Science fiction, fantasy, mystery and what-not
The worst thing was when the wall between time cracked. Seeing the future, he began remembering it, and then started living his life for it, scaring everyone else, because they remembered nothing of the future.
Hell, they barely recalled the past.
That left him alone. Terrible ideas teased him. If no one remembered the future or the past, did now really matter?
Impressions crept in on her, darkening her mood. His cell-like room felt dryer and hotter than she remembered the Sahara being. Negativity spiked from him like blackberry bramble thorns. When he spoke, words lurched out like they were freight cars in a train that didn’t have the engine for its load.
When he said, “The sun is up,” he expected her to reply, “It’ll get dark soon.”
Which she did.
In the gulf between their words were all the bridges that they’d found and built, burned and lost, and began and never finished, the metaphor for them.
I am not the one in love
and I’m not the one pursuing a dream
I’m not the one questioning my life
or looking back on choices
I am not the one missing you
wondering where you’ve gone
I am not the one in a bed alone
never falling asleep
I am not the one with too much time
to do too little every day
I tell you,
if you see me, I’m not the one
it’s not me
He ignored the man in the crosswalk, almost hitting the guy, not laughing about it, but feeling smug — hey, what’s the problem? I didn’t hit you, you’re fine, so you had to wait two seconds. Big deal.
Speeding up, he cut across lanes, scaring and angering other drivers, shrugging them off, pulling into the parking lot with a little squeal of tires. A space was there to the left, the car just finishing backing out, so he pulled in, cutting off another who was waiting. “Sorry, you snooze, you lose,” he told the woman giving him the finger, giving her the finger back.
He walked straight across the street, making cars stop — what were they going to do, hit him? As he reached the curb, he heard a ding. It wasn’t his phone, he didn’t know what it was, so he shrugged it off, turning right to go across another street, not looking, expecting the others to stop —
The truck driver couldn’t see him. “The sun flashed in my eyes,” he said. “I didn’t expect anyone to be crossing the road, anyhow, because I had the green light.”
The wayward pedestrian was crushed under a wheel, almost like a fluke accident, he heard the police say as his spirit departed his body. Only then did he realize that the ding had been a warning.
Karma had said, enough.
He saw a spot of blood on the path. One led to another, and then a series, about every thirty-six inches. They were not dry, but fresh. After following the blood for a few minutes (going north), he concluded the blood path went south, into the park.
After a moment, he followed the blood into the park. His nature didn’t allow any other outcome.
Batting his ears, he wriggled his eyes, crossed his nostrils, and lowered his chest to think, popping another leaf into his belly-button as he did. Something was different today, but he couldn’t put a toe on it.
He’d meet you with twinkling green eyes, a smile tugging his lips up, and a hand as large as a baseball mitt. Leaning forward, he’d announce, “Pleased to meet you. Hi, I’m Bent.” He always made it seem like meeting you was a special treat for him.
His full name was Bent E. Thompson. The E. was forever just a letter, and wasn’t fronting a name. A man so tall that he was always stooping through doorways, he’d never been in the military but he was as straight and hard as an iron fireplace poker.
Everyone agreed that Bent was as straight as anyone they’d ever met. Yet, after he passed, his swindles, frauds, and schemes started coming out like roaches sneaking out after the lights are turned off. It paralyzed people with disbelief. “Not Bent. Really? I don’t believe it. I’ll never believe it.”
Yet, the proof kept coming out. Funny enough, though, was the epitaph that Bent himself had chosen: “I’m Bent.”
Everyone was always wondering if it was a confession.
Everything felt the same. Hell, it all looked and sounded the same. Likewise, he was going through the same friggin’ routines that defined his life. All of it was very sappy, calling out songs, movies, and novels that spoke about this kind of moment, the moment of pain and realization when someone else, someone who matters, is no longer there.
So he went on, doing his usual shit, but also taking calls, sending and answering emails, making arrangements, listening to sympathy, often secretly crying in his car, bed, bathroom, and kitchen, mourning his loss. Then he went to the services, of course. They were sweet and beautiful, with friends remembering her with tears and laughter. Then, that was done.
After that, life was supposed to resume. Nothing had really changed, except that she wasn’t there. And yet, for all its resemblance for being the same as before, nothing was, or would ever be, the same as before again.
Floofspeare (floofinition) – A writer who is acknowledged as one of the world’s greatest and most prolific authors of all time, responsible for a large offerings of plays and novels, including The Merry Cats of Windsor, The Taming of the Poodle, Much PooPoo About Nothing, Rex the VIII, Fluffy the III, and the infamous Scottish play, Flooflet, about a terrier. Little is known about Floofspeare, and argument continues as to what animal or fowl Floofspeare was, and their sex.
In use: “Little is known of Floofspeare, leading to many fanciful works of fiction about the writer. Must well known is the series of nine books which began with the best-selling novel, The Secret Life of Floofspeare.”
