S.J. Pajonas's Blog, page 7

All Action – November 10, 2024

The tiles speak to me in the language of luck and fate. Wind, wind, dragon, bamboo. Old Mr. Lee’s hands shake as he discards the five of circles. He’s going to lose everything tonight if I don’t intervene.

“Careful with that one,” I murmur, sliding him a fresh cup of oolong. The steam mingles with the cigarette haze hanging thick above the tables. He hesitates, pulls the tile back. Smart man.

Across the room, Morgan Chen pretends not to watch us. She’s wearing a qipao that costs more than my monthly rent, but the dragons embroidered on it are facing the wrong way. Amateur. Real fortune dealers know better than to tempt fate with backward-facing dragons.

I see what she’s doing, though. The way she touches each player’s shoulder as she walks past, leaving traces of dark energy that curl around them like hungry cats. Their luck literally bleeding out onto her perfectly manicured fingers.

“Pung!” someone shouts, and the familiar clack of tiles drowns out the tension. Three seats down, Mrs. Zhang’s aura flickers warning signs of an impending heart attack. She’ll lose more than money if she stays much longer.

I should kick Morgan out. Could kick her out. But Grandmother’s voice echoes in my head: “Never start a fight in a room full of tiles. The fortunes get mixed up, and then nobody wins.”

Fine. I’ll wait.

But if she steals one more soul from my regulars, I’m going to show her why my parlor’s name, “Lucky’s,” is both a promise and a threat.

The sound hits me first — like a champagne cork popping, but backwards. Mrs. Zhang’s soul, iridescent as a soap bubble, floats from her parted lips. Her tiles clatter to the table as she slumps forward, and Morgan, that absolute amateur, actually tries to catch the soul in her designer purse like she’s hunting butterflies.

What. The. Hell?

“Hey!” I vault over two tables, sending tiles flying. My regulars know the drill — they’re already ducking under tables, except for Mr. Lee, who’s finishing his tea. “We have a strict no soul-stealing policy on Thursdays!”

Morgan bolts for the back door, her heels somehow not slowing her down at all. Must be enchanted Louboutins. I grab Tommy’s gun as I pass — he’s been my bodyguard for six years and knows better than to protest — and follow her into the alley.

“That’s the third soul this month, Morgan.” I aim at her stupid backward dragons. “And Mrs. Zhang still owes me her egg tart recipe.”

She spins, Mrs. Zhang’s soul swirling in her cupped hands. “You’re still playing small, Lucky. Protecting these nobodies and their little fortunes.” She sneers. “What would your grandmother say?”

“She’d say —” I squeeze the trigger, shooting the jade bracelet off her wrist. The one holding all the stolen souls. “— that your mahjong technique sucks.”

The bracelet shatters, and the night fills with the sound of souls finding their way home.

Image made with Midjourney.
Prompt provided by NoGENver, GoOnWrite.
Flash Fiction written by S. J. Pajonas with assistance from Claude 3.5 Sonnet.

You can listen to this story on YouTube at https://youtu.be/JOU01AlUkN0

The post All Action – November 10, 2024 appeared first on S. J. Pajonas.

Echoes of the Past – November 9, 2024

“Try not to geek out too hard,” Vex tells me as our ship settles onto what used to be Central Park. “It’s unprofessional.”

“Says the person who literally squealed when we broke atmosphere,” I reply, checking my temporal radiation badge for the hundredth time. Still green. For now.

The floating cities of Old Earth hover above us like massive theater backdrops, their lights frozen mid-twinkle for the past century. Temporal stasis is a hell of a preservative. The history books don’t mention the color though — that ethereal turquoise that makes everything look like we’re underwater. It’s a trick of the eye, something you don’t grasp unless you’re inside the field.

“Dr. Chen,” Vex says, adjusting their hood against the static charge in the air, “you’re doing the thing with your face again. The one that means you’re composing lecture notes in your head.”

“I am not.” I totally am. My students would lose their minds over this view. “And how many times do I have to tell you to call me Mai?”

“At least once more… Dr. Chen.”

We approach the nearest stasis generator, a hulking piece of machinery that looks like someone dropped it here from the late twentieth century. It’s something right out of those classic sci-fi movies my dad loved to watch.

The warning light on its display panel is blinking red, which is… not great.

“Hey Vex? Remember in training when they said these lights should always be blue?”

They peer at the panel, their usual smirk fading. “Well, shit.”

