This prompt takes me back, folks! And actually, this little story is a throw back for me. I wrote it ten years ago, for Signum University’s “Almost an Inkling” flash fiction contest. I recall both being really impressed with other people’s submissions, and realizing what a deliciously social art form flash fiction is. One story is not really long enough to be a thing in itself, but it plays really well with others. Perfect for a potluck summer writing party…
Lot’s Wife
There’s a slow blanket falling on Thanksgiving morning, and the snow-quiet is magnified in the empty town, all the neighbors gone over the river and through the woods to happy grandmother homes. She huffs away from the house, hot from the ovens roasting and the tempers boiling, at first walking just to cool down but then just walking away from it all.
It doesn’t seem fair, that the woods should be so pretty and playful, when she feels so bruised and broken. The air is still, and the snow descends so gently it seems to chime. Despite herself, she begins to sing. There are no footprints anywhere, just the broken-heart tracks of a hare leading the way.
She can’t quite remember the words, but still hums as she strides around the bend in the marshmallow meadow, ahead of her the wooden footbridge with knotted log railings. The flakes are lace on the faded boards, and the beech trees standing sentinel on either side are gilded with fall. Beyond, the path curves again, open to possibility.
The hare tracks disappear at the crown of the bridge.
She knows. Her bowels lurch and she is suddenly certain that if she just doesn’t look back, if she just keeps humming and walking, she will follow the hare into some hollow hill teeming with the potency she wants from life. Though she is sick with longing, hands outstretched, she pauses.
Don’t look back.
But just for a moment, she thinks of the people at home, the ones she’s not even sure she likes. And before she can help it, her head turns.
Her momentum pulls her towards the bridge, and she tries to whip her head forward, but the moment has passed. The wet snow has soaked her sweater, and she shivers as the wind picks up.
The water that pours on her cheeks tastes of salt.
Where did the portal take you? Tell us below— post your story in the comments!
Not sure what’s happening here? Check the party invitation! And maybe subscribe to my author substack while you’re at it.
Perhaps a little long, but here goes!
-
Lucia sat in the loft area of The Bookworm– a new coffee shop that opened for business a few weeks ago. The small cafe was a respite in the middle of a chaotic business district. Students would stop by for their daily dose of caffeine as the shop opened, orders from the offices across the street rolled in around noon, and it was common for the baristas to gently kick out the regulars that clung to their favorite spots after their workday ended.
Ivan, the owner, had commissioned Lucia to paint two small canvases of the coffee shop– one for his home office and one to display on the wall in The Bookworm. He ordered a specific set of paints and brushes from a buddy of his and excitedly presented them to her saying “Here. These are the colors and brushes I want used. Do not use anything else.” Lucia found this odd and was originally annoyed by the strangely tapered handles on the brushes, but quickly grew to love the materials as she painted the inside of the cafe. People watching fascinated her– especially as she noticed the behaviors of the regulars. She could tell when Monica was having a tough morning or when James and Heather, the CEOs of the company across the street, were about to score a competitive partnership. She could tell when couples were on their first date or three years in. She could even pick up the subtle signs of a rocky relationship and could accurately estimate when one would pick up a drink without the other.
Gray, foggy, and rainy, the day plunked on outside as Lucia put on her headphones and organized her materials. While most outdoor paint sessions were accompanied by the sounds of nature, today’s cafe session was paired with the sounds of piano sonatinas and film scores. Lucia began painting the late morning scene before her. Ivan stood at the counter taking orders while River made the drinks. Sat at a small table by the window was a young couple staring doe-eyed at each other while a man and wife in their 70’s sat on the couch and did a crossword together. Lucia’s mind focused on details today as most of the scenery was painted earlier. Ivan’s salt and pepper hair got their texture. The sparkle in the young couple’s eyes glimmered from the white paint she applied. Lucia even added the word “LOVE” in the older couple’s crossword. She sipped on her honey vanilla latte as she noticed Ivan walk over to hand her the payment for the project. “Thank you,” she said and began to paint again.
Hours passed as Lucia painted. Her brush strokes delicately adorned the canvas and the characters seemed to come alive. In her mind’s eye, the couple by the window laughed as she painted them. Ivan and River moved around the counter as she painted their uniform aprons. And the crossword puzzle seemed to complete itself as the older couple stared lovingly into each other’s eyes. Lucia took one last glance at the painting– she was done. She put her brush down, sipped the last bit of her latte, and slipped off her headphones to take in the ambiance of The Bookworm.
There was no ambiance. No movement. No sound. The couple by the window did not laugh. The espresso machine did not hiss. The pencil did not scratch on the crossword. There was complete silence. Her eyes glanced around as a sense of dread filled her gut. Everyone was frozen. Her head panned towards the counter and caught Ivan staring directly at her. Lucia felt his gaze relieve her body of its free will. Her limbs began to freeze in place starting from her feet and then up through the top of her head. Alive. Unbreathing. Immovable.
Ivan, back in his office at home, smiled at the painting of the cafe interior that sat neatly hung on the wall.
"The girl with the headphones is a nice addition," he thought.
The worlds that don't know of the Endless Forest are few, and one of those worlds is ours. This world's Doorway has long been hidden, known only to the liminal beings of legend. And to the few who find the Doorway without plan or thought.
The Endless Forest connects all worlds through the Doorways, those places at the thinnest part of reality. Some worlds build cities around their Doorway. Trade across the Forest's expanse is vibrant, if not also dangerous as any interaction among diverse groups can end up being. Thankfully, no wars can be fought within the Endless Forest, for the Forest knows and many an army has found themselves lost beneath darkened branches.
Other worlds have built religions and mythologies around those places. This sometimes ends up with Forest Traders in the awkward position of explaining how they are not gods (or the Forest Guards end up having to deal with a madman or conman trying to do the same). Thankfully, very few of these religions involve sentient sacrifice.
The peoples connected by the Endless Forest do not look alike, sound alike, believe alike. All they have in common is the wooded connection, that fragile line between realities. There is a precarious balance among the worlds, with the Forest as custodian of that delicate network. No one dares touch the Forest itself, no axes hew or chain-saws rev. The only building in the Forest is the Inn, but the Inn and its Innkeeper are another story altogether.
Our world does not know about its Doorway to the Endless Forest, and so those worlds are lost to us. For now, at least, we must content ourselves with the tales that whisper through that Doorway, of worlds beyond the reach of our hands. For now.