Review of "Long Division" by Micky O’Brady

Score: 93+/100 (9.3+ out of 10)

Wow! What a wonderfully thought-provoking and fascinating short-story by previous OCA champion Micky O'Brady!

Consider this: When was the last time someone really pissed you off? Like REALLY got on your nerves.

When was the last time you got into a heated argument with someone? Chances are it was a household member, a friend, a sibling, a spouse, or a partner. These people have a tendancy to get under our skin. They know which buttons to press. Which strings to pull.

Or maybe it was a stranger. Someone cut you off on the road. Or maybe someone was rude to you at the grocery store.

Has the thought ever crossed your mind of doing something completely reprehensible and unspeakable in retribution? But you're not a bad person. You're not a murderer (we hope). You would never, ever do anything like that. Right?... RIGHT?!

Or would you?

What if it didn't have to be bloody or violent? What if the law would never know because all traces of that person would instantly cease to exist? What if you could just say a word, close your eyes, make a wish, or snap your fingers, then make that problematic person go away forever?

Would you use that power? Abuse it?

Most of us have experienced a thought like that during a moment of frustration. We usually calm down, move on, and continue living alongside the loud, inconsiderate, stubborn, and imperfect people who populate the world.

Micky O’Brady’s Long Division turns that familiar flash of irritation into an outstanding, unsettling, and increasingly horrifying speculative story about emotional neglect, suppressed anger, unchecked power, and the dangerous desire to create a world without friction.

The saying goes "You can't change and control other people, you can only change and control yourself." Well, what if you had the power to do the former? To not only change and control, but to complete erase?

The story follows Melissa, an intelligent and observant middle-aged woman who has gradually become invisible within her own life. Her husband, Gary, rarely listens to her, dismisses her interests, speaks over her, and treats her minor mistakes as personal failures. He is not portrayed as a theatrical villain. He does not scream, threaten Melissa, or behave violently. Instead, his cruelty is quiet, ordinary, and deeply ingrained in their marriage.

This makes Gary’s behavior especially effective and realistic. His individual actions may appear relatively minor when separated from one another, but their accumulation has reduced Melissa to someone who apologizes automatically, keeps the house meticulously organized, and rehearses simple conversations before daring to begin them.

We see this dynamic immediately at a neighborhood barbecue. The guests begin discussing the proposed Elmfield Cutthrough, a highway expansion threatening the Morrow Creek wetlands. While most of the attendees are only partially informed, Melissa has actually studied the issue. She has read the environmental impact filings, researched wetland buffer zones, followed the county’s revisions, and learned about migratory patterns.

For once, people begin listening to her. Then Gary steps directly in front of Melissa, dismisses her concerns, and confidently takes control of the conversation despite knowing considerably less than she does.

Later that evening, Melissa tries to tell Gary that she wants to return to pottery. She threw pots in college, possessed real talent, and even sold some of her work. The memory of creating something that strangers valued remains one of the most meaningful experiences of her life, and she wants to rediscover that part of herself. Melissa brings Gary a beer and begins explaining the nearby pottery studio and its Tuesday and Thursday evening classes. Gary remains glued to his phone and responds with what the story memorably calls a “nothingness” of a sound. To confirm that he is not listening, Melissa abruptly tells him they are out of beer.

Gary makes the exact same sound. Melissa does not explode in anger. She has already exhausted her anger over years of being ignored and diminished. Instead, she experiences something colder and quieter, then thinks five simple words: “I wish he wasn’t here.”

When Melissa opens her eyes, Gary’s chair is empty. He has not simply walked out of the room. His coats are gone, his telephone number has disappeared from Melissa’s contacts, and their neighbor does not remember ever knowing a man named Gary. Reality has almost completely removed him.

The only apparent remnant is a heavy ceramic mug bearing the logo of Gary’s favorite football team, the Razors. The mug remains in Melissa’s kitchen like a physical ghost, an object the rewritten world was somehow unable to erase.

