You Can't Go Back: Flash I


‘You can’t go back.’ He had heard it so many times he was sick of it. He wanted to go back, to turn back time. To go to that place where life was carefree, where he was loved, unconditionally; where he was never alone.

At night, as he lay in bed, if he closed his eyes and concentrated hard enough, he could almost make it. Could see the house reappear out of the mists. Smell the scents that told him he was home, feel the slate beneath his feet in the front hallway, hear the furnace beating somewhere in the basement. He could see himself as a child, his mother’s breast pump stuck to his chest, as he came up behind her, held onto her skirt and peeked out at the mailman in the open doorway. Even now, he couldn’t help but smile when he pictured the look on her face.

But then, as happened each time before, something always pulled him back and he found himself, alone, lying on the bed with the metal railings, the scent of his home replaced by the smell of stale urine; the sound of the furnace become the beep of a monitor. He raised a skeletal hand shakily and made a fist.

Maybe tonight it would be different.




Fate: Flash II

Ernest sat at his desk, the same desk he had sat at for twenty years, eating the same sandwich he had always eaten; tuna.

His pencil moved over the crossword filling in squares as it had done on countless other days. Nothing about this day seemed any different than any of the other days and that was just how Ernest liked it. Very little ever upset Ernest’s routine. There was the time that Dick, the new employee, hung his coat on Ernest’s peg. What type of person hangs his coat on just any peg? Anyway, that was a long time ago. Now things were back the way they were supposed to be. Back that is until this fateful day that was to change Ernest’s life forever.

Sometimes the smallest thing can have unforeseen consequences; like breaking your pencil lead while filling out the final square of your crossword. Ernest leant over the table for his pencil sharpener and knocked his newspaper onto the floor. When he placed the paper back on the table it fell open to a different page, a page Ernest had never turned to. He hesitated before turning it back, his eye drawn to an ad. He read: ‘Is this all there is? Does your heart merely beat or does it soar? Are you merely alive or are you living? If your spirit is dying, trapped within its gilded cage reply to this ad and we will make our escape together.’

Without knowing why, he took out a sheet of paper from his desk drawer, wrote a reply, copied the box number onto an envelope and popped it in the mail.

A week later he received the fateful letter. He was to meet her outside the Zoo. She was going to be wearing red boots and a red hat. He checked his watch. It was almost time. He picked up his bowler, dusted it and placed it on his head. With a final look in the mirror he tipped it at a jaunty angle. The newspaper lay unopened on his desk, the tuna sandwich uneaten.

He caught the bus and arrived on time. What was he doing? This was unlike him, no way to meat a future wife, leaving everything to fate. He pushed off from the lamp post, straightened his hat and checked his watch. The bus would be by any minute. If he left right now, he could probably complete his crossword before the end of lunch. After all he had never missed finishing one in twenty years.

That was when he saw her, an apparition beyond his expectations. In an instant his resolve evaporated. He would throw away his routine, be impulsive, let his heart guide him; he would no longer be ruled by a schedule.

He stepped towards her, but unfortunately some things were still ruled by their schedules. As Ernest stepped off the curb his spirit burst forth from its cage and so did his spleen, for the bus was on time.