Above us, one city flickers like a dying lightbulb.

I pull out my tablet, fingers trembling as I swipe through the maintenance protocols that might as well be written in ancient Sanskrit. “Maybe if we just —”

“Mai.” Vex puts their hand over my screen. “You know we can’t fix this.”

“But there has to be something!” My voice echoes off the frozen buildings. “We can’t just let them fall. Do you know how many artifacts are up there? How much history?”

Another city flickers, and this time I swear I hear something crack. Like ice breaking on a pond that’s not quite frozen enough for skating.

“The engineers who built these…” Vex waves at the generators, their voice soft. “They knew this would happen eventually. Nothing lasts forever. Not even memories.”

“That’s very philosophical of you.” I aim for sarcasm but land somewhere closer to tears. “Did you get that from a fortune cookie?”

They laugh, but it’s gentle. Understanding. “Actually, I got it from your thesis on temporal entropy. Page 247, if I remember correctly.”

I want to be annoyed that they’re quoting me to me, but they’re right. I wrote those words. I just never thought I’d have to live them.

Above us, the cities begin to fade like old photographs left in the sun. First the edges go transparent, then the lights dim one by one. It’s beautiful, in a heartbreaking way. Like watching the last sunset on Earth.

Which, I suppose, in a way, we are.

“Should we document this?” Vex asks, already knowing my answer.

I raise my tablet. “History deserves witnesses.”

Image made with Midjourney.
Prompt provided by NoGENver, GoOnWrite.
Flash Fiction written by S. J. Pajonas with assistance from Claude 3.5 Sonnet.

Listen to this story on YouTube at https://youtu.be/iZdh0AaIKo0

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Emotional Weather – November 8, 2024

“Your productivity is down twelve percent this quarter,” my boss says, shuffling papers on her desk while I try not to make it rain in her office. Again.

Last time, her ergonomic chair rusted, and we were mopping up the lobby for hours.

I shift in my seat, feeling Mrs. Henderson’s divorce storm from last week churning under my ribs. “I’ve been a little overwhelmed.”

“Overwhelmed.” She glances out the window where the sky is suspiciously green. “That’s not like you, Jim. You’re usually our most… stable employee.”

If she only knew. I’ve got three teenagers’ worth of angst swirling in my left shoulder (the acne-related tantrums alone could flood a basement), my neighbor’s midlife crisis thundering in my chest, and somewhere near my pancreas, there’s a wedding’s worth of happy tears trying to turn into a rainbow.

I’m basically a walking Weather Channel.

“I just need a few days off,” I say, watching her spider plant wilt as my colleague Dave’s depression seeps out of my pores. Sorry, plant. “To clear my head.”

She frowns at her computer. “You haven’t taken a sick day in seven years.”

“I’m very healthy.” When you’re carrying other people’s emotional storms, you can’t afford to add your own sniffles to the mix. Last time I got a cold, I created a small blizzard in July.

“Take the week,” she says finally. “But Jim? Maybe see someone about —” she waves her hand at the mini-tornado forming over my head “— whatever this is.”

“Yes, right. Of course.” I dip my head as I stand up and dust my pants off. The two-year-old throwing a tantrum this morning on the train sent frost up my legs.

Sigh. My dry cleaning bill is always sky high.

Time to head to the beach.

I avoid as many people as possible as I take public transit out of town. The beach is empty when I arrive, which is good. Last time I tried this at high noon in August, some teenager’s first breakup caused a waterspout that stole three beach umbrellas and a cooler full of White Claw.

I wade into the surf, already feeling the pressure building. Mrs. Henderson’s divorce starts first, rolling out of me in waves of arctic rain. (Her ex was cold-hearted. Get it? Sometimes emotional weather has a sense of humor.) The teenagers’ angst follows, creating a light show of lightning that would put a Pink Floyd concert to shame.

Dave’s depression is harder to shift. It clings like fog, but eventually it joins the storm front, turning the clouds a deeper shade of green. The wedding joy bursts out last, and for a moment, the whole sky shimmers with aurora borealis colors.

That’s when I notice the small crowd gathering on the beach.

“It’s beautiful,” someone whispers, phones up, recording.

They think it’s a weather phenomenon. A meteorological miracle. They don’t realize they’re watching their own feelings paint the sky — the collective grief, joy, anger, and love of an entire city, filtered through one exhausted human barometer.

