Letitia started to put away the soup into the vial's cupboard when Lily scuttled over from her chair.
"Letitia, no, just leave everything on the counter! I'm not feeling well, and I need my rest. Please go, now." Lily gripped Letitia's arm, clawlike, and looked up into Letitia's face, stricken.
"Lily, if you're not right, I'll call the doctor this instant!"
"No, no, no doctor. I'm fine, I just need to be alone. Please go."
Letitia looked at her closely, and then moved to the door. "I can't come by on your actual day, but I'll check in on you right after." Lily nodded and went back to her chair. In four days, I'll come and check in on you, Letitia-you'll be surprised, she thought.
Lily felt poorly the evening before her birthday. She'd gone to bed early, but couldn't sleep, dwelling on the upcoming morning's transformation. Shortly before midnight, her breathing became labored; she started panting, taking quick, shallow breaths. She felt a strong pressure on her chest.
No, not now, she thought. She struggled up in bed, holding her hand under her rapidly beating heart. The vial. The vial will save me. She pushed heavily out of her bed and wobbled to the cupboard, barely able to seize the vial. She pulled out the stopper and brought it to her lips. The taste of the liquid was sweet, even sparkly.
She slipped to the floor, an image of whirling at Luthjen's flitting through her mind.
The technician had puzzled over the liquid, but having checked it twice, he knew it was water, nothing but. He held it up to the light and shook it, then shook his head.
"Finished with the tests, Jack?" the coroner said as he entered the lab.
"Yep. H20, pure and simple. But my eyes were playing tricks on me-it seemed like it was glowing, in some weird way."
"Well, weird is daily on this job. Thought it might be some kind of poison when they found the old lady with it on the floor in a death grip, the bottle up to her mouth. What's really weird is that they're telling me she was a few hours away from her eighty-fifth birthday-she barely looks fifty. And she supposedly had a clouded eye, but they're both clear as day. That's weird."
Jack nodded and poured the contents of the beaker down the drain. He turned away before he could see the little wisp of light that seemed to hover over the sink for a moment. But it might have been a reflection-it was a brilliantly sunny day in New Orleans.
The Vigil of Clouds
By Eros-Alegra Clarke https://alegra22.wordpress.com/
Somewhere in the darkness, silent mountains surround a small body in a white box. The stars emerge. The heavens rotate. Wind whispers through the wildflowers, causing them to bow around the mound of earth that, fistful by fistful, buried my baby. In the brightly lit kitchen, my husband pages through the discounts and sales. Carlos, my other child, sits on the couch, toast crumbs and peanut butter on his shirt, as if nothing is missing.
Today at the burial Carlos tripped on a gravestone, sliding across it with his hands outstretched, smiling like he could hear applause. But there was only the murmuring of adults who didn't know where to stand, where to look, what to say. There is an angry red scrape on his knee from the fall. Even from here I can tell that it will leave a scar.
The light from the television screen washes across his face, making him look pale and tired. I still feel his brother Noah as an invisible weight riding on my hip, his fingers curling against my breast. I catch myself swaying back and forth and I stop. I lift my hands to my face, to smell the clean baby lint that I searched for daily in the lifelines of his hands. Now, there is only the scent of disinfectant on my skin.
***
Last night before the burial, the Pacific hurled its air inland against the north island of New Zealand, the land that has been my home for the last ten years. The storm came pounding, rolling, pushing over fern trees and power lines. In the dark of the marae, the meeting house of my husband's Maori tribe, relatives and friends slept on mattresses on the floor, the smell of sweat and dust, coffee and baby powder pressed against the walls, sealing in the warmth of our three-day tangi, the period of mourning before burying the dead. I sat in the darkness, my arms wrapped around my waist. I thought about the missing part of my son's heart, an artery so small it had gone undetected, but too important for him to live without.
The storm tested the walls of the marae, searching until it found its way in through me. The storm spread into my muscles, defining the parameters of my skin as it raged. I tried to contain it with my stillness. I knew it had come searching for my baby. I was not ready for Noah to be taken.
