There it is again, that funny feeling something’s wrong

The ball drops just a little slower

And time is standing still

We made it through, but where do we go now?

Speak your last words, your questions, concerns

The ocean washes the time away

And the smoke in the air will fade

Tell me, dear, we made it through, but where do we go now?

Where do we go now?

Sometimes you don’t ask questions. Sometimes it’s enough to know that where you are now, surrounded by minuscule lights and infinite dark, is where you are meant to be.

Sometimes you take the hand offered, meet their eyes from a mile below, and dance with Death.

You twirl, watch your moon-colored robes swish around your ankles, see your world below shining crystal-clear. This must be a gift, but whether a parting gift from the universe or a welcome from Death themself you cannot know. You can’t remember the last time you saw such beauty.

Are you happy? they ask.

The lights that surround you twinkle. Notes of a song float through the air, quiet but lovely, and for the first time, you feel.

Yes, you answer, but…

Without warning, you find yourself in a field, a marvel of nature and life and wonder, and you are alone. You walk and you walk, and the sky grows angry. It’s miles before you encounter another soul.

The closer you look, the brighter they seem, even the rain beating down on both of you unable to dim their light. Who are you? you wonder. They smile faintly, and you blink, finding yourself once again in Death’s arms, swaying in a never-ending ballet. The soul’s smile remains in your mind, forever trapped by eternity.

Are you content? they ask.

You can no longer be sure. Everything you’ve ever seen flashes before your eyes, a never-ending rainbow blur of a story. Your story. For the second time, you feel.

I don’t know, you respond, and…

Next you know, a jungle builds itself around you as shimmering wings rush by your head. Birdsong high and low colors the air, and you cannot think of anything but the phoenix that rises in your soul and before your eyes. Where is it going? you wonder.

It rises and rises, penetrates the clouds, paints the sky red, turns the clouds to a burning flame. You feel yourself do the same, your soul blending with the droplets in the air and going up, up, up until you find yourself in your moon-colored robes again, drenched in fire and flood waters. The dance is over now, and Death seats themself at a throne 5 miles high.

Are you well? they ask.

You glance at the space around you, the infinite time and glistening pokes of light in the dark canvas you call the sky, and you frown. This is not your place, not anymore. For the last time, you feel.

No, you say, thank you.

And with that you feel snow begin to drift down into your hair as your heaven fades, see a world begin anew and a new life breathed into your body. Who’d have imagined? you think.

Despite the cold air, you feel warmer than ever before.

Sometimes you have to ask questions. Sometimes it’s enough to know that the journey that you take, the ones you meet along the way and the moments you couldn’t have dreamed up are what tell you where you are meant to be.

Sometimes you take the page offered, meet the eyes of the universe from a mile above, and write your own tale.

As any child will, fate often gets bored. Perhaps it chooses to tug on your red string, maybe toys with the rules of time a bit, just enough to move your future a little to the left. But those changes, so minuscule in the grand scheme of things, rarely amount to anything. Perhaps a different coffee order the next morning, a different leaf crunched on the way home from school.

Fate cries like a newborn. It laments the stories it never got to tell and sends storms to those it despises, rages at the gods for keeping its schedule strict. It does not get to choose when we pass on, when we become dust in the ground or evaporate into the rain.

Fate cannot control its tendency to speak out of turn, as it is still young and learning. On occasion it forgets to choose its words carefully. It sends the globe into turmoil and must repair it bit by bit, word by word, thought by thought.

Fate did not ask for this job. It is far too young to be taking this path, leading this world. But while it is here, it may as well do its best.

#fiction #flashfiction #fate

There is a bike rolling down the street without a rider, and a streetlight that flickers without warning. The night sky is tinted purple, while the moon swims in a sea of troubles. How many belong to you? Only you know that, and on a day you don’t remember, you swore not to tell.

Underneath the flickering streetlight, a pebble bounces across the road, kicked by a teenage boy in dark blue converse. He hasn’t any idea where he’s going, nor where he came from. Someday, he vows, he’ll find out, but for now, all he knows is that he must travel the darkness and take solace in the spots of light inside it.

There is a girl who has traveled the same path, a girl made of rose petals and timeless melodies. She has learned to keep the light with her. She takes the boy’s face in her hands and looks him in the eye. Don’t forget your name, she tells him, and he knows he never will.

At the end of the road, fire truck sirens blare, fighting for a house they cannot save. The family within is gone quickly, suddenly, together. You’ll look beautiful in heaven, the youngest hears her sister say, and she knows it will be true.

“Spare rain, sir?”

My childish voice shouted the words across the sidewalk as I held out a small jar to all who passed. But no one stopped, and my little jar stayed empty until the clouds filled up.

When I was five, the rain was my life. I’d sit at the window for hours, watching the drops fall and distort my window, turning the grass outside into a dark green ocean and my eyes brighter than the sun could’ve ever been. After my mother told me to ask for rain, I started going outside on sunny days with a jar to flag down passersby and request rain from each of them. I couldn’t understand why no one donated, and why it didn’t rain when I asked.

When I started school, I found out that rain was something that happened up in the clouds when molecules rubbed together. It made the rain seem less magical.

But to this day I can still remember the feeling of watching a storm from my bedroom window, hands against the glass and eyes shining.

He remembers the day he came home.

There were throngs of people at the train station, but none there for him. His friends were gone, buried in the trenches. His family is unfamiliar, not uncaring, but unknowing; the ones who had become family had faded, hardly human anymore.  

His life is different now.

Before, his home had been a place of gentle laughter, of life, of evening dances in the moonlight, nothing taken for granted. 

Now it is silent. He lives alone, a life of black and white feelings, flavorless meals, tears soaking through bed covers during sleepless nights.  

Now he paints portraits of war with his own blood, so detailed it seems as though he fought just yesterday.  

Now he only survives. 

Hello, world. 

​I’m typing this from the attic of my grandparents’ house, where we’ve just shared our last hugs and exchanged our final words. It is June 21st, 2020, and this is the end of the world. 

Some of us didn’t expect to make it this far. Life happens, things change, people come and go. And yet here we are, still kicking. Congratulations. 

But there are always those that weren’t so lucky. Take a second, remember the ones we lost. Lament for the ones who will never be. Show love to those you can. There is little time left. 

Speaking of time, it’s exactly 1 pm. My watch broke ages ago, but as with any broken watch, it’s always right twice a day. It will never see another 1 pm, and neither will I. 

I can see the light getting brighter outside my window. I could make a joke, one that no one will ever hear. I could cry and let the light dry my tears. So many options. But I think I’ll watch, and accept it for what it is. My life has been lived. 

Goodbye, world. 

And thank you for everything.