Short Stories
(Definition; little goodies to read in a short space of time)
The Bundle
by Sue Abrie
In bed I tossed off the covers, again. Nothing was right anymore. 1970 had started out so well.
But now my best friend Annie’s art therapy group had turned into pictures of flowers with faces screaming in fear and weeping clay figures showing soldiers shooting students.
Annie’s boyfriend Stuart came around in the morning as usual. He said 100 more people were rounded up last night.
I’d been up early looking for my contact to get my report out to the BBC but she wasn’t there.
I wondered if she’d been taken or if there was anyone who cared about what happened in our little corner of the world?
I’d hoped maybe I could make a little movie clip today with my camera friend. I could talk about the revolution and our hopes. But my semi-sexy heart printed dress had only elicited a few whistles, not the contact I needed for the cameraman.
The only communications we had now were the approved version. People used to depend on me for truth about what happened. The newspaper and the TV told the tales.
Now I was allowed no voice. Even the concerts I’d given of my songs were outlawed. The TV buildings were occupied by others.
I went home and wrote angry poems to add to the pile under the floorboards. Later I took my guitar out and added a slow sad melody to a song I wrote when this all started. I couldn’t think of anything else to do with my day.
The next week the General sent guards to my house and I was ‘asked’ to go with them. I waited in a hallway all day. I saw a grey column of smoke over what looked like my house and I was afraid.
“What do you think of me?” The General asked motioning to show me the ribbons and badges on his chest.
I was only a journalist. What did he want hear? Not the truth; he wouldn’t like that.
I answered the best I could.
“I don’t know you, General. I only know your actions.”
He smiled craftily, like he had just cornered the mouse.
“And what actions do you know about?”
“That you do things to make people fear you.”
“Yes, yes, I do.”
In front of my house a truck stopped and a large red stained bundle with heart printed dress material was thrown into the street.
Pinned on a scrap of crumpled paper were music and scrawled lyrics to a song.
I backed up from the bundle and seemed to watch while Annie rushed into the street.
“They promised they wouldn’t do anything to her,” she sobbed as she and Stuart cradled my disjointed body.
On Freedom Day every year there is a special song sung by the entire country. It reminds everyone that liberty must be bought and paid for with truth and blood. It was the anthem to our revolution.
In front of the remains of my old residence is a small house-like shrine where there is a charred guitar and fresh flowers. I have stayed in that place and I whisper the story to people who come here.
If they listen carefully they’ll hear how I had screamed out the lyrics and the sad little melody over and over as they broke each of my fingers, then my other bones.
Humming
by Sue Abrie
The tumor on my neck was frightening and growing weekly. While working at my bank it was hidden under my red silk scarf and topcoat.
Surely in this modern era of 1838 the doctor could help with this I’d thought. After a series of powders and potions it continued to grow.
One day the doctor had sighed, shaken his head, and shown me five fingers. ‘Five months?,’ I exclaimed. He nodded saying he was sorry he couldn’t help.
I fervently hoped that when my ship returned to harbor there would be the new medicines I’d asked for aboard. I was there to meet it.
My cane with the brass top and tip showed I was a man of wealth and status and people moved aside for me. To complete my picture I pulled out my pocket watch and checked the time as the ship hove to at the dock.
The captain came down and saluted smartly. He had a new powder in a small box from India for me to try. It was bitter, made me sick and I couldn’t eat for a week. The tumor grew.
What could I do? One night I woke up bolt upright in my bed and realized it was simple. To live longer I would simply stop all the time around me. Then I would live longer.
I started that night by smashing my watch. Sad at all the money I had spent on them all I instructed my wife to do the same and I also smashed the household clock. I would not go out to any function or dinner where people had watches or clocks. I became a hermit. I wanted no timepieces near me.
Still the tumor grew and I had trouble eating. My meals were now bread soaked in milk.
One night I climbed the city tower and smashed the huge clock before it struck midnight again. The city was outraged but no one knew who’d done it. I’d paid the guard well to be somewhere else.
The tumor grew and I lost use of most of my voice. All I had was a low guttural noise in my throat. I decided to leave and settled my affairs in writing signing my business over to my son.
I wanted one last glorious trip on the ocean. I insisted there be no timepieces aboard and when I discovered the captain had hidden one to use for navigation I smashed it. It was spring and the winds around the Cape in the south were like dervishes blowing us off course repeatedly. We were blown to shores but not close enough to land.
The tumor grew making even breathing harder. Finally we were pushed to a small cove. We dropped anchor and discovered we were in India.
Hungry, tired and filled with pain I made my way through the village and up the hill to sit and look at land and sea for the last time. I found a boulder in front of a small building facing the sea and sat.
The monastery sent four people out who looked at me, bowed and left.
I sat atop the stone and didn’t move. I felt peace as I sat and I began to hum in my throat.
The next day someone left a small bowl of rice and some water. And I hummed. Others joined me. We hummed in a tuneless choir, until someone was stopped by the quiet of death. Another voice would join later and the sound would grow again.
I would hum for one more hour…. one more day…. one more month…one more year.
I lost track of time.
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