Flash Fiction February - Killing Time
This flashfic is inspired by a prompt posted on 18th February 2022 by the Writer’s Digest to write about “time”. This story is just under 800 words. Enjoy!
The professor says that time is like a spring: a golden spring, twisting and relaxing, suspended in an unknown state of matter. And when one shimmering coil aligns with the next, that’s when the barrier of experienced reality dissolves just a little, enough for our minds to slip half-through and steal a glimpse of the future. But, as with all the huge, indescribable things of the universe, the eldritch beings and the incomprehensible sciences, we are unable to process what we see, so all that’s left in our memory is an imprint – a scene, a moment, a feeling, a vague set of words. This imprint is what triggers when we finally experience those few seconds we so barely glimpsed.
“I killed your friends.”
Daniel blinked at the clerk, lips parting. “Excuse me?”
“I like your friends,” he said with a glittering smile. He tipped his head to May and Riane, shifting his arm slightly up and prompting the both of them to grip him even harder.
“Aw!” Riane was saying. “He’s so cute!”
“Listen to that accent!” May reached over his prim suit and fiddled with a golden pin. “Oh my god, I can’t deal with Londoners. It’s too much.”
Daniel reeled herself in, shaking her head. “For a second there, I thought you said –”
“You know, Danny –” May released her captive and swished over, designer skirt bouncing against the back of her thighs – “You’ve been acting strange ever since we arrived here. You need to lighten up a little.”
Daniel opened her mouth but –
“It’s because she never travels,” Riane added, giving her boytoy one last look before joining the rest of them by a white stand.
Daniel backed up a little, gripping the make-up display. For a second, it felt warm and soft, and she whirled to stare at the red napkin lodged beneath her white-knuckled fingers. But as she blinked, the cold linoleum dissolved the soft tissue until it faded into nothing. Daniel whipped back round, mouth open, but at the concerned look on her friends’ faces, she quickly pressed her lips closed.
“Let’s go see Big Ben or something,” she said, “This place is making me feel claustrophobic.”
Danniel only ever saw the Big Ben from postcards and cropped photos and tourist pamphlets, and as far as she was concerned, the clock tower stood lonesome and towering over London, in its own kind of relative might. But looking at it now, she compared herself to a tropical fish that had just realised the worm in its mouth was actually a disguised appendage of a giant snapping turtle. With the brown, lumping parliament building bulking to one side of the tower, without any particularly appealing artistry or sculpture, Big Ben stood, in Daniel’s opinion, in the shadow of itself.
Judging by May and Riane’s barrage of selfies and drilling squeals, Daniel guessed they at least were pleased.
Six months later, and Daniel stood staring up at the Eiffel Tower quietly agreeing with herself that yes, this is much better than stupid, old clock.
May and Riane stood on the lawn behind the tower, posing and preening, occasionally asking Daniel to take their pictures while they tried to hold the metal pyramid between two fingers.
“You girl’s look like you’re having fun.”
Daniel was just returning May’s phone when she noticed the Parisian standing there. His accent was thick, his hair thicker, his as-
“Hel-lo.” May reached out her hand. “We’re having a great time.”
The man leaned in closer. “Would you like to have an even greater time?”
And that’s where Daniel found herself stood around an over-filled mansion just outside Paris, sipping chardonnay and laughing at a badly dressed gentleman’s dad jokes. For a while she had been looking for May and Riane, but only half-heartedly – she knew them well enough to know they were probably in a private room somewhere, not wanting to be disturbed. Then this gentleman, seemingly from Greece but with both bad English and bad French, flagged her down, and she only docked beside him because she spotted a full tray of drinks.
“Madam.”
Daniel turned.
It was the original Parisian, who she had since learned was unoriginally named Francis.
He leaned into her ear, and she put out her hand against the white counter. She glanced down where her fingers grasped the soft, red napkin beneath the Greek man’s glass.
“You should know, Danny,” Francis whispered, hardly audible over the live band in the foyer, “I’ve just killed your friends.”18/02/2022
To Be Proofread . . .