The Last Flag

by Mike Mayak

It was just past noon when Jorge switched off the radio and said “They’re coming.”

“Should we hide?” Ty said, fingering the wedding band that matched Jorge’s.

“No. Not hide. Not today,” Jorge said. “We hide, they think they’ve won.”

Jorge went over to the closet and pulled out a large rainbow flag on a pole.

“We make ourselves obvious,” Jorge said. “Even if we’re the last.”

It took a few minutes but Jorge and Ty had tightened the screws in the bracket on the column of the front porch of their bungalow by the river in the heart of town. The pole with its rainbow banner was soon sticking out defiantly from the house, the flag swaying gently in the breeze.

Jorge and Ty stood in the yard, Tyler’s arm around Jorge’s shoulders, watching the flag.

“I forgot to show you,” Ty said. “I found a pic online that I think is of this house from way back when, about the 2020s with a Pride Flag hanging from the upper window and a bunch of guys standing on the porch glaring into the camera.”

“Probably waiting for neo-nuts to come marching down the street.” Jorge said. “That pic might have been from the first Defiance Day, like they announce over the radio every year.”

“Nobody marching down this dead-end street today,” Ty said. “Let’s get a…hey!”

Ty laughed and pointed. Two kids, looking barely into their teens, rounded the curve with it’s shock of trees and biked up to the driveway.

“What’s with the flags?” one of the kids said. “See em all over the street.”

“You mean you don’t know?” Jorge asked.

The kids shook their heads. Ty and Jorge grinned at each other.

“Well it’s like this,” Ty said. “About fifty years ago…”

—end—