Memento Mori

The doctor read aloud: The RNA extracted from the formalin-fixed brain tissue identified a viral variant in the nucleotide sequence-

“Please,” Ann interrupted. “What is it?”

He looked at the mother of his eight-year-old patient with compassion evident in his heavy-lidded young eyes and shook his head. “It's rabies,” he said after a exhalation of breath, and watched as she hunched forward and brought one hand to her mouth while gripping the metal arm of the chair with the other.

Rabies?

Several weeks after her daughter returned from a happy vacation at her best friend's summer  house in the mountains, she complained of pain in the knuckles on her left hand. Ann had not wanted to let Janie go, but the other girl's family promised to take very good care of the children. Since Ann's childhood summers had meant working on the family farm and her adult summers as a single parent now meant working long hours in a hot city, she pushed aside her worries and agreed to let her daughter spend the two weeks with them. Janie had shouted “Yessss!” and hugged her before running to phone her friend with the good news. Ann smiled as she heard Janie laughing and discussing possible activities. Apparently swimming and telling ghost stories were part of “Plan Fun.”

Rabies?

The throb in Janie's hand progressed to acute pain and infection throughout her body and later, violent movements, uncontrolled excitement, and depression. Alone at home, Ann lay awake night after night while Janie's doctors treated one possible diagnosis after another. Hopeful one moment, despairing in the next when the day's remedies proved false.

“You will need post exposure prophylaxis immediately,” the doctor said, and walked over to help her get up from the chair.  “But...there is nothing we can do to stop the disease for her. I am so very sorry.”

Ann stood and brushed her hands against her silk skirt, smoothing down the pleats. She looked at the doctor's hand stretching to touch her shoulder and turned away. “I know it's not a diagnosis anyone wants to hear,” he said as he lowered his hand and tapped the file on his desk.

“Never.” Ann walked out into the hall and left the door open behind her.

“Goodbye, Mommy!” Janie said all those weeks ago as she ran to the car and climbed in the backseat where her friend waited. She looked out the window and waved. “Don't be sad. I'll bring you back a present. I'm not going away forever, you know,” and blew a kiss to her mother, who put out her right hand in a pantomime of catching and rubbing it against her cheek. 

Rabies.

Ann now leaned her forehead against the door to Janie's hospital room, where she lay in a coma, and did not wipe her eyes before she went to the nurse's station to receive the first in a series of injections.

Fabulous Flash Award

I am so grateful to the lovely and wonderful Karen Schindler for her bestowal of the Fabulous Flash Award, an idea Jon Strother had that would, in his own words, "spotlight some folks I feel deserve recognition for their, well… fabulous flash fiction."

So, many thanks Karen . . . and Jon!

Now I must pass it on to four writers. With great delight, here is my list:

Sam Adamson whose writing just captivated me from his very first flash story. His ongoing serial has fairies, pixies, gnomes, and an esoteric bookstore all set in a northern town in the United Kingdom, and it is just a treat to read.

Marc Nash  is another gifted writer from the UK. He is a wordsmith of the highest order. It's all about the language with him. His stories are lush, at times lyrical, at times dark, and always leaves one feeling sated with the fecundity of the read.

Tony Noland is not afraid to experiment in his writing. I'm happy to say that whether it is science fiction, noir, love story, horror, etc., Tony's work is a strong example of excellent writing.

Jen Brubacher As she says in her bio, she's a librarian who writes fiction. What better combination, no? She's a wonderful writer whose flash fiction spans genres, and I look forward to reading anything she writes. She's that good!

Please take some time to visit these wonderful writers. I can assure you that you will enjoy their fabulous flash fiction!

Gratuitously

Martha Frick sat on the edge of the yellow and orange flower-patterned chair Billy bought for five dollars at a yard sale and waited to accept condolences from the handful of mourners. The very chair where Billy was sitting when the stuffed and mounted moose head broke away from the wall and struck and killed him.

She closed her eyes. “Look,” Billy had said one evening not long ago after he called her in and pointed up at his newest acquisition.

“It looks great, doesn't it? And the guy at the flea market didn't charge for it. Just gave it to me on account of my being a good customer.”

He took her hand. “The chair will look real good under it. Help me push it.”

Martha frowned and pushed him away.