I should tell them to step back. This much emotional weather in one place can be dangerous.

But then the last of it leaves me, the wedding joy mixing with the divorce rain, the teenage angst swirling with Dave’s depression, and suddenly —

The northern lights are dancing over the Atlantic in July.

Sometimes letting go looks a lot like magic.

Image made with Midjourney.
Prompt provided by NoGENver, GoOnWrite.
Flash Fiction written by S. J. Pajonas with assistance from Claude 3.5 Sonnet.

Listen to this story on YouTube at: https://youtu.be/-n17t8zc3nk

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Glitches in Reality – November 7, 2024

The thing about working retail is that nothing surprises you anymore. Karens demanding refunds for clothes they wore to a wedding? Sure. Teenagers trying to steal lip gloss by eating it? Whatever. But when I’m doing final rounds and notice that the mannequin in the summer clearance section has my sister’s birthmark — the weird one that looks like Elvis — I have to pause.

“Rachel?” I whisper, because talking to mannequins after hours is definitely normal behavior.

The mannequin, posed in last season’s midi dress (marked down 70%, still overpriced), doesn’t move. Obviously. But that’s Rachel’s crooked nose, the result of a teenage skateboarding incident that Mom still brings up at Christmas.

I check my phone. No texts from Rachel in three weeks, which isn’t unusual. She’s always disappearing on “spiritual journeys” that usually end with collect calls from hostels in countries I can’t pronounce.

“If you tried to return something to the universe again, I swear to god…” I mutter, remembering the time she attempted to return her entire sophomore year of college. The universe’s customer service department was not amused.

I’m about to call Mom — because that’s what dutiful daughters do when they find their sisters turned into retail fixtures — when I notice the small gold plaque on the display platform:

LOST & FOUND DEPARTMENT ITEM: ONE (1) LIFE TRAJECTORY STATUS: PENDING PAYMENT RECOVERY FEE: THREE YEARS OF GOOD DECISIONS

Oh, Rachel. What did you do?

I dig through my pockets, finding the store’s barcode scanner. It’s ancient, held together with duct tape and prayers, but it’s the only thing we have that can read the weird quantum tags corporate keeps adding to merchandise.

“Please work, please work,” I mutter, running it over the plaque. The scanner makes a sound like a dial-up modem having an existential crisis.

UNIVERSAL RETURN RECEIPT #847562 CUSTOMER: RACHEL MARTINEZ REASON FOR RETURN: “THIS ISN’T THE LIFE I ORDERED” STATUS: INSUFFICIENT STORE CREDIT

“Ma’am?” A voice behind me makes me jump. It’s the night janitor, except he’s wearing a suit now, and his mop bucket says “COSMIC CUSTOMER SERVICE” in glowing letters. “I couldn’t help but notice you’re interested in this particular display model.”

“She’s my sister,” I say, wondering when my life turned into a Douglas Adams novel. “And she’s not a display model. She’s just… really bad at adulting.”

He consults a tablet that definitely isn’t from this dimension. “Ah yes, Ms. Martinez. Attempted to return her entire life path because, and I quote, ‘Mercury is in retrograde and my chakras are misaligned.’” He sighs. “We get a lot of those.”

“How much to get her back?”

“The fee is non-negotiable. Three years of good decisions.”

I look at mannequin-Rachel’s frozen face. “Can I pay it for her?”

He brightens. “Family plan discount! That’ll be one year of good decisions, plus you have to delete your ex’s number from your phone.”

I already have my phone out. “Deal.”

Image made with Midjourney.
Prompt provided by NoGENver, GoOnWrite.
Flash Fiction written by S. J. Pajonas with assistance from Claude 3.5 Sonnet.

You can listen to this on YouTube at https://youtu.be/oxRifMiYPSg

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Invisible Forces – November 6, 2024

The thing about being a fake psychic is that you’re supposed to be the one making stuff up, not the universe making stuff up for you. But here I am, waiting for my oat milk latte (because apparently that’s what fraudulent fortune tellers drink now), watching actual colored smoke curl around people like some kind of metaphysical Instagram filter.

I may be having a stroke. If so, someone please call 911 and tell my mom I love her.

Waiting for my brain to explode, I blink and look around.

Nope. I’m still alive.

