Issue 98 November 2021

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Editorial: Facing Mortality

by Wendy Nikel

November 1, 2021

There are times in all our lives when we have to face our own mortality. Our bodies are fragile. They age and decline. They grow weary and brittle and weak. They succumb to illness and death. And at the end, they turn to dust. Death is a fact of life on this earth and a lesson that may be felt particularly sharply in recent times.

There are many stories about death. Here at Flash Fiction Online, we see them in our submission pile, as well as in other books and magazines that we read. It’s human nature to mourn the ones we lose and, in those times, to reflect on our own lives and question what will happen at the end. But what, then, makes one story on the topic stand out from all the others? For us at Flash Fiction Online, it’s all about emotional resonance–the ability of a story to evoke an emotional reaction that stays with us long after we read the final words.

Our flash fiction stories this month touch on that fragile time just before (and just after) life slips away. They take a look at both sides of that shadowy veil and the companions who sit with us as we prepare for the journey through. They challenge us to explore our own thoughts and beliefs on the end of life and to reach out with compassion to others when their time is near.

Join in on the grateful commemoration of a life well-lived in Andy Oldfield’s “The Dog Who Buried the Sea” (Nov 5). Sit with an old man and his protege as he passes on important life lessons in Kyle Richardson’s “The Days on Europa Were Long” (Nov 12). Walk with a composer as he faces down his last great fear in “A Time There Was” by Hastings Kidd (Nov 19). And finally, heal from your own griefs alongside the protagonist of Deborah Davitt’s story as she contemplates “A Mother’s Love” (Nov 26).

Within these four short-short stories, you’ll find that grief and sorrow over life’s end takes many forms. And stories–like our lives, our grief, and our sorrows–are worthy of being shared.

—

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The Dog Who Buried the Sea

by Andy Oldfield

November 5, 2021

Gather now nestlings and feather-kin, settle your wings and listen, lest this tale should be forgotten in the cold dark days to come.

Remember the Bone Man and the Bone Dog. Remember the gifts that come unexpected. And always remember that those good days may come again, when the beaks of jackdaw, chough and rook, of magpie, jay, crow and raven never go hungry.

In the days of your grandmother’s grandmother and grandfather’s grandfather the winter snows fell deep, bitter and long. Ice and wind stole our food and our lives. Badger and fox claimed our dead, and we grew weaker and fewer.

Hope shrank and shrivelled, like our bellies. Until, one day in the nest-houses of men and women, a strange man and his dog came to live. The man and dog were as one it seemed. The man was young and lean, the dog was even younger and leaner. Soulmates. Nestmates. And they never chased us from the land around their home.

The man fed himself and his dog on succulent meat cut from the bone. And afterwards, instead of locking the remains inside a bin, like so many of their kind, the Bone Man gave them to us.

Into the bushes, he threw us food. On to the grass, on to the rooftop. Gristle, bone, sinew, cartilage, skin and flesh. Such sweet stuff, the stuff of which corvids dream. The stuff of life, scattered freely. We ate, they watched. When the Bone Dog watched we could eat with no fear of cat or fox stealing us or our food.

We grew strong and winter died instead of us. When the warmth returned many chicks hatched to see the sun. And still the Bone Man and Dog showered us with blessings. We grew strong, though there were many beaks to feed.

And so it went. Summer after winter after summer.

Although the Bone Dog grew bonier, and the Bone Man began to limp, they still shared their bounty. But one day the Bone Dog lay down and never rose again. The Bone Man sat alone in his garden. Jackdaws hopped around his feet and brought him gifts of feather and stone, but his eyes were dark and wet and empty.

Through his sadness, he still fed us. And then, a new Bone Dog, just like the old one, came into his life and the light in the Bone Man’s eyes returned and all was good. But nothing stands still. As the Bone Dog grew older, the Bone Man grew stiffer and slower until he knew his time under the sun was almost done.

One morning, in the cool dawn light, he scattered our breakfasts and said goodbye. He went down to the sea with the Bone Dog and climbed into a boat and rowed out to the faerie isles that wink in and out of being. With Bone Dog by his side, he lay down on the glimmering shore and closed his eyes to this world. The waves began to embrace him, but Bone Dog knew what to do and began to dig, long bony legs and sharp claws throwing enchanted sand over the Bone Man’s cooling body. Soon, Bone Dog had raised a small mound.

We were watching. We knew that Bone Dog’s efforts would be in vain, as soon enough the faerie isle would slip back into the sea. And so we helped. Hundreds of us took sand by the beak-full from the dunes of the mainland and flew out to the faerie isle. We dropped it and Bone Dog piled it on the Bone Man’s body.