We love the way O’Brady uses this mug throughout the story. Melissa hides it, retrieves it, moves it around the house, washes it, and preserves it despite claiming to feel liberated by Gary’s absence. It becomes a subtle representation of the history, guilt, and emotional residue that cannot be eliminated merely by removing a person.

Because Melissa’s father had schizophrenia, she initially worries that Gary’s disappearance may be evidence that she is losing contact with reality. She attends an already scheduled appointment with Dr. Mellor and responsibly explains that she has experienced confusion, memory disruption, and perceptual disturbances.

Dr. Mellor barely listens. He calls her Marissa, looks at his tablet while she speaks, dismisses her family history, attributes her concerns to her age, and recommends yoga.

Melissa tells him that she needs to be taken seriously. He still refuses to listen. She wishes him away, too.

These first two disappearances are cleverly constructed because Gary and Dr. Mellor have genuinely mistreated Melissa. Readers may understand her frustration and even experience a brief sense of satisfaction when the two men vanish. O’Brady then uses that satisfaction against us as Melissa begins applying the same irreversible punishment to increasingly minor offenses.

The story’s first major moral turning point occurs at a grocery store. Melissa is deciding whether to purchase the last package of thick-cut bacon when a stranger reaches around her, brushes her arm, takes the package without acknowledging her, and walks away. His behavior is unquestionably rude, but it is also an ordinary violation of social etiquette. Melissa wishes him away, picks the bacon up from the floor, and places it into her basket.

A store employee soon removes the man’s abandoned shopping cart. Inside are children’s cold medicine, birthday candles, and a decorated cake reading, “Happy Birthday, Samantha.”

In only a few carefully chosen objects, O’Brady reveals an entire unseen network of consequences. The story never identifies Samantha or explains her precise relationship to the man, but the implication is devastating. Someone may be waiting for him to return with medicine, candles, and a birthday cake.

Melissa knew the man only through several seconds of inconsiderate behavior, yet she assumed that this single moment provided enough information to judge the value of his entire existence.

The bacon scene is one of the strongest sequences in Long Division. It marks the moment when Melissa’s power stops resembling an escape from emotional mistreatment and becomes something far more dangerous. She is no longer removing only the people who have repeatedly harmed or dismissed her. She is beginning to erase anyone who inconveniences her.
At the same time, Melissa’s life genuinely improves after Gary’s disappearance. She returns to pottery, cooks meals Gary would have criticized, selects her own radio station, reads in peace, and begins creating again. Her instructor, Deb, immediately recognizes her natural ability and encourages her to continue.

These scenes make Melissa’s transformation more complicated and believable. She does not become happier because she enjoys destroying people. She becomes happier because, for the first time in years, she possesses the freedom to rediscover herself.

Pottery becomes the emotional heart of the story. It represents creation, patience, imperfection, identity, and growth. Melissa is happiest when she is working with clay and shaping something through her own effort. However, her supernatural power offers her a very different way of shaping the world. Rather than patiently working with resistance, she simply removes anything that does not conform to her preferred design.

Melissa briefly demonstrates that she can control herself when Diana, a somewhat irritating classmate, offers unsolicited advice. The familiar wish begins forming, but Melissa stops it. She feels proud of her restraint, then recognizes how disturbing it is to congratulate herself merely because she did not erase another person.

That restraint gradually disappears as Melissa’s ambitions grow. Eight county commissioners approve the Elmfield Cutthrough despite the threat it poses to the Morrow Creek wetlands. The location carries significant emotional weight for Melissa because her father took her there as a child. She remembers the birds, the unusual green of the water, and the feeling of holding his hand.

Melissa visualizes the eight commissioners using their names and photographs from the county website, then wishes all of them away. The next news report announces that the three remaining commissioners have halted construction pending a full environmental review. The wetlands receive protected status, and the environmental budget is more than doubled.