Mrs. Chen from the dry cleaners has green wisps trailing her, which probably means she’ll win at mahjong again. The teenager behind the counter has pink swirls that make me think of first kisses and questionable dating choices. And Brad — I’ve named the hipster barista Brad because he never wears his name tag — has a murky brown that suggests he really did spit in that one guy’s coffee yesterday.

Gross.

I’ve only ever seen this smoke around myself before, a sort of turquoise mist that I assumed was a migraine aura, or maybe the result of that questionable mushroom tea my cousin gave me last Christmas.

I never thought I’d see it around others.

“Your coffee’s ready… Cassandra.” Brad smirks when he says my professional name. He knows it’s fake. I know it’s fake. The smoke around him shifts orange, which is new and concerning.

I keep my head down from the cafe to my shop down the street. Maybe if I don’t see the wisps of colored smoke around people, they don’t exist.

Though I think they do.

I’m still debating my sanity when I reach my shop, “The Future Is Crystal Clear,” (look, I was going through a pun phase when I named it). There’s a man waiting outside, surrounded by no smoke at all.

That can’t be good.

“We’re closed,” I say automatically, even though my sign says we open at nine. Which it is. “Forever. Going out of business. Mercury’s in retrograde. Pick an excuse.”

He doesn’t move. Just stands there, smoke-less, in a sleek tailored suit that probably costs more than my monthly rent. “Miss Sullivan,” he says, using my real name which, okay, red flag. “We need to talk about your new ability.”

“My new —” I stop, key hovering near the lock. “Listen, if this is about that thing with your wife’s missing cat, I already gave the refund —”

“This is about the colors you’re seeing. The smoke.” He steps closer, and the complete absence of aura around him makes my skin crawl. “You’ve joined a very select group of people who can see potential futures. Real ones.”

I laugh because what else can I do? “Right. And you’re what? The smoke police?”

“The Fate Management Bureau.” He hands me a business card that somehow manages to be both completely blank and impossibly heavy. “We need to discuss why you can’t see my future. Or, more importantly, your own.”

The turquoise smoke that’s followed me for years? It chooses that moment to disappear.

“Oh,” I say, suddenly understanding. Shit. This is it. “I’m going to die, aren’t I?”

He smiles, and the expression is kind, almost sweet. “No, Miss Sullivan. You’re going to become Death. We have an opening in the department, and your fortune telling experience makes you uniquely qualified.”

I look at my coffee, wishing I’d ordered something stronger.

“Does the job have dental?”

Image made with Midjourney.
Prompt provided by NoGENver, GoOnWrite.
Flash Fiction written by S. J. Pajonas with assistance from Claude 3.5 Sonnet.

Listen to this story on YouTube at https://youtu.be/tElwBbt5hgg

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There’s Fireworks – November 5, 2024

The first proposal of the night happens exactly seven minutes after the fireworks begin. Young couple, early twenties, he’s wearing a blue scarf that keeps catching in the wind. She’s crying before he even gets down on one knee.

Perfect, I think, already composing the blog post in my head. “Dear readers, love is alive and well on the Harrison Bridge…” They’re going to eat it up. My agent says these little glimpses into my “romantic soul” help sell books. If only she knew I’m basically running a nature documentary on mating rituals.

The second couple is more interesting. Older, comfortable. He fumbles with the ring, and they both laugh while searching for it in the rain-slicked boards. Their joy is quiet, worn-in like favorite jeans. I pull out my phone to make notes, but the screen’s too wet to register my fingers.

“You’re going to miss the show.”

The voice beside me is warm honey over gravel. I don’t remember hearing footsteps approach, but suddenly there’s a man next to me, leaning against the railing. His umbrella tilts in my direction, shielding my phone.

“I never miss anything,” I say, which is true. Missing details is death to a romance novelist. We need to remark on every shade of blue eyes and chestnut hair. “I’m doing research.”

He makes a sound that might be a laugh. “On the bridge of broken hearts? That’s an interesting choice,” he says.

I turn to look at him. “Broken hearts?”

“You didn’t know?” His smile is crooked, practiced. “This is where all the divorce papers in the city get signed.”

“What?” I blink at him through the rain. “No, that’s ridiculous,” I say. “This is proposal central. The most romantic spot in the city. I’ve documented dozens of engagements here for my…” I stop, self-conscious.

“For your blog? ‘Romance in Real Life’ by Rachel Stone?” He tilts his head. “The weekly posts about love flourishing in our cynical modern age?”