In the morning, the clouds hovered close to the earth as if the world had been wounded during the night. The Maori name for New Zealand is Aotearoa, "Land of the long white cloud." The clouds are the first thing I noticed when I moved here from California with my husband. Sometimes the clouds are like gentle creatures grazing over the earth; sometimes they darken and gather forces like angry gods. Always they appear to be within reach, as if with a little bit of faith, I might jump up and grasp one, swing up onto its back and get carried away.
I held Noah in my arms as if my warmth might fill the absence in his body and change this day. I stepped forward my eyes fixed on the clouds, and wondered if we could jump together, if the clouds would take both of us. But behind us the elders, the grandmothers and aunties, women with deeply lined brown faces, began their wailing, and I knew that I was earthbound. I became heavier with each step. The heavier I became, the less weight Noah had in my arms.
I placed him in the coffin before he could disappear. Buried in the earth, I would know where to find him, but riding on the back of a cloud the winds could take him anywhere.
The smell of freshly dug earth rose up around me as the clouds pressed down. Shovels struck earth with the sound of resolution, handfuls of dirt echoed down on top of that small, white box as friends and family moved around me in procession. Carlos climbed into my lap clutching a dandelion bouquet in his hand. I expected questions. Why are they throwing dirt on Noah? Why is he in a box? I expected his sticky grip fingers to tangle in my hair, pulling until I answered him. I expected him to push me away because I held him too tightly.
But he didn't do any of these things. He pressed his nose into mine. He lifted his hands to my eyes and stroked them closed, the wilting dandelions trailing along my skin.
***
Tonight, my husband's breath is in my ear as he urges me to bed. He carries Carlos in his arms into the bedroom. I follow in their shadow. We settle into bed like we are made of stone, heavy and cold. We fill the space with the rising and falling of our breath. Beneath the blankets we become the mountain ranges surrounding the meadow where Noah is buried. Our bodies make contact, feet first and then our foreheads pressing into one another. I understand for a precious moment that we have not left Noah behind. Noah is the weight of a broken bird nest falling into my heart as my husband reaches for my hand. He is a cool, blue sheet of peace passing over me until the darkness is complete.
Outside our window the long white clouds drift and glow in the moonlight. One by one, points of light appear as the stars arrive to keep their silent vigil until the sun rises once again. They will remain until the clouds catch the fire of the new day and bring it close to the earth, close enough to warm us, to remind us that heaven is not so distant after all.
Time for a Change
By Carol Benedict https://thewritingplace.wordpress.com/
Camille's attention switched from the cinnamon pretzel in her hand to the silver-haired man heading her way. At fifty, she was mature enough to appreciate his lean, chiseled features and the air of confidence he wore like a badge of authority as he patrolled the shopping mall. Watching him make his rounds was the highlight of her day. He caught Camille's eye and smiled, but she dropped her gaze and gathered up the trash from her meal. She tossed the rest of the pretzel into the garbage and headed back to work.
In the busy card shop on the second floor, Camille smiled at customers as though there was nothing she would
rather be doing than helping them find the right card for their loved one. Yet she felt a trace of bitterness that they had someone to buy cards and gifts for-and she didn't. Ray had succumbed to cancer five years ago and her joy in life had died with him.
At four o'clock, as always, Mr. Whiskers greeted Camille at the front door of her small condo, rubbing contentedly against her ankles as she sorted through the mail. No bills, thank God, just the usual assortment of credit card offers and AARP literature. It wasn't that she worried about bills. The interest from her nest egg, along with her wages from the card shop, covered her expenses. She could even splurge on a movie or nice dinner now and then if she wanted. Not that she did. With no family and no single friends to go along, outings didn't hold much appeal for her.
"I'm in a rut," Camille muttered as she brewed a cup of green tea. Never one to hide from the truth, Camille admitted to Mr. Whiskers that her former mind-numbing grief had given way to mind-numbing boredom. Her job was the only social outlet she had, and it was not enough.
