Flash fiction by A.R. Bender
Arlo's Wake
When Arlo woke up one morning, he was surprised to find himself hanging upside down from the rafters of an attic ceiling. With some effort, he twisted free from a thin cocoon and floated down into an old familiar room, which was deathly silent except for the intermittent sound of branches scraping on a window from a tree outside. All his things were there, just as he left them, and he felt gratified most of all when he saw all his many precious books stacked in the shelves against the walls.
Just then, he heard the sound many voices coming from another room downstairs, and so he swooped across the room and through the wall, no need to use the door, then down and through the floor—defying the laws of physics. He could do that now!
He hovered high above them, just below the ceiling in the living room, and recognized most everyone there, much to his delight; eating, drinking, everybody merry, talking in small groups—that is, all except for one. A woman stood by herself in a corner, sipping on a glass of wine. It was his Muse, who he hadn’t seen in years. He stared at her in wonder. She was The One who reconnected him to those buried and near forgotten desires to write again, much of which he had started: a smattering of poetry, a few short stories and the first draft of a novel. Of course, he could have written more. He had plans! But the ending came so quick--
As he drove along a peaceful country road on a rainy night, that fucking SUV came speeding round a corner and right into his lane. He swerved away from it and off the road, but skidded hard downhill and straight into a sturdy chestnut tree, with branches low and wide, like arms to take him in. The last thing he remembered was the crunching metal, shattering glass, and then darkness--
And now, as if waking from a dream, he was here.
Just then, he felt a strange sensation emanating from within his chest: lights in the room began to dim and flicker, and voices sounded more distant and distorted. He felt as if he was dissolving from within and being pulled away from where he was, but he wanted to stay amongst his friends and loved ones. At least for a short time longer!
He struggled hard against this force but it was too strong, so he succumbed. Soon he began to feel at peace for what was about to happen. At that moment, he saw his Muse look up in his direction with the faintest of a smile, as if she sensed something there, perhaps his fading presence.
In the end, Arlo slowly faded into black, then merged deeper into black, and at last was at one with black—but not alone: that final image of his Muse was always with him.
When Arlo woke up one morning, he was surprised to find himself hanging upside down from the rafters of an attic ceiling. With some effort, he twisted free from a thin cocoon and floated down into an old familiar room, which was deathly silent except for the intermittent sound of branches scraping on a window from a tree outside. All his things were there, just as he left them, and he felt gratified most of all when he saw all his many precious books stacked in the shelves against the walls.
Just then, he heard the sound many voices coming from another room downstairs, and so he swooped across the room and through the wall, no need to use the door, then down and through the floor—defying the laws of physics. He could do that now!
He hovered high above them, just below the ceiling in the living room, and recognized most everyone there, much to his delight; eating, drinking, everybody merry, talking in small groups—that is, all except for one. A woman stood by herself in a corner, sipping on a glass of wine. It was his Muse, who he hadn’t seen in years. He stared at her in wonder. She was The One who reconnected him to those buried and near forgotten desires to write again, much of which he had started: a smattering of poetry, a few short stories and the first draft of a novel. Of course, he could have written more. He had plans! But the ending came so quick--
As he drove along a peaceful country road on a rainy night, that fucking SUV came speeding round a corner and right into his lane. He swerved away from it and off the road, but skidded hard downhill and straight into a sturdy chestnut tree, with branches low and wide, like arms to take him in. The last thing he remembered was the crunching metal, shattering glass, and then darkness--
And now, as if waking from a dream, he was here.
Just then, he felt a strange sensation emanating from within his chest: lights in the room began to dim and flicker, and voices sounded more distant and distorted. He felt as if he was dissolving from within and being pulled away from where he was, but he wanted to stay amongst his friends and loved ones. At least for a short time longer!
He struggled hard against this force but it was too strong, so he succumbed. Soon he began to feel at peace for what was about to happen. At that moment, he saw his Muse look up in his direction with the faintest of a smile, as if she sensed something there, perhaps his fading presence.
In the end, Arlo slowly faded into black, then merged deeper into black, and at last was at one with black—but not alone: that final image of his Muse was always with him.
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A.R. Bender is a somewhat peripatetic writer now living in Tacoma, Washington. He's completed three short story collections, a few of which have been published individually, multiple flash fiction pieces, and a smattering of poetry. He's also seeking representation for his completed historical novel. In his spare time, he enjoys hiking off the grid and coaching youth soccer.
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