“You read my blog?” My stomach does a weird flip. Not the good kind I write about in my books. The unsettling kind that comes with being recognized.

“Hard not to when half my clients quote it,” he says. He shifts the umbrella, and I glimpse an expensive suit under his coat. “They usually preface serving papers with ‘This isn’t like one of Rachel Stone’s novels.’ As if I don’t know that.”

Ah. A lawyer. Of course. I take a step back, but a fresh burst of fireworks illuminates his face. He’s not what I expected — there’s something soft around his eyes that doesn’t match his sharp profession.

“I should go,” I say. The words come out automatic, defensive. I’ve spent too long writing about lawyers who turn out to be secret romantics. Real life doesn’t work that way.

The rain picks up in intensity, sprinting from a steady mist to a torrential downpour as the next round of fireworks explodes. The surrounding crowd on the bridge surges toward shelter. Someone’s elbow catches my ribs, pushing me closer to him.

“Sorry,” I mumble as I right myself. Shit. The rain turns violent, sheets of it now, destroying any chance of seeing more proposals tonight. Why did I think I’d be fine in a coat with a hood? I could use an umbrella right about now.

“There’s a coffee shop around the corner,” he says, steady despite the chaos. “Best view of the bridge in the city. You can watch the last of the fireworks through their windows and stay dry.” He pauses, then adds, “And I can tell you why this spot shows up in ninety percent of our divorce proceedings.”

I should say no.

“Come on,” he insists. “They have great chocolate croissants too. Giant ones.”

His smile is knowing, and I bark out a sharp laugh.

Damn. He really does read my blog.

I don’t answer, but I guess I don’t need to. He tips his umbrella over me and jerks his chin in the direction of Avenue C.

“After you.”

Image made with Midjourney.
Prompt provided by NoGENver, GoOnWrite.
Flash Fiction written by S. J. Pajonas with assistance from Claude 3.5 Sonnet.

Listen to this story at https://youtu.be/SnIzQxwVUnk

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Floating Islands – November 4, 2024

The islands dance their slow waltz above me, white stone and yellow grass swaying to music I’ve spent my life trying to hear. I mark another coordinate in my father’s journal, the leather worn smooth from years of similar calculations. Three degrees northwest since yesterday. Faster than usual.

This is the last quadrant he never mapped. The Last Drift, he called it in his notes, though his normally precise handwriting had turned shaky here, desperate. Manic. The other cartographers said he was obsessed, that mapping floating islands was simply about mathematics and patience.

They didn’t see what he saw.

What I’m starting to see.

I adjust my safety harness and check my anchoring spikes. Up here, one wrong step means joining the clouds permanently. And as pretty as they are, no thanks. I like living.

The grass beneath my boots glows its peculiar yellow, like someone spilled sunshine across the stone. When I was small, Dad told me the color was a gift from the islands themselves, a beacon to guide us.

The day he disappeared, his last transmission mentioned patterns. “They’re trying to show us something, Mali,” he said, his voice hoarse from years of yelling into the wind. “The movements aren’t random. They’re —” Static took the rest.

Aren’t random.

I spread his incomplete maps across the grass, weighing the corners with survey markers. I press my fingers into the back of my neck and sigh. I’m tired. I should make camp, but there’s more to do.

From up here, the local five other islands hang in the air, their white cliffs gleaming. When I overlay the movement charts from the past year… Wait.

The year before? And before that?

My hands begin to shake.

The islands aren’t dancing.

They’re writing.

I fumble for my tablet, fingers trembling as I input the coordinates. Each island’s position: one. Each empty space between: zero. My mapping program fills the screen with strings of numbers, and I cross-reference them with Dad’s old logs.

Four year ago: 01001000.
Three years ago: 01000101.
Two years ago: 01001100.
One year ago: 01010000.
Now: 01010101.

“Help.” The islands are spelling “help” in binary. And stopped with “U.”

My throat goes dry. I check the current positions again, watching the western island drift another fraction of a degree. The message is changing. Has been changing. Will keep changing. Like a cosmic game of connect-the-dots, played out over years.

“Dad knew,” I whisper to the wind. “He wasn’t crazy. He was translating.”

The question isn’t why the islands are moving.

The question is: who’s asking for help?

I look down at the yellow grass beneath my boots, remembering all those childhood stories about beacons and guides. About gifts from the islands themselves. I kneel and press my palm against the glowing surface.