“I'm tired of all the junk you bring home!”

Her husband just smiled.

“Junk? You may think so, but remember that one man's junk is - ”

“Another man's treasure. I know, Billy,” she said, and went to find the pillow and blanket for him to use for when he slept on the sofa.

Until they moved from the city to the rural fishing town of his birth, Billy held a mid-level job in a government agency. Retirement brought them permanently to his childhood home. Martha volunteered at the nursery school; Billy spent his days treasure hunting.

Now, sitting and waiting for this day to end, she shook her head no when her daughter asked if she wanted something to drink. Martha looked around the room, at every available surface crowded with other people's unwanted detritus. She nodded when her son asked if she was ready and prepared herself as each mourner, in turn, approached, took her hand, and murmured words they thought would comfort.

“He will be missed, you can be sure of that.”

“Billy Frick was a good man.”

“Let me know if you need me to do anything for you.”

Reverend Hopwood was the last to lean over her. “We must remember that God works in mysterious ways,” he said as he squeezed her shoulder, but flushed in embarrassment when Martha laughed.

She did not expect to see any of them again. In several days the moving company would bring her things back to the city. The truck from the thrift shop would take the rest, including the screwdriver she last used to loosen the screws holding the bracket of the mount.

When In Rome

Louis emerged from the Men's Room in the restaurant to hear his mother exchanging private telephone numbers with someone she met only scant hours ago.

“Please do call,” he heard her tell the woman whose name he could not remember. Something to do with Switzerland, he thought. Or was it nature?

“Let us go now, shall we?” He coaxed his mother as he helped her into her coat and nodded his goodbye to the woman. Berne? Oh, no. Fern. Her name is Fern. Nature, then.

He led his mother to the front door and before she stepped over the threshold, she turned to smile at her new friend.

“I've been told I give good phone.” she said and laughed before Louis grasped her hand and led her away.
 
The car ride was a quiet one, as usual. Louis glanced at his mother when he stopped at the last light before home. She moved her lips in silent conversation. Probably speaking to Father again, he thought and surprised himself by a fluttery bitterness he felt in his chest. It never was difficult for her to talk with Louis when he was a child. But as the years added growth, departure, and distance to her life, they also subtracted her ability to verbally demonstrate easiness with her son. She became shyly hesitant with the adult model. Now, after bringing her to live with him after she had escaped from the retirement center several times, their talks more closely resembled light, impersonal banter.
 
As he lay reading in bed later that night, Louis heard his mother laughing. Another talk with Deidre, he guessed. While pleased that his mother harbored friendship for his ex-wife, he never understood how anyone could speak for hours on the phone and enjoy it.
 
“Goodnight, dear,” he heard her say, then all was quiet.
 
Louis placed his reading glasses on the nightstand and leaned over to turn off the light. He settled into his pillows and closed his eyes. But moments later, his mother's soft pacing in her bedroom on the second floor interrupted the languid touch of his relaxation, and he sat up and turned on the light.
 
It's one of  those nights, he thought.
  
Louis reached for his bathrobe, intent on going to his mother's room with tea and sitting with her in silence until she tired.
  
However, after looking across the room at the telephone on his desk, he shook his head. He left the bathrobe folded at the foot of the bed and walked over to his favorite chair.
  
His mother picked up on the second ring.


Picture courtesy of Cute and Cool BlogStuff

Wet Foot, Dry Foot

That day, Beba and her daughter Maria jumped into the water to save their lives.
 
Caught between the demands and stipulations of two nations, they swam the last few yards to reach the beach on the Florida shore, eager to have their wet feet touch dry land, as required by the rules of an international game. If the United States Coast Guard had intercepted the boat they used to escape their homeland, they would be forced to return there – and to certain punishment. Managing to reach land ensured the chance to remain in the country and to qualify for expedited legal permanent resident status.
 
They made it safely that day of fear but no incidents and, despite knowing they were leaving many friends and family behind, they never regretted that decision.
 
Since their arrival two years before, Beba and Maria made a home with Uncle Mario and his family in Washington, D.C. They were happy; they were safe.
 
On the first warm day of one summer season, Uncle Mario took them and a group of friends on a hike along the Potomac River. Later, and no one could explain why, Beba slipped and fell.
 