Sand, grass, twig, stone. The sky was black for three days and nights as jackdaw, chough, rook, magpie, jay, crow and raven carried their loads. The Bone Dog buried the sea and turned a faerie isle into a solid one.

When the Bone Man was safely hidden, the Dog Who Buried The Sea lay down exhausted and we stood by him as he slept. He dreamt happy dreams of when the Bone Man and Bone Dog were young. We joined his dreams with our own. Good times.

The Bone Dog woke and knew there was one last task. He looked at us and we nodded. He began to dig one more time, a Bone Dog sized tunnel into the heart of the island where the Bone Man lay. And as the Bone Dog disappeared from this world, we filled in the tunnel so he and the Bone Man could rest, safe, together.

Remember fledglings. Things come and they go. Round in circles: rain, shine, wind, snow. Light and dark. Egg and bone.

One day, when we need them most, the Bone Man and the Bone Dog will return.

Keep watching. From roof and tree, from chimney and bush, from rock and aerial, from forest and field, from cliff and dune, keep your eyes and hearts sharp.

Be ready to rejoice anew when the Bone Man and Bone Dog wake and cast their offerings to the sky.

BEHIND THE SCENES WITH AUTHOR ANDY OLDFIELD

FFO: We loved the relationship between the man and his dog in this story. Can you tell us about any pets you have and what makes them particularly good companions?

AO: I have a whippet, Bret. He insists we go out for walks even if I’m inclined to stay inside. Our favorite time for an hour’s stroll is dusk and the early night: owl light. Walking lanes and fields and woods feeds the imagination and the soul as well as providing a cardiovascular workout. Sometimes if Bret’s been fed chicken meat the bones go out for the local corvid populations!

The Days on Europa Were Long

by Kyle Richardson

November 12, 2021

Sienna arrived on Europa with a purpose: to learn from Mr. Shorn. To be taught all the necessary tasks, before the man’s health ultimately failed.

Terraforming Jupiter’s moon was a complex process, with too many variables to automate. Mr. Shorn, however, had been doing it for years. He was a living expert on the matter.

But the man did not welcome Sienna. He sulked in his biosphere, instead, with his bloodshot eyes averted.

When she asked why her arrival offended him, his explanation was startlingly brief: “They built you to look like her.”

Sienna did not know which her he meant. His wife, perhaps? A daughter? She had not been given such information. After seeing the man’s pained face, though, she did not inquire any further.

Perhaps some things were better left unknown.

* * *

It took days for Mr. Shorn to speak again. They were in the ice hills. Mr. Shorn was operating a drill with his body hunched, his breath fogging his visor. “The others left, once Ganymede showed progress,” he mumbled. “Why stay here, when there’s a better moon to work on?”

Sienna knew all about Ganymede, Jupiter’s largest moon. They’d had success there. The ionosphere was developing nicely.

It made Mr. Shorn’s efforts somewhat . . . redundant.

Though, redundant did not mean useless. Europa would still serve a purpose.

Her purpose, meanwhile, was to learn. So she said, “Please explain this task, Mr. Shorn.”

But the man said nothing back. He merely continued panting and drilling, until the turquoise sky faded to darkness.

* * *

For a week, Sienna followed the man across the barren terrain, while he drilled and planted, while he cranked gears and adjusted levers.

The days on Europa were long, by human standards—nearly four times the length of an Earth day—so Mr. Shorn’s sleeping habits appeared as naps. Six hours, here. Seven hours, there. He slept in his biosphere, with his back to the window. As he rested, Sienna watched him intently, memorizing every twitch, every whimper.

Wondering was not an assigned task, though she found herself doing it, anyway. In the man’s dreams, was he alone, as he was here on Europa? Or was she there with him—the mysterious woman whom Sienna resembled?

* * *

“We were wrong about the sun,” Mr. Shorn muttered. They were in his biosphere, sitting across from one another, while the man slurped paste from a packet.

Judging from his expression, the food was . . . unenjoyable.

“We thought the thing had hydrogen to spare,” he continued. “Now they say it’ll get huge and red, much sooner than expected.” He swallowed and grimaced. “Earth will get torched when that happens. Then Europa will be in the new habitable zone. That’s why I’m doing this, see? For . . . humanity.”

Sienna knew all this, of course. Still, she pretended to be fascinated. Mr. Shorn softened, when she allowed him to teach her.

