Short Stories

There it was, an innocuous, yet slightly run-down apartment building in the city's outskirts. Cicada's leather boots stepped onto the scuffed hardwood floor inside his old dwelling. He had been emailed earlier that the building would be demolished soon, so he needed to take his forgotten items out of the apartment even if he didn't care about them. He sighed, running his hand through his slicked-back hair. Each step creaked beneath him as he ventured further inside. Empty frames stared at him from plastered walls and scattered furniture begging him to take a rest for old times' sake. He ignored them, walking into his bedroom. It had hardly changed at all, but the scent of ash still lingered. Cicada swallowed dryly, pushing down memories of that night. He opened up the cardboard box he brought with him and began putting what he found into it. Spare shirts, broken hangers, and unsharpened pencils were tossed into the box. Something glinted in the fluorescent light from under the bed, catching his attention. He kneeled down and looked under the bed, trying to find what could be hidden beneath. Dark purple liquid dripped from the metal frame, causing him to freeze.

"No..." He muttered, unable to look away.

The liquid slowly condensed into a small puddle, staining the rug. Cicada faintly noticed his ragged breathing as dread pooled in his gut. It folded over itself and twisted towards him. He threw himself back, his arm knocking into the cardboard box. Once the liquid crawled out from under the bed, it morphed into a small hill before growing taller and taller. A low humming sound emitted from it, like a bell after it finished ringing. Cicada panted and stumbled to his feet. The liquid continued to grow, morphing into a vague resemblance of a person wearing leather boots. It lurched forward, reaching out for Cicada, who sprinted from the door, his box forgotten again. The being followed, a dark purple smudge trailing behind it. Cicada's fingers gripped the doorknob, ready to turn, when he paused. He ground his jaw, staring at his hand.

"...No, not again," He spat out, resigned.

He turned around and faced the being, who was watching him from the center of the hallway. Cicada hesitantly stepped forward, the floor creaking beneath him. He walked up to the being. His hands shook as he lifted an arm and touched the being's shoulder. It felt cold. They stared at each other for a moment before they collided like a kilonova. Ink melted into flesh and breath cascaded into amorphous liquid. Cicada breathed heavily, clutching his chest as the being finished melding into him. His heartbeat eventually calmed down enough that he could appreciate the wholeness. Cicada stared at the empty apartment before going back to his bedroom and picking up the cardboard box. As he left the building, a light drizzle started, watering the flowers.

My hands grasped at the hot sand, scooping piles into my bag. I ignored the grit that gathered in my nail beds for a long winter's nap, my only thought dedicated to getting as much sand as possible into my bag. I panted, chest heaving with a feverish pace. Once the satchel was so heavy I could hardly carry it, I stumbled to my feet. I swiftly turned around and ran down the beach, my feet sliding and tripping through the sand as it tugged on my pant legs and shoes. The sun beat down on my back as my arm stretched out, gripping onto the ladder. My chest pinched like a hot coal. I knew I was pushing myself too hard, but there was nothing to be done about it. I scrambled up the ladder, trying not to fall off due to the heavy bag. Once I reached the metallic dome at the top, I had to slow my movements. I put one foot in front of the other. Discarded sand from earlier littered the surface, so I had to be even more diligent with my steps, lest I slip. I heaved my bag down into the circular opening, watching the sand tumble down. It piled up before slowly trickling into the second sector of the giant, metal hourglass. I heaved a small sigh of relief.

One more minute.

I make my way back over to the ladder and slide down it. My feet thump against the beach and I start filling my bag with more sand. Sweat droplets mixed with the fine grains. I kept at this until the sun dipped below the water like a brush into ink. I panted, my arms and legs burning. I could finally, finally rest. I heard the telltale click of the hourglass as it closed the shute in the middle. My body gave out and I slumped to the ground, eyes closing before my head even sank into the soft, torturous sand. I slowly exhaled as I resigned myself to another day.

My soul is filthy.

