I’m doing something different today. I’m using a prompt I found online and writing a fiction piece.
The Daily Post’s challenge today was to write Flash Fiction, a “short short,” a story less than 300 words.
I’m not a fiction writer, and you’re about to see why. BUT I wanted to post something new, so here it is.
I wrote to the nuns again. Sister Rebecca is always aglow, radiating a palpable joy. Her voice is a melody of tiny bells, a Christmas song incarnate. But since I can hardly accomplish more than a “Ca-ca-can you please pr-pr-praaaay for mee?” every time I’m in the Sisters’ presence, I’ve taken to writing to them instead.
I wrote because the feeling I have keeps growing inside of me, like a balloon that has stretched until it starts to turn white. Samuel doesn’t remember my last visit. He doesn’t remember the things he told me. He just doesn’t remember.
“I’m not going to be okay, Jessica. You’re going to be fine. You’re smart; you’ve got your faith. You’re going to be fine.”
“But we’re the same, Samuel. If I’m going to be okay, you’re going to be okay.”
“No. I’m not.”
His voice was so heavy. His words were no longer vibrations of vocal chords, but lead traveling through space, hitting the walls and falling like dead weight into my lap. I didn’t hear his words; I felt them.
“Is it about your brother?”
“I don’t want to talk about it.”
“You’re not your brother, you know. It’s not too late to talk to someone.”
He closed his eyes, and in that moment I knew: he was picturing his own death. He was imagining it as a serene event, passing out peacefully in his sleep and never waking up.
But I know the truth of what’s coming. I’ve seen in play out a thousand times. The handle of Jack, the cases of beer, the shots upon shots, following his brother’s tracks down the side of the road.
If Sister Rebecca is joy incarnate, Samuel is a black hole—life disappearing into itself, and taking all of me with him.
And on that note, a wonderful day to you all!