It pulses once, like a heartbeat.

It’s asking me for help.

But since when?

Image made with Midjourney.
Prompt provided by NoGENver, GoOnWrite.
Flash Fiction written by S. J. Pajonas with assistance from Claude 3.5 Sonnet.

Listen to this story at https://youtu.be/pc-qIZp209E

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Imaginary Friends – November 3, 2024

“Look, Mr. Penumbra,” I say, flipping through my rainbow-tabbed binder labeled ‘MONSTER MATCHES LLC.’ “Your qualifications are impressive. Great with knock-knock jokes, expert at cloud-shape identification, and your references from the Boogeyman’s Union are stellar. But—”

The massive shadow beside me shifts, his glowing eyes dimming. Even in the bright afternoon sun, surrounded by playing children and the squeak of swing sets, he looks like a rain cloud at a birthday party.

“But what?” His voice sounds like rustling leaves. “I’ve been practicing my silly faces. Watch!” He contorts his shadowy form into something between a pretzel and a giraffe. What the heck is that, even?

I manage not to roll my eyes, but I can’t stop the sigh. Running an imaginary friend placement agency isn’t easy, especially when you’re ten and have math homework due tomorrow. “The thing is, most kids need their imaginary friends most at night. You know, when the shadows under the bed get scary, or that weird tree branch scratches against the window.” I press my lips together as I run my finger down the list of kids who need imaginary friends the most. Kara, Jessica, Liam… No. None of these are right.

Mr. Penumbra deflates, quite literally, until he’s just a puddle of inky blackness among the dandelions. “But I’m afraid of the dark.”

“Exactly.” I click my sparkly pen closed. “How can you chase away monsters from under the bed if you’re more scared than the kid?”

He perks up, his white eyes widening. “Wait! What about kids who are afraid of other things?”

I pause, my pen hovering over my notes. “Like what?”

“Well…” Mr. Penumbra stretches tall, casting a long shadow across my binder. “What about kids who are afraid of going to school? I’m excellent at hiding in backpacks. Or kids scared of swimming lessons? I can float! Sort of. And doctor’s offices! Those fluorescent lights make the best shadows for puppet shows.”

I tap my pen against my chin. He’s not wrong.

I flip to my purple tab labeled “SPECIAL CASES” and scan the list. Tommy Peterson, age 6, refuses to go to the dentist. Maria Chen, age 8, won’t get on the school bus. And then there’s —

“Oh!” I sit up straighter. Yes, this could work! “What about the new girl on Maple Street? She just moved here from California and won’t leave her house during the day because she’s scared of meeting new people.”

Mr. Penumbra’s eyes grow so bright they’re almost blinding. “During the day? I’m fantastic during the day! The brighter it is, the bigger and stronger I get!” He demonstrates by stretching himself into a towering shape that makes the nearby kids point and whisper.

“Maybe…” I drum my fingers on the binder. “Maybe I’ve been thinking about this all wrong. You’re not the wrong kind of imaginary friend.” I grin up at him. “You’re just a very specific kind of right.”

Image made with Midjourney.
Prompt provided by NoGENver, GoOnWrite.
Flash Fiction written by S. J. Pajonas with assistance from Claude 3.5 Sonnet.

Listen to this on YouTube at https://youtu.be/8RZR1ONcq5c

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The Silent Forest – November 2, 2024

“He hasn’t spoken since October,” I tell Sarah, watching steam rise from our coffee mugs. Maybe if I stare hard enough, the world will give me answers. Unlikely, but I keep trying.

Through the kitchen window, I can see Tommy sitting on the back steps, still as stone, staring into the trees. “Not a word. Not a whisper. Not even a laugh.”

Sarah wraps her hands around her mug but doesn’t drink. Her eyes follow mine to Tommy’s rigid silhouette. “Have the doctors—”

“They found nothing wrong.” The words come out sharper than I intend. I sigh and rub my face. “Sorry.” How many specialists have we seen? How many tests? “His vocal cords are perfect. His hearing’s fine. They say it’s selective mutism, trauma maybe, but…” I trail off, remembering the day it started.

Tommy had been playing at the forest’s edge, the way he always did. He loved to fly his airplane in and out of the trees. When I called him in for dinner, he turned to me with eyes too wide… too knowing. His mouth opened, then closed.

That was six weeks ago.

Sarah nods and sits back in her chair, her eyes distant.

