micro-fiction monday: jan 27

There is a woman on the road in front of you.




There is a tear running down one side of her face. She smiles despite this and raises her hand to wave, but then holds it still.  She does not wave her hand back and forth. It remains facing you, staring at you.

You are dreaming.  

The location feels familiar.  This woman does not.  Or rather, the woman feels familiar, but in this location, she does not. She isn’t supposed to be here.  What is she doing here?

Around the block you hear an ice cream truck, but the song that it plays is wrong. Blood on the Risers sings out to rally the children.

POPSICLE RUN, GET TO THE ROAD.

The children will come.  It is simply something children will do. The tune slingshots around you, weaving between buildings, the speed of the truck warping the tune to be barely recognizable, but you know the chorus.

Gory, gory, what a hell of a way to die.

You know all the words to this song.

You don’t remember how you know all of the words. You begin to hum along.

Cars are whizzing past the woman standing in front of you.  She stands in the far-right lane of traffic.  Horns blare. It’s loud.  You feel like a child, standing on the curb, staring at this woman, hands over your ears to block some of the noise.

Her lips move but you can’t hear what she’s saying.

There’s a fuzzy quality to this dream. You don’t remember who you are.  Where you are.  You know the woman in front of you.  You shouldn’t need to feel afraid.  

But you are afraid.

The sound of the city, the sirens, the clanging of streetcars switching tracks, it makes you afraid.  You feel the need to find somewhere to hide, somewhere to shelter.  You take a step away but the woman reaches out to hold you in place.  

Her hand on your wrist makes you remember.  

It’s Ana.

Hi, Ana.

The wind picks up, a tunnel created between the skyscrapers, rushing towards your face.  It feels like free-falling out of a plane, the feeling before you pull the chute. You remember what that feels like.  You’ve done it enough times. Your mouth and nose get dried up in almost the  exact same way.

More details are rushing back, hitting you like the wind of a fast approaching landscape below.  Ana is here.  Ana is your wife.  Ana is in your dream. You are far away right now.  You’ll be home to see here in 3 months. You get to go home in 3 months.  You miss how she feels in your arms. You want to hold her.  

You hold her.  

Even if it is just a dream, you can hardly believe you get to see her, It’s nice to see her again, even if only for a little while.  You can’t help but grip the back of her head, petting her hair.  It always helped comfort her, now it’s helping comfort you.

You take a step back to get a better look at her, and now the smile is familiar and warm.  It’s Ana. What is Ana doing here?

Your mouth opens to ask when a SUV plows through her, her body crumpling and smearing on the concrete.

When Ana wakes up, it’s with a start, her hand searching the left side of the bed instinctually.  She finds comfort gripping the dog tags hanging from her neck, a reminder.  It was nice to see you again, even if only for a little while.