyclopedias and her son’s old army clothes. Once seated, she lights another cigarette and prays her landlord won’t show up. He had a triple bypass last year. Maybe he’ll keel over from another heart attack. She hates herself for thinking that way.

Her cell phone rings. It’s the landlord. She doesn’t answer. He left a message saying he’s coming early, at 4 pm. That’s only an hour away.

The smoke from her cigarette curls into a swirl and drifts toward the ceiling. She sits in a tattered chair, choking on smoke and on the dusty piles of her dysfunction. She feels paralyzed.

Lillian lights another cigarette. Her only plan is to keep the landlord out of the apartment. She’ll chain the door and stack a few boxes against it. No matter what he threatens, she won’t let him in.

She closes her eyes for a while as the cigarette burns down to ash between her fingers.

At 3:55 pm, a loud knock rouses her from a doze. The landlord bangs on the door several times because the doorbell doesn’t work. “Lillian!” he hollers at the top of his lungs. She pulls her legs to her chest and closes her eyes. He knocks louder and kicks the door in frustration. Before he leaves, the landlord slips the eviction notice under the door.

“Next time, I’m bringing the cops!”

Lillian holds a stuffed animal her father won for her at a carnival as she smokes the last of her menthol cigarettes. She lets her clutter swallow her, trapped inside a whale like Jonah.

© 2026 Mark Tulin

— Many thanks to Lit Up and its readers.