Like an antique mirror that has been in the sun too long. Aged past perfection and dipped into desecration. I dragged my nails over each rib and only found a hollow shell, an unborn butterfly inside. How I long to be like the Ascended Ones, their pure souls lighting up every corner of The Home. I long to taste perfection and have it burrow inside my lungs so that every time I breathe I am divine. My soul is filthy.

Spilled liquor turned into squelching tar dripping down my throat one too many times. My sunken eyes have seen too many horrors in this world to even begin to list them. This skin has birthed plague, hatred, and wretchedness. My hands have closed around innumerable lives and watched as they blew away in the wind. My me-ness is a twisted mirror of who I never was.

I must be clean.

I must.

The Ascended Ones have taught me well. Their silken tongues trace over each holy syllable they utter. I am truly witnessing grace in motion. They promise me things. Things I keep locked away in my bronze heart. I want to be pure. I need to be pure. It is all a waste if I cannot sup upon greatness. That is why I must cast it all away. My friends didn't understand. They could never. They could never swim in serenity like the Ascended Ones.

This is why I am alone in this dark solemn basement, staring at a single lit flame. It will burn away my impurities until all that is left is golden light. I am told that if I can stare at it for forty-eight hours, I will finally be clean. So I do.

I wait and I wait and I wait and I wait and I wait.

Until my mouth is dry and my legs folded beneath me are numb. A final bell tolls and I look around, confused. Nothing has changed. I stumble to my feet and hurdle up the stone stairs of The Home. I yell out for the Ascended Ones, but I get no reply. Bursting through door after door, I find only empty silence, a statue's secrets. They have left. My twitching eyes fall upon my open lockbox. With trembling hands, I scratch at the air inside. My life savings...Gone.

I stare at the lock box for several minutes, a growing dullness seeping inside of me. What was it all for? I am the same. I am the same. I am...

I walk outside and sit on the front porch, watching the leaves as they pirouette through the morning light. My head drops down and I stare at my palms. I am the same. I will never be clean.

I look up at the mothers carting their laughing children through the park and the elderly woman giving her dog a treat. I watch as a sparrow shakes water off of its feathers by the pond. I watch as it flies away. I sigh and stand up, shuffling down the sidewalk. Maybe I can't be perfect,

But I can accept things as they are.

Rain hit the pavement in staccato notes as Laurielle slunk around the dark edges of the city. She passed shop after shop, open signs slowly flipping to closed as the denizens settled down to slumber. She crossed over a stone bridge and paused halfway through. From this vantage point, one could see a sliver of ocean dripping through the cracks of each skyscraper, like a dark wound seeping through bandages.

Laurielle sighed and kept trudging onward, her boots getting muddier and muddier. Eventually, she made it to a gated cemetery. Slipping in through the bars with ease, her legs took her down a route long memorized. Every grave had a story, even if it wasn't told. Laurielle had made it a habit over the years to check which graves stopped having fresh flowers, making a mental note to drop part of her bouquet there along the way.

A simple grave sat along underneath a willow tree at the top of the cemetery hill. It was clean from regular maintenance, but even the shiniest of coatings couldn't hide that it was nearly a century old. Laurielle knelt down in front of it, her fingertips tracing over letters now faded to oblivion. But she would always know whose name was engraved there.

Ophelia.

Before she knew it, her cheeks were already drying from the tears, making her face feel cold and irritated in the night breeze. She sighed and let the bouquet fall from her grip. The lillies scattered around the grave in a beautiful tableau. Memories resurfaced like the boards of a sunken ship. A sweet smile, kind eyes, and a soft voice. The dear never felt so departed. Laurielle's hands clenched around her knees as a woozy sort of sickness clawed at her throat.

What did her laugh sound like?

Fingernails dug into the soft earth and clutched at the flowers. Was it jaunty? Laurielle's chest rose and fell quickly with faux breath for an even deader heart. Was it slow and meandering like the way she would walk? She bit her lip to hold in a pained sound.

Was her laugh gone forever?