Melissa realizes that her power can do more than improve her personal life. It can reshape society.

She soon begins erasing entire categories of people. She removes those who knowingly reject environmental evidence for profit or convenience. After witnessing a customer treat a hardware-store employee named Brianna with contempt, Melissa wishes away everyone who has never considered what it costs another person to remain quiet and smile while being mistreated.

The world becomes noticeably smaller, but it also appears kinder. Strangers hold doors, make eye contact, help one another, and cooperate. Legislation advances, stalled agreements move forward, and public discourse becomes less combative.

Melissa interprets these changes as proof that she is saving the world. This is where the title becomes especially clever. Melissa is performing a form of long division upon humanity. She divides people into acceptable and unacceptable, compassionate and cruel, informed and ignorant, worthy and unworthy. Every new irritation causes her definition of an unacceptable person to expand.

The problem is not that every person Melissa removes is innocent of wrongdoing. Many are rude, selfish, dismissive, destructive, or cruel. The problem is that Melissa appoints herself the sole authority on who deserves to exist.

She leaves no room for context, remorse, education, forgiveness, or change. A person’s worst decision or most inconsiderate moment becomes the only evidence she needs.

During a movie, a man several rows behind Melissa talks loudly and ruins an emotionally powerful scene. Melissa begins thinking about everyone who acts as though their own experience matters more than anyone else’s. Her thoughts include reckless drivers, inconsiderate airline passengers, and people who occupy multiple parking spaces.

She wishes all of them away. The theater empties between one breath and the next. Melissa and two other audience members remain, and she watches the rest of the film in perfect silence. The movie is beautiful, and Melissa believes it deserves that silence. However, she does not seriously consider how many lives were eliminated to create it.

The more Melissa removes friction from her life, the less capable she becomes of tolerating even the smallest disagreement. Her moral collapse reaches its emotional climax at the pottery studio while she is completing her finest piece, a wide bowl decorated with pressed flowers.

Melissa plans to use a warm terracotta glaze. Deb praises the bowl but gently suggests that sage or soft blue might allow the floral design to breathe more effectively. This is not an insult. It is thoughtful and constructive criticism from a mentor who has consistently supported Melissa.

Nevertheless, Melissa reflexively wishes Deb away. The other students calmly collect their belongings and leave as though class has ended. Melissa takes the unfired bowl home and initially insists that the terracotta glaze is exactly right. Only after placing the bowl on her kitchen counter does she understand what she has done.

Melissa has not merely removed someone who disagreed with her artistic decision. She has erased Deb’s encouragement, the studio community, her Tuesday and Thursday classes, and the creative environment that helped restore her sense of identity.

The unfinished bowl becomes an excellent symbol. It remains unfired and fragile because it has not endured the heat necessary to become durable. Melissa also refuses to endure the discomfort required for personal growth. By eliminating anyone who challenges her, she eliminates her own opportunity to improve. Her eventual realization that Deb may have been right is one of the story’s most meaningful moments. Perhaps the terracotta glaze would have competed with the flowers. Maybe a cooler color would have produced something even more beautiful than Melissa originally imagined. However, Deb is gone, the studio is gone, and the bowl remains unfinished.

Melissa finally calls her mother and confesses everything. Her mother listens as Melissa explains Gary, Dr. Mellor, the grocery-store stranger, the commissioners, the mass disappearances, the movie theater, and Deb. Her mother responds with the story’s central moral judgment: “You can’t fix the world by emptying it, Melissa.”

Melissa argues that she is not emptying the world. She is dividing it according to what matters. Her mother asks what will remain. The conversation is the emotional and philosophical climax of Long Division. Melissa’s mother does not stop loving her, nor does she respond like a simplistic voice of condemnation. She simply refuses to redefine mass erasure as social progress.

Melissa cannot tolerate even this loving opposition. She closes her eyes, and her mother disappears.