Maria jumped into the water to save her mother's life.
 
“The calm surface is deceptive,” the fire chief said days later after the bodies were finally spotted and retrieved. “The river's currents are deadly, more so than ocean riptides. You can go down in seconds.”
 
Though it is illegal to enter the area from the park land and there are safety signs posted on both sides of the river in several languages, including Spanish, many people choose to ignore all warnings.
 
Uncle Mario will always regret that decision.

The Barkeep

Weekend vampires, they called themselves. Every Friday night, after throwing the vestiges of conventional daily life to the bottom of closets, they donned black and red clothing, painted dark circles around their eyes, and snapped custom-fit fangs over their cuspids. All necessary to join the role play in the edgy back room of The Coffin Club.

He leaned against the cash register and watched the couple who moved to the shadows in the corner of the room. He tried to look away from the thin slice of razor cut against the willing participant's wrist, but could not. He parted his lips slightly and ran his tongue along his bottom lip, keeping his eyes on the blood.

“Hey, bartender!”

Startled and annoyed, he turned to the young man who interrupted his reverie.

What do you want, you damned fool?

That's what he ached to say. But he knew this job required a semblance of polite customer service, so he kept this thought to himself. He leaned forward and waited.

“Two Bloody Vampires,” the young man said, and put money on the bar.

As he prepared the drinks, the bartender knew he would not return tomorrow. While always working the late shifts at similarly themed bars across the country suited his nocturnal lifestyle, he never stayed too long in one place. Recently, though, he found himself thinking more about returning to his country. It was familiar and easy there. Also, while the other members of his family had allowed him to travel abroad and sample life in another culture, he knew that being away for much longer would not please them.

He placed the drinks in front of the young man and watched him take the hand of the girl seated at the next stool and suck her bloodied thumb before they clinked glasses in a toast.

He shook his head and looked at the others, many of whom were drunk on alcohol and fantasy.

Ridiculous, this business of playing games of dress up and spending weekends pretending to be doing something considered erotic and mysterious.

He laughed.

I wish I had that luxury.

He nodded to the people who called to him and requested drinks, and went to fill their orders.

Though he was centuries older than his regular clientele, spending time with them had been such fun. It only remained to decide whom he would kill before he flew home to the nest forever.

After all, he was thirsty too.

Rufus Bent

Leaves sprouted from his fingers and his feet had taken root to the ground when he woke up in his recliner.  However, Rufus Bent was not alarmed. Though his family argued that he was too old and feeble to live alone anymore, he always knew he would stay on the land that once belonged to his granddaddy.
 
“Of course, never thought it'd be quite this way,” he said as he looked down at his trunk and gnarled knees.
 
The family was in the kitchen, but Rufus did not call out to them. When they left him to nap earlier, he expected they would pass the time arguing. From what he could hear, they still were.
 
“I don't care what Daddy says; he's going to that home! It's a good place. He won't get better care.” This from his son.
 
Rufus laughed. I ain't going nowhere now, he thought as he moved the branch that was his right arm.
 
He had already refused his daughter's offer to live with her in the city. He told her he wanted to go to sleep at night hearing the familiar and beloved sounds of the backwoods, not the blasts and clatter of urban life which never welcomed him when he visited those few times.
  
“Maybe we can find someone else to come and stay with Daddy,” she now said to her brother. “Someone who doesn't know him.”
  
Don't worry, baby angel. Won't be long now. I won't need a nurse. Maybe a gardener? He cackled, as happy as he could be under the circumstances.
  
A few minutes passed before his children walked into the room. Though he could no longer see them, he heard their gasps and cries.
  
“I don't believe this,” his son said. “He's gone.” 
  
No, I'm here, son, right where I belong. Rufus struggled to say more. Can you hear me? You'll always find me here.
  
There was no more he could do for them. As his last thoughts faded along with his voice, he hoped they would make common sense arrangements.
  
While his sister cried and dialed the phone, her brother reached over and closed his father's eyes.
  
“He looks so peaceful. Like he's asleep,” he whispered.
  
He pulled the blanket from the sofa and covered his father's body. His daddy always hated to be cold.
  
*  *  *
  
Note: The first line comes from a #storystarters prompt.