Next morning, resolving to begin a new chapter in her life, Camille packed a lunch from the leftovers in her refrigerator and tucked a magazine into her purse. No more solitary lunches in the Food Court, no more sitting and watching the people walk by. She would eat in the card shop's office and look for a new hairstyle in her magazine. After work she would stop at the trendy beauty salon on the corner and see about getting a complete makeover.
The day passed much as usual, except for lunch. Camille stuck to her plan and, while nibbling on crackers and cheese, selected a radical new look from the fashion magazine she'd brought. As she waited on an elderly woman towards the end of her shift, Camille noticed a familiar figure hovering in the doorway. He stepped aside to let her customer leave, and then approached the counter.
"May I help you?" Camille asked, too flustered at seeing him there to think of something witty.
"I need a card. One with a nice verse about missing someone. Could you help me choose one for a special lady?"
"Certainly." Camille tried not to show her dismay. The last thing she wanted to do was choose a card for this man's special lady. She knew it was silly, but this was the only guy to attract her attention in the years since Ray died, and she couldn't help feeling a twinge of jealousy. Professional to the end, she showed him a couple of possibilities before returning to her post behind the cash register. He brought his selection to her and, after paying, asked if he could borrow a pen.
She tried to look disinterested as she waited for him to finish, but couldn't hide her surprise when he handed her the card along with the pen. Confused, Camille saw that he had written "To a Special Lady" on the envelope.
"Am I supposed to give this to someone?"
He smiled, and his clear blue eyes sparkled with amusement as he shook his head.
"It's for you," he said.
Opening the card, Camille read the short note he had penned beneath the printed verse. It said, "Five days a week I see you sitting at your table in the Food Court, and all's right with the world. Today you weren't there, and I missed you. Sincerely, Frank."
Looking up, she saw the question in his eyes, and knew he was waiting for her reply. A knot of tension formed in her stomach, and words wouldn't come. As she hesitated, the expression on his face changed, and with a quiet "Sorry. Have a good day," he turned away.
"Wait! I just felt ready for a change. I needed to do something different. But I'll be there tomorrow. Just like always."
"I could take my lunch break at the same time," Frank said. "If you want to do something different, we could eat together."
"I'd like that."
"Great. Then, I'll see you tomorrow," Frank said as he backed out the door.
Camille waved until he was out of sight. Only then did she remember that she wasn't scheduled to work the next day. Startled by the flood of disappointment that washed over her, Camille realized that she was ready for a bigger change than a beauty makeover. And there was no rule that said she couldn't have lunch at the Food Court on her day off.
'Tis the Season
By John Marfink
You're going to die today. You don't know it yet, sitting there sipping your overpriced Starbucks. You've got your life so tightly put together, you squeak when you walk.
Look at your bags: Macy's, Belk, Best Buy; you have your Christmas shopping all done and it's only the day after Thanksgiving. You feel pretty good about that, don't you?
You might want to take back that new laptop you bought for your husband though. He doesn't really deserve it. He'll probably return it after I kill you; my fee strapped his cash reserves and your insurance will take months to clear.
Damn girl, you don't have a clue, do you? That's why identity theft is so easy these days. You really should keep a closer eye on your bank statements. That money last month he said was going to the Hartford group? It wasn't for any investment like he told you. Mutual fund my ass. The only mutual benefit he gets is you dead and two million dollars cash if it's murder. And it is murder.
Don't worry, you weren't cheap. A normal spouse-removal runs around twenty Gs. I made him pay fifty. You're a real looker and it seemed right to charge more.
Done with the caffeine? Good, that's my girl. Stand up now and gather all those packages under your arms. Incapacitate your arms and head for your car. Oh, don't worry about muggers, I've got your back. Sorry, little gallows humor there. Unfortunately your final act in this little drama won't be recorded. Someone disabled the security cameras. Kids these days ?
It was decent of you to park that new Chrysler van back out of the way. Your concern for wild shopping carts and careless drivers makes my job so much easier. That's it, hit the 'Open Sesame' switch on your key ring.