Melissa tells herself that she does not mean to do it, but the narration makes the darker truth clear. Beneath her excuses, some part of Melissa does mean it. She has trained herself to respond to discomfort, criticism, and disappointment through elimination, even when the person challenging her is the person who loves her most.

The story concludes with Melissa alone in her immaculate house. She washes Gary’s Razors mug and places it beside the unfired bowl. One object represents the first person she erased, while the other represents the meaningful life she destroyed after losing the ability to accept criticism.

Melissa looks outside for the Garcias’ cat, which usually walks along the fence, but the cat is no longer there. She does not know whether the Garcias remain or how many people she has removed. The number has become too large to track.

She briefly thinks that she should call her mother. Then she sets the table for one and stares at the empty chairs as an unfamiliar emotion begins opening inside her. Perhaps it is loneliness. Perhaps it is remorse. Perhaps it is the first realization that silence and peace are not the same thing.

O’Brady’s narration is controlled, precise, and frequently darkly funny. Melissa repeatedly insists that she does not mean something immediately before revealing that she does. Rather than becoming tiresome, this repetition charts her deterioration from surprise, to rationalization, to certainty, and finally to reflex.

The story also handles Gary’s character especially well. It would have been easy to make him so monstrous that his disappearance seemed entirely celebratory. Instead, his harm develops through ordinary interruptions, condescension, and indifference. This allows readers to understand Melissa’s resentment while still recognizing that erasing him from existence is an extreme and irreversible response.

We also appreciate that Long Division does not argue against establishing boundaries or leaving harmful relationships. Gary’s treatment of Melissa is genuinely damaging, and Dr. Mellor’s refusal to listen is irresponsible. The story instead examines what happens when every form of discomfort is treated as intolerable and every imperfect person becomes disposable.

The environmental and political sections occasionally present their message more directly than the quieter domestic scenes. Some readers may briefly wonder whether the narrative is endorsing the removal of particular groups before its broader warning becomes clear. However, the conclusion makes the story’s true position unmistakable. Once one person receives absolute authority to determine who deserves existence, no ethical boundary can remain stable.

The supernatural rules are also left intentionally mysterious. We never learn why Gary’s mug remains, how memories are rewritten, or exactly how the world reorganizes itself after large numbers of people disappear. We do not consider this a significant flaw. The power functions as a moral and psychological device, and an elaborate scientific explanation would probably distract from the story’s purpose.

Long Division begins like a dark fantasy of liberation, develops into a satire of moral certainty, and ends as psychological horror. It examines emotional neglect, female anger, dehumanization, ideological division, unchecked power, and the difference between improving the world and merely removing everyone who makes it difficult.

Human relationships require patience, disagreement, forgiveness, criticism, and opportunities to change. Deb’s criticism might have improved Melissa’s bowl. Her mother’s criticism might have helped Melissa confront what she had become. Melissa removes both voices. She creates silence, but silence is not peace. She creates order, but order is not community. She gradually constructs a world that reflects her preferences, only to discover that a perfectly curated world may eventually contain no one but the person doing the curating.

How long would it take before the habit of eliminating everyone who challenged, annoyed, or disappointed us led us to erase the person who loved us most?

We actually just watched an episode of 911 which featured a man with anger issues who dealt with a lot of these same dilemmas. The man in that episode kept being wronged by different people, in big and small ways, and kept acting out until it eventually led to him shooting someone he thought had hurt his family. In both cases, we found ourselves rooting for the person who was basically committing murder. How twisted is that? But it's hard not to sympathize and empathize with the poor bear who is perpetually pushed. It's hard not to get behind the person who is perpetually wronged and never gets justice.

With its memorable central concept, super relatable protagonist, strong symbolism, controlled escalation, and haunting conclusion, Long Division is a powerful speculative story that will remain with us long after we reach its final empty chair.

Check out the author's website to see all of their OCA award-winning work!