She liked when Mr. Shorn softened.

* * *

The days stretched to weeks, then months. Mr. Shorn grew visibly frail. His excursions from the biosphere became increasingly rare.

When he spoke, it was as if Sienna had become something else. A memory, perhaps. Or a delusion.

“There’ll be boys in your life,” he said one evening, while cleaning the biosphere’s filter. Dust trailed away from the filaments. Against the backdrop of space, the debris appeared to glitter. “They’ll . . . want things from you,” he continued. “But you’re better than that. You’ve got a future in the stars, understand?”

Sienna nodded and held his gaze, until the man cleared his throat and looked away.

* * *

Little by little, the tasks became Sienna’s. More and more, Mr. Shorn did the watching. He offered advice between coughs and winces.

Not so rough; you’ll strip the bolt.

Always check the pH before seeding.

Wish you’d wear a helmet, out there. What’ll I tell your mother if you run out of air?

Sienna responded, always, as if she were the young woman he thought her to be.

I know my own strength.

I already checked, remember?

Tell Mom to mind her own business.

Mr. Shorn chuckled weakly at her responses. “You’ve always had a mind of your own.”

* * *

When Mr. Shorn could no longer leave his cot, Sienna stayed by his side. By this point, she had mastered most of the tasks. The remaining ones could be delayed. She spent the time, instead, with her hand on his, while she studied his jagged breathing. She wondered what he’d looked like as a young man.

What had his life been like, before Europa?

Occasionally, Mr. Shorn muttered in her direction. His words were strained, and mixed with whimpers.

Promise you won’t get on that shuttle.

I didn’t get to say goodbye.

Oh, my baby . . .

Sienna did her best to comfort him, whispering gently in his ear.

I won’t, I promise.

You don’t have to.

I’m here, Daddy. I’m here.

* * *

When Mr. Shorn finally passed, Sienna buried him under the ice, in the valley where he’d grown his herbs. She held no ceremony. She spoke no words. Her eyes had no ducts to produce tears.

This last fact pained her the most. Mr. Shorn deserved to be mourned, in a way that she could not provide. But she could carry on his tasks. She owed him at least this much.

So she drilled in the northern slopes, with her body hunched, while she muttered about Ganymede and a red-hued sun. She shook dust from the biosphere’s filter, while she pondered boys and her future in the stars. She fastened bolts without stripping them. She checked the pH before seeding. And though she had no need to breathe, she wore a helmet in the fields, lest she run out of air.

Others would be awaiting her return. Sienna had accomplished her mission, after all.

But Sienna contacted no one. There were countless tasks to be done, and the days on Europa were long.

BEHIND THE SCENES WITH AUTHOR KYLE RICHARDSON: "Our Unknown, Red-Hued Future"

The seed of this story first tumbled into my mind when I was ten years old, while reading H.G. Wells’ The Time Machine. It was my first experience reading a science fiction story, and the experience left me dazzled.

At one point in the narrative, the protagonist, seated precariously on his self-made time machine, travels far into Earth’s future. He ends up on a desolate shoreline, surrounded by monstrous crablike beasts, before the sluggish ebb and flow of an oily sea….

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A Time There Was

by Hastings Kidd

November 19, 2021

It was always grey at this time of year. Greying mud stretched out at low tide. Bands of iron grey cloud drawn across the sky. The sea – in the distance, far across the flats – a dull, tarnished silver.

The composer leaned on a broken, salt-cured piling, his hands as lined as the grainy wood. They didn’t like it when he walked out on his own like this. Rita, nurse and friend, waited where they had left the car. He had begged her – I need to walk alone. The doctors, of course, had said no exercise at all. But then what use was a heart bypass if it didn’t get you up on your feet again?

He walked on, singing to himself, planting each foot carefully into the sucking mud. Five short pieces, a suite, each one weaving together themes from the old songs he had heard sung as a child, and now the last one wouldn’t come. The work, to date, was good – he could hear that much – but there was a shadow to it.

He felt eyes on him. That bloody dog again, stalking slowly through the long grasses at the top of the dunes. He didn’t turn around. Rita never saw the dog. He had stopped mentioning it. She was not from these parts. She didn’t know the stories – Old Shuck, the death omen, the hell dog, huge and black with red eyes like saucers.

He had written to Peter, his companion in life as in music, telling him that the final piece was almost done, telling him to hurry home as soon he had completed his engagements in America. That was the fiction – come home, Peter, I need to discuss the new piece with you.

