BEACH TRIP (flash fiction)

[Well, I didn't get into Fall/Lines, so I post my latest flash fiction here.]



The last thing said before she died was, “I want to go to the beach.” At eighty-eight and hospice bedridden, she delivered a poorly-timed request. Anna Maureen Anderson seldom strayed from the southern upcountry during her many years of midwifery. Most people simply called her Auntie Mo, because she never seemed to stop moving. She’d made a few trips to Atlanta and Gatlinburg; twice to Charleston, though she never got close to the shore. Otherwise, she spent her time ministering to women and babies from the Georgia and North Carolina borders to just west of Columbia. Nearly five hundred souls showed up at her funeral; a lovely pink pine box laid deep to the strains of her favorite gospel hymns. About the closest she was going to get to the Atlantic Ocean was a manicured plot in a small cemetery that straddled the Broad River. Or so we thought.
Rain came like a Biblical curse that October. A thousand-year flood, they said. We had barely begun to cope with her loss before a jet stream shot straight into South Carolina like a sodden spear. We’d never seen anything like it, not even Hurricane Hugo. Some areas registered more than twenty inches in less than five days. And as water drained, rivers swelled. A flood gauge on Gills Creek was destroyed in rapids and more than fifteen people perished, many trapped in their cars. Dams failed and roads were swept away. The whole country watched as we were washed downstream.
While the deluge destroyed, no one actually saw Auntie Mo escape. It took several days to survey damage before anyone noticed her plot was empty. A miniature rectangular pond amidst a forest of headstones, hers not yet delivered. None of her nearby rest-mates had fled. Two onlookers said they remembered seeing a clay-smeared casket riding a surge down the Broad, and several eyewitnesses recalled a similar scene near the dam break alongside the State Museum in Columbia. One wonders what denizens of Congaree Swamp must have thought, as it surely passed through their domain. There were no reports from Lake Wateree or the Santee.
A few days later several people called 911 to report a pink casket caressing the curves of Folly Beach. It was gone, however, by the time a county employee drove out to retrieve it. Later there were sightings at Hunting Island, Hilton Head, and Tybee---but no one could corral the wayward woman. One person claimed to have seen a pink crate race by Daytona. And then she was gone, forever. The authorities think she probably sank somewhere in the Atlantic surf, though I’d like to think she made it to the Bermuda Triangle. But you never know. She said a few times that she would have liked to visit Copacabana.

DRIFT (flash fiction)

I think I’m upside down, but I can’t be sure. Drifting, though. I can see stars and galaxies. Not sure how, because I don’t have eyes. In fact, I don’t have anything. And I’m pretty sure I’m nowhere, though surely I must be somewhere. And, as best as I can tell, I am utterly alone. Oddly, I have no idea how long I have been here, in this state.
I’m not sure how I died, though clearly I did. I had a former existence. Memories are still intact, though. Wouldn’t I need a brain for that? One minute rushing to work, and then . . . blackness. Silence. Stillness. I suppose I should be freezing, but I can’t feel a thing, except some anxiety. And I am not really sure I am actually still, exactly; I sense I am floating, hence the ability to be inverted. I must be in a huge swath of vacuum?
I thought there would be others. Souls clustered like billions of shiny insect eggs or dots of light. If I have mass, it can’t be much. I’m not heading toward any light. There are distant celestial bodies, but nothing I recognize.
Perhaps this is purgatory? Or I am in Hell! It would almost be a relief if some disconsolate diatomite passed by. Then at least I might have a bearing. On the other hand, I don’t feel I am being punished, and there is no pain, physical or otherwise. Just . . . calm and emptiness. I guess my retained memories would mean I am not entirely empty.

CUT-OFF (flash fiction)

I’ve been dead for a bit, although likely I may still be a ghost on the other side. I wonder if I still have a cabin on the starship Maru, silently traversing inky space, tiny diamonds blinking in the distance through my window; do my former crewmates even miss me? Is my favorite seat near the fire on the island of nude beaches now occupied by a buff simulation or some giggling teenie bopper. Surely I have been deleted from many friend lists. It bothers me that my many outfits go unworn, combinations I never would be seen with in real life. I miss my daily meditation in the Japanese temple, perched high on a rugged peak; I loved listening to the small waterfall outside and the soft chimes, while clad in my bright red kimono. Hardly anyone ever came in while I was there, so it was a quiet treat. I didn’t often visit the sparkling fairy worlds, Celtic lands with impressive castles, or dark post-apocalyptic worlds, though they all could be interesting. No, I’ve been confined to my little room, alone, ever since my tablet stopped working.

HUNTER-KILLER (flash fiction)

Every morning, when it lightens enough for me to see clearly, I’m up and hunting---a silent, sober, spirited killer who strategically tracks his prey. Some victims are pretty wily and swift, though, and can be worthy opponents. But they seldom escape my deadly assault. Most are savagely struck down in their tracks, never realizing their impending doom. Others are smarter, however; once they realize their peril they employ different survival techniques. Sometimes they freeze, thinking they can’t be seen in their stillness. Others rush about erratically hoping to cleverly throw me off. Occasionally they get lucky and escape, but that just makes me more careful the following hunt. Usually I bag at least four or five: almost always one large, one middling, and a few smaller ones. Nailed as many as seven or eight a few times. Even when I don’t spy one right away, if I stand there for a bit and focus my attention, I almost always catch some slight motion in the corner of my eye and then the game is on. I follow their frantic flight until I take them out. There is no reprieve. You’d think at some point they would realize the persistent danger and mounting losses, and simply stay off my property. So now, stirring from my sleep, I prepare for this morning's chase. I hate those damn roaches.

