Category: Flashfiction

These People

Only two days after the ashes of her burnt body had been brought back….

How dull it was. Watching the lifeless ocean sway erratically, from high up the grassy slope by the abandoned prayer house, only two days after the ashes of her burnt body had been brought back from the crematorium for final rites. Now she was, if you looked at it that way, somewhere out there, scattered and spread all over the ocean, with an abundance and generosity that was never her character. I wasn’t responsible for what happened. Her refusal to leave things be. It may have been one of the sisters. I would never put things like this past them. At the funeral, which took place just a few metres behind me, in the light drizzle that fell, I was watching them. Beautiful. Suitably mournful. Huddled together, away from everyone else. But their eyes couldn’t hide it. They had it in for her since young. I know because she’d told me that a few times. On our few holidays away from this place. And these people.

But did you see the look I was getting? I’m not surprised she became the kind of person she was at the end of her life, famous in a way, alone in many others, due to her background. This was her background. This prayer house built in the early 20th century and still proudly maintained although the only prayers were funerals of people who hadn’t requested to be buried elsewhere. From the slope you can see the edges of the roofs of the township below. And the ocean. Right there before us, far away and dull. I’ll miss her. But I doubt these people would.

photo from unsplash.com by Erik Jan-Leusink

Umbrella Kids

I made out his intention by the dark umbrella in his hand…

I was waiting for the pouring rain to subside outside the mall, with my hotel within sight. Wet, frayed looking umbrellas passed by so low that I could see their tops. A child’s face came out from under one such umbrella, looked me over and walked away. Another kid came and asked in his native language, if I wanted to go somewhere. I made out his intention by the dark umbrella in his hand and gave the name of the hotel and pointed. He nodded and gestured for me to follow.

The previously dusty road had completely disappeared under running water. I couldn’t tell where the drain was or if there were nails lying about as I saw construction materials on the way. The absence of street lighting made it worse.

The boy was around eleven, shirtless and barefooted in the cold night. His breathing sounded like he had hypothermia and he was shaking as he held the umbrella for me as I walked beside him. His ribcage strained against his flesh. I kept trying to pull the umbrella lower so he wouldn’t get wet but he refused to share it, bravely holding it up for me and leading the way.

A girl, maybe eight, both hair and oversized dress soaked, was standing at a junction with a dry, foreign lady who held the borrowed umbrella herself. In fact, I noticed several kids with umbrellas going about in the rain that night.

At my hotel lobby, I gave the boy what I felt was more money than he was used to receiving for the service he provided and got a shocked look in return.

In my room, I sat numbly staring out the window, thinking of my little girl sleeping safely in her warm, padded bed back home.

photo from unsplash.com by Anh Nguyen

Mortality

There comes a time when your body betrays you.

There comes a time when your body betrays you.

You begin to lose awareness of your surroundings. The warm sunlight, the cooling breeze gently swaying the tops of trees–such things suddenly catch your attention as if they had been mere apparitions before. Your brain seeks an explanation for what’s happening. But the answers you receive do not satisfy you.

Your chest feels congested. It’s as if cardboards have been stuffed into the cavity beneath your ribs. You experience difficulty rising up after spending too long sitting cross-legged on the floor. Dark clots in your spit bring unfamiliar fears. It dawns on you that it’s possible that none of the futures you had dreamed of for yourself or your family may materialize.

Is this how mortality is supposed to feel?

You decide not to inform your loved ones about what’s going on. A fear (perhaps it’s childish) warns you that telling them would permit the nameless to congeal into something real. What chance would you stand against something frightening once it becomes real?

So you pray that whatever it is goes away and maybe tomorrow or three days or a week from today, your head would stop hurting. Maybe your chest would feel spacious and free once again. Maybe your breathing would no longer be labored.

You find daily gratefulness in previously unrecognized victories: thinking clearly, walking steadily, breathing comfortably and being able to just function without fear.

On the appointed day, in the sterile hallway, you wonder how you survived your nights of solitary torment. Finally, your name is called and you stand up to go inside, knowing you are about to find out if your fears come true or it’s nothing after all.

photo from unsplash.com by Bertrand Zuchuat