He felt the dog coming closer, snuffling, rustling. I know you, Shuck! I’ve got the message, damn you! He strode on, too fast, stumbling, mud up to his wrists. He rested there a moment, getting his breath, then carefully regained his footing and wiped his hands on his pullover. A pang of childish guilt. Now look what you’ve done.

The dog was in the music. He could hear it now. Stalking through the textures. The sound of an old man’s fear. Is this how he would end? Five perfectly good folk songs, messed about by a constipated old neurotic.

Peter had written back, encouraging him to take heart and remember the little joys in life – the sunshine, the sea, the times they had had together. There had been no mention of his return date.

The composer kicked at the clumps of withered grass and samphire. Stringy and dull. It should have been plucked up months ago, youthful and plump and ready for butter and vinegar.

The dog ran behind him, coming across the mud with an unsteady squelch. At the beginning, during summer, he had only seen it up in the high dunes. Shaggy and black like in the stories. Flicking in and out of view behind the long grass. Then the dog had started edging closer, tumbling down the sandy incline and scrabbling its way back up.

He could hear it panting behind him. An irrational anger drove him forward. How dare it threaten him? He wanted to run, but his body would not allow it. He pushed himself to walk faster and then the pain started to hammer at his chest. Please, not again.

He couldn’t go on and stood, breathing hard, his face turned outward to the distant grey line of the sea. He remained there like driftwood and felt the pressure of the dog’s nose on his thigh, the hot breath on his hand. The two creatures remained suspended in the moment. The composer would not turn. The dog would not leave.

Maybe he could stand here looking out to sea indefinitely, as unchanging as the landscape itself? But that’s not the way it works, is it? His fingers tangled in the dog’s hair by instinct. He looked down.

The eyes were not red. Brown and wet, like a pup. The coat was speckled with grey, and the dog slouched unsteadily holding one leg at an unnatural angle. So old – but the eyes so young. After a time, the composer leaned down, careful of his balance, and rubbed the dog behind the ears. You’re not so scary are you, boy? The dog looked at him, nuzzling against his hand. He sighed, the tiredness filling him. Yes, I get your message. Come on, I need to get back.

He walked slowly back towards the car, and the dog, its gait lopsided, trotted to and fro beside him. The ground got more solid as they approached the little path that cut through the dunes and back to the road. The dog came to him a final time, sniffing at his hand before lurching away into the high grass. Then it was gone, and he knew he would not see it again. He looked back across the mudflats but saw only the track of his own unsteady footprints. The dog had left no marks at all.

When they got home, they found a telegram from Peter: Arriving 28 Nov. Put the kettle on – American tea undrinkable.

That evening the bands of iron grey cloud were transformed into a dull gold by the alchemy of the falling sun. The composer – duly fed, watered and medicated – worked at his desk, the dog’s gentle companionship weaving through the antique ballad as the final harmonies took shape.

BONUS CONTENT: "A Time There Was: Different Endings" by Hastings Kidd

A Time There Was had its beginnings in an imagined episode from the life of the composer Benjamin Britten. He wrote his Suite on English Folk Tunes near the end of his life between his heart operation in 1973 and his death in 1976. The fifth piece, from which I borrowed the title of the story, reveals a marked shift in tone. His long-time nurse and friend, Rita Armstrong, suggested that this was the point at which he came to terms with his declining health. I have, however, exercised some poetic licence. The landscape described is that of the north Norfolk coast rather than the Suffolk coast where Britten lived with his partner, the opera singer Peter Pears. There is also no evidence that Britten ever encountered Old Shuck. Nonetheless, Shuck stalks through the folklore of the whole of East Anglia and no doubt Britten, a native of the region, was familiar with the tales…

A Mother’s Love

by Deborah L. Davitt

November 26, 2021

They don’t tell you that love isn’t always forever. They don’t tell you that when you lose the thing that was supposed to connect you forever, that sorrow doesn’t always bind you more tightly to each other. That compassion for one another’s suffering only lasts so long, before the empty crib becomes a silent accusation.

My husband, who’d held me while I wept, wanted to pack the crib up when I came home from the hospital. It would have been healthier. But I couldn’t let him. Some part of me clung to what might have been, I suppose.

And because I was holding onto a future that was never going to come, I didn’t hold onto him the way he’d held me, and he . . . drifted away.

It wasn’t anyone’s fault.

The divorce papers came. I managed to clean out the room. Put everything in boxes in the garage. Went back to work—I’m a museum restoration specialist. I spent my days removing fragments of old varnish without destroying the paint beneath. I’m good at fixing things.