“It’s spreading,” she whispers. “Have you noticed? The birds stopped singing last week. Even the Wilson’s dogs — they haven’t barked in days.”

My spine stiffens as I rewind through my memories from the last few weeks. I want to deny it, but the truth hangs in the air between us. She’s right. The silence is growing, morphing, creeping out across the town. Every morning, the quiet reaches a little further. Every day, another voice falls still.

“I… I wasn’t sure if I should even be here, what with Tommy and all.”

Sarah’s lips are moving, forming words I should hear, but they’re muffled, like she’s speaking underwater. I lean forward, straining. “…Mark hasn’t said anything since Tuesday. Just… stopped. Mid-sentence. During dinner.”

“What?” I’m sure I ask, but I don’t hear it.

I grasp for something real. The scratch of my pants against my skin. The roasted smell of coffee. I try to speak, to tell her I can barely hear her, but my throat constricts.

Outside, Tommy hasn’t moved. Did it get darker out? The tree shadows are longer.

“…tried to get him to write it down…” Sarah’s voice fades in and out. I try to equalize the pressure in my ears, but nothing happens. “…just shook his head…”

My ears are stuffed with cotton, with fog, with silence itself. Sarah’s mouth forms words I can’t catch, her gestures becoming more frantic. There’s a roaring in my head — no, not roaring. The opposite of roaring. A vacuum of sound, pulling, consuming.

I reach across the table and grab her hand. She stops talking, her eyes going wide as she sees whatever expression is on my face. I try to say her name, but nothing comes out. Not even a whisper.

Through the window, Tommy turns to look at us. His face is calm, accepting.

He points to the forest, and I swear — though it must be a trick of the light — the trees lean forward to listen.

Image made with Midjourney.
Prompt provided by NoGENver, GoOnWrite.
Flash Fiction written by S. J. Pajonas with assistance from Claude 3.5 Sonnet.

Listen to this via YouTube at https://youtu.be/Is7wffzQ7fo.

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The Wanderer – November 1, 2024

My knees protest with each step up the rocky path, a familiar complaint after thirty years of this daily climb. I would have told my body to lie still this morning, but my legs would have made the climb without me, I’m sure. Dawn hasn’t quite broken, but I know this trail by heart — every root, every loose stone, every place where the mist gathers thickest.

The collection jars clink in my bag, their glass surfaces worn smooth from decades of use. Regular folks use mason jars for jam or pickles. I use mine for memories.

The morning air is perfect today, heavy with moisture… possibility. I smile, remembering the first time I saw memories float in the mist, tiny stars, waiting to be gathered. This is an old memory, one I haven’t collected. Mine. Out here, they drift up from the town below while everyone sleeps, carrying fragments of dreams, whispers of joy, echoes of grief. At the edge of the forest where the rocks meet the sky, the memories are different. Purer. Untouched.

I pause to catch my breath, my hands gripping my worn walking stick. They ache these days; the joints swollen from years of plucking fragments of souls from the dawn air. I should quit. Give it up. But there’s no one else to do this work. No one else who knows how to separate the golden threads of happy memories from the dark wisps of nightmares, or how to bottle the silvery strands of first kisses and last goodbyes.

The mist parts as I reach my usual spot. The flat rock is worn smooth from countless mornings spent perched here like an old crow. I ease myself down, bones creaking in protest, and begin unpacking my jars. The rising sun catches their curved edges, rainbow prisms cast across my face.

My collection wand — nothing more than a length of copper wire wrapped in silk thread — trembles as I wave it through the thickening air. My grip is not what it used to be. The first memory comes easy, a golden spiral of childhood laughter that coils itself into my jar like honey. The second is a brief flash of puppy love, pink and innocent.

A smile I recognize halts my hand.

The memory trips, stumbles, hangs before me. Most drift past like wisps of smoke, but this one… this one hides itself. With intent. A face emerges from the mist — my face, but not. She’s younger, happier. Her hair falls loose around her shoulders instead of bound tight in my usual braid. She’s standing in a sun-drenched kitchen I’ve never seen, kneading bread dough with flour-dusted hands, while children’s voices echo from another room.

My wand clatters to the rock.

That could have been me.

Should have been me.

But I chose the mist instead.

Image made with Midjourney.
Prompt provided by NoGENver, GoOnWrite.
Flash Fiction written by S. J. Pajonas with assistance from Claude 3.5 Sonnet.

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