Would you look at that! Door slides right open. You know just how stupid that is? I'll show you.
Now don't struggle, this won't hurt-much. Just lie still there on the carpet where I put you. Don't worry about the confusion, you got smacked pretty hard with the sap. You're lucky, it'll all be over soon and a good thing too. There was a telltale crunch when the sap hit your skull. Real likely some serious brain damage. Here, I'll ease the pressure.
There. Quiet little .22, a couple of quick taps to the base of your skull and we're all done here. Let me pull your skirt down, no sense embarrassing you. Nice thong though. I'll shut the door too, it's pretty cool out here and we wouldn't want some teeny-bopper suffering undue stress over finding you like this. Mind if I have the laptop? Didn't think so, thanks.
Oh, and have a Merry little Christmas ... your husband will.
Unscrambling Love
By Angel Zapata https://arageofangel.blogspot.com/
Greta held the plastic letters in a tight fist. The flat rectangular magnets glued to their colorful undersides felt cool on her palm. She unfolded her fingers. Today it would only take four consonants and three vowels.
All week she had carefully positioned her words on the refrigerator door. On Monday came the letter "I." She wanted her husband to know she was acting alone. It didn't matter what her friends said. It didn't matter her mother still called her a drug addict. She needed him to know it was Greta, the woman he fell in love with eight years earlier, not the empty shell she'd become.
Tuesday, she spelled out "don't." She used masking tape for an apostrophe. Don't was a word she rarely spoke aloud, but in her mind was the catalyst of numerous mantras. "Don't have another drink, Greta. Don't share that needle, Greta. Don't cheat on your husband, Greta." She was a failure at "don't." She had cried that day, and the only way to stop the tears was to open the freezer and allow them to ice.
At the close of day Wednesday, she unscrambled "want." It was always what she wanted; her lusts, her desires, her needs. Months ago, she ran off with a coworker, and her husband found her strung out in a motel bed, bruised and naked. He carried her to the car, pushed the child seat out of the way, laid her down, and covered her with his jacket. She cursed him out, said he didn't k
now what she wanted and never would.
Thursday was one simple vowel, "A." She stuck it right next to her seven year-old son's report card. He'd gotten straight A's. He came running from the school bus waving it in his hand.
"You know what word starts with 'A,' momma?" He had asked her, breathless.
"No, baby."
"Annihilation."
He smiled so wide, and she just sat there smoking at the kitchen table completely ruined.
She wasn't sure why, but this morning she decided to drink her coffee black. She felt sober and ready to talk about checking into rehab, but wasn't able to express herself audibly. She almost dropped the letter "V" from her trembling hand. Not today, she thought. Nothing would prevent her from accomplishing this goal.
Finally, she reached up and formed the final word.
"I don't want a divorce," she read aloud. She didn't notice her husband spying on her from the shadows of the den. He heard her voice and his heart broke. He didn't notice his son watched him from behind the couch where he hid; writing this all down in a notebook he thought no one would ever read.
Wake up, Please
By Jemma Everyhope
A frozen baby fell from the sky. The stars were sharp points of light and mice scratched through sweet dry grass. My husband and I were having a midnight picnic when we saw something fall near the spruce tree.
"What shall we do?" I asked.
"What we always do," he said, not that this had ever happened before.
I packed up the last of the picnic, corking the unfinished merlot. We carried the picnic basket and the baby home, the screen door clicking behind us and the electric lights humming. We set the baby on the kitchen table in between the yeasty rising bread and the bleach-soaked lemon half.
"Will anyone ever believe us? We found a baby, frozen, after it fell from the sky? What if we lied? Would they believe us then?" I asked.
"We found it," he said. "That's all we did."
So we buried the baby beneath the blueberry bushes in the backyard. We switched off with newly sharpened shovel, digging a hole deep enough to deceive the coyotes. I picked up the frozen baby.
Flash Fiction 40 Anthology - July 2009 Page 9