Just not myself.

Since work was all I had, I decided I needed to enjoy going to work more. I’d ride a Taotao scooter. I could order one online. No conversation with salespeople required.

Except when the wooden packing crate arrived, it didn’t hold a scooter. It held a statue.

Waist-high, carved of wood, with staring seashell eyes. A little boy, big head and callow frame. Articulated arms and a lost look to his nearly featureless face. Provenance papers in French and Tagalog. A date—1875.

I tried contacting Nile.com. Their customer rep told me to “keep the shipment, we’ll send you a scooter,” as if this were an improperly shipped book, when I noted that it could be stolen property.

They said they’d escalate my complaint.

The statue stood in the empty nursery. I could feel its eyes through the walls.

Then I noticed that its hands had moved. They’d risen, palms up.

I lived alone. No one had touched it.

Unnerved, I put its hands back down. Closed the door behind me.

That night, I heard crying. It woke me from my sleep, heart hammering, tears streaming from my eyes. I’d never heard my son’s voice. He’d just lain in his little plastic crib in the NICU, fighting for each breath.

This wasn’t from some other apartment. This full-throated bawling was inside my walls.

But when I turned on the lights, shaking, nothing was amiss. Except the statue’s hands once again reached for something.

It was four in the morning. I wasn’t thinking clearly. I got a bowl, filled it with rice porridge left in the pantry—another thing I’d forgotten to give away—placed the bowl in his hands.

And hands shaking, feet numb against my cold tile floor, I talked to him. I told him that I was sorry he was here, in this strange country. That I’d try to get him home, to his own family. I told him about my little boy, who hadn’t made it home to live with me. I said all the things I couldn’t tell anyone else. How small his toes had been—premature, he’d been doll-like compared to the full-term babies in the ward. I told the statue about the little knitted cap the nurses had put on his head, which was still in my jewelry box, because I couldn’t bear to give it away.

After a while, I went back to bed.

But in the morning, the bowl was empty.

I had one of my colleagues translate the provenance papers. “It’s a taotao. A funerary statue from the Philippines. Same name as the scooter brand. Technically, you got what you paid for.”

I didn’t laugh. “This statue belonged to someone,” I replied. “It’s a representation of someone’s son. It needs to be returned.” The thought of it stabbed my heart. It was as if someone had erased my photos of my son—the one ones that hurt too much to look at, but that I couldn’t not keep on my phone.

“Repatriation might be difficult. The family it belonged to might not even know they ever owned it—it’s been over a hundred years.”

The provenance papers were no help. Most were forged. The person who’d sold the item on Nile.com? Ghosted.

“Maybe it’s a monkey’s paw,” another colleague joked. “They’re trying to get rid of a curse by passing it on.”

I hadn’t told anyone about the odd events. But I looked up from my restoration work and commented tightly, “Children aren’t a curse.”

“Lisa, come on. It’s not alive—oh, god, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it like that—“

Every night, I woke to crying. Every night, I gave the statue a bowl of milk or porridge, and talked to it for hours, standing in that cold room in my robe. Propitiation, veneration, sociologists would have called it. Ritual behavior before a cult object.

I just saw a child in need.

Finally, my supervisor got in touch with a museum in the Philippines willing to take the statue. The night before they loaded it into its crate, I cried, because I didn’t want to say goodbye. “But you’ll be closer to your family there. Maybe they can actually find your relatives and send you home properly,” I whispered into its ear.

I could feel the pressure of those seashell eyes. It wanted something from me. Something more than milk and a string of words. Something that would sustain it for the long journey.

And I knew what would give it strength, but I didn’t want to give it.

My feet dragged as I returned to my bedroom. My hands felt like lead as I opened the jewelry case.

But when I put that little knitted cap into the waiting hands, I felt . . . better. Lighter. Somehow at peace. “You’ll take care of each other?” I asked.

There was no reply.

But I didn’t need one.

 

Originally published in Flame Tree Newsletter #1, (December 1, 2018). Reprinted here by permission of the author.

PATREON EXCLUSIVE: BEHIND THE STORY FROM AUTHOR DEBORAH L. DAVITT

While I have never, thankfully, experienced miscarriage, my son spent the first two years of his life being sick literally all the time. We’re talking everything from febrile seizures to breathing treatments to ear tube surgery all before the age of eighteen months. I know what it feels like to be terrified for a child. When it came time to write this story, which originally ran at Flame Tree, I wanted the mother to be haunted, but I didn’t know how at first….

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