SHEN (flash fiction)

I’ll admit, it isn’t all that bad here. Facilities are clean, I never feel threatened, nourishment is delivered regularly, and the guards are professional. Some are even sweet. I can sleep, read, and even listen to music. Not a bad incarceration: for the condemned.

I don’t have long before my extinguishing. They claim it is peaceful and quick. One can’t ask for much more. I never denied the allegations, although some lie to the authorities. And no, I don’t have some martyr syndrome that justifies it all. I would love to remain. I know I broke deeply held cultural standards and beliefs, and this is the logical result. No reason to get belligerent and make things difficult for everyone. My family has already refuted and forgotten me. I have forgiven them.

A couple guards are kindhearted. That is how I got this writing pad and stylus. One promised to sneak the device afterwards to sympathetic individuals. Who’ve had similar dreams; who question accepted ways.

It’s not as if I am alone in my heresy. Accounts exist. Stories are passed around. Hundreds have questioned. Heretics hustle in halls, however most stay hushed. But sometimes one gets a friendly glance, a knowing nod. There are alleged repositories of accumulated accounts. We go to our ends confident in the veracity of our stories. There have been historic rebellions and rabid exhorters, but their outbursts were short and quickly suppressed.

The priest has already visited. She was gentle and kind, even as she tried to get me to deny what I knew. “Shem, save yourself,” she begged. She is so young, for a holy one. I wish I could soften her experience, lighten the burden, but I can’t deny.

She went through the official rites.

“Shem, do you reject our faith.”

“I do.”

“You refuse the mind cleansing and repositioning?”

“Yes.”

“You accept the higher powers, and willingly face the forever ostracism?”

“I do.”

“May the eternal ones have mercy on you and may your rest be peaceful.”

“Thank you.”

Her exit from the cell was quiet, final. I wanted to cry for her. Although the climate is carefully regulated, I still felt a cool breeze pass.

Soon the enforcer will be here. I know he will ask me my final question, if I have anything to say before the long walk to eternity. He will query, and I will reply: “Yes, I am a Beforeminder. I know I once existed on a small beautiful planet. I lived a past life as human. I have seen it in my dreams.”

And now I shall die. Again.

OMG (flash fiction)

It was quiet in the office, though the shuffling of papers and light clacking of keys could be heard down the hall. He used to love coming to work, kibitzing with his colleagues, chatting about the latest movie or bestseller, but all of them moved on to new jobs or retired. Now most of the employees were half his age. He hadn’t been asked to a party in at least five years.
He thought he was going to be canned; but it turned out he knew how to effectively manage the client lists, so he was retained. Many said they would drop the company if he was gone, and not a few insisted on speaking with only him. It made him feel important, still.
His secretary barely spoke to him. He communicated needs via sticky note or short email, and only occasionally when she forwarded a call. She was young and stylish, and not a few males found reasons to hang around her desk, but he didn’t interfere or find additional work. She was efficient enough and he didn’t want to break in another. No doubt she disliked his old-fashioned ways, or simply didn’t care to know more about him. A job was a job, right? She was the first of his secretaries for whom he had not chosen a personalized Christmas gift, instead filling a chintzy envelope with a few bills.
He only had a year to go before he retired. Widowed, childless, and without any strong passions, he wondered where he would spend his future years. The beach would be nice, even with the sand. Maybe farther south, where there was no snow and he could sit on seaside benches. Golf was out, but perhaps he could take up painting.
Suddenly he wondered if it were true that hearing was the last thing to go. He couldn’t remember anyone standing at his door before and saying, “Mr. Roberts? Mr. Roberts? Oh my God.”

COWBIRD

Cowbird was widely disliked. Dishonest, lazy, egotistical, and an embarrassment; he refused societal rules, stole and schemed, drained society. He bullied neighbors, battered mates, and bruised offspring. Nevertheless, he thought himself genius, lived off weaker companions, deluded himself. He directed his eggs be deposited in other nests. After chicks hatched, were raised, and took wing, Cowbird trumpeted fatherhood despite having contributed nothing but seed. Once he spied a cozy nest and had an egg added. Weeks later he was astonished to discover the nest abandoned. Cowbird asked around, animals just sneered. A year or so later he heard mockingbirds gossiping. They sang about an unusual cowbird who was a delight, polite and helpful, an upstanding citizen. Cowbird was alarmed that any self-respecting cowbird would be described so, and determined to see for himself. He was dumbfounded when he discovered the story was true. The fledgling was his! He trumpeted his "rights" to have him returned. Surprisingly, though, a host rose up and blocked him. Cowbird protested loudly, but they refused to budge. Frustrated, he flew off, with laughter and derision following his retreat; still, he declared he would prevail. But his every scheme was rebuffed and the youngster grew up a responsible, contributing fowl. Cowbird obsessed about his failure. One day he noticed a blackbird smirking. Angrily, he insisted he speak his mind. Raven obliged: "Next time, don’t put your egg in Owl’s nest."