An Acorns Flash Fiction Feature
By: Diane Dooley
A gentle hand touched my shoulder, and I wrenched my head, gasping and spluttering, out of the frothy surf. A woman was knee-deep in the water next to me, her brow furrowed, her expression concerned.
“There now, child. It’s over. Breathe now. Breathe.” She helped me to my feet and half-carried me towards an outcropping of rocks on the beach.
“Paul!”
I tried to turn, but the woman held me fast. “He’s gone. He ran away.”
We were finally out of the water.
“He left me here?” I slumped onto the nearest rock. “Why? What happened?”
“You know what happened.”
“No, I don’t. Why did he leave—” I caught sight of something in the water. “What’s that?”
“You know what that is,” the woman said kindly.
The thing in the water was bright pink, just like the dress I had on. It was wearing black platform shoes—just like mine. The blonde curls floated in the waves, glinting in the sun. “No,” I said.
“I’m afraid so.” The woman produced knitting needles. “Tell me, what year is it now?”
“1971, of course,” I replied, bewildered. I thought back. Paul had picked me up and pretended he was going to dump me in the ocean. I had squealed and clung to him. I was happy. I was going to have his child. He’d said he would talk to my father about us getting married as soon as possible. And then Paul had dropped me in the water. I’d tried to get up, furious that he’d actually done it and that my new dress was now ruined.
The woman sighed. “I’ve been here so many years,” she said, her needles clicking, her fingers manipulating the dark blue wool. She squinted upwards at the fluffy clouds. “My son will be in his seventies now.”
I stared at her. She looked to be in her thirties. She’d look younger if she wasn’t so old-fashioned, with the upswept hairdo and long velvet dress. Her waist was tight and hard from a corset. I looked over at the floating thing, remembering. Paul had pushed me back in the water. He wasn’t laughing. He’d put his hands around my throat and squeezed; the salty ocean had flooded into my nose. I could look up at him through the water. His teeth were clenched, his face twisted with the effort…of killing me.
“No.” I shook my head. “He loves me.”
The woman sighed. “I thought my man loved me, too. But then he brought me here for a picnic and stabbed me to death with the cake knife.” She waved suddenly. There were other figures, further down the beach. “He came back from the war…different.” She nodded at the two people approaching. “The girl in the white shift with the shaved head? That’s young Yvette.” She pointed upwards, at the cliff that loomed above them. “They threw her from there. She’d been caught consorting with the devil, apparently. She speaks the old language, mostly, though I have taught her a little English” She resumed knitting. “And her companion is Unk. She can’t talk. The only sound she makes is “unk” so that’s what we call her. She’s been here the longest of all. Some caveman must have murdered her here.” She held out her hand. “And I’m Edith. There are other women here, too. You’ll meet them all eventually.”
I shook her hand. She seemed very nice. I was dreaming, obviously. I must have fallen asleep in the warm sun while waiting for my dress to dry. Paul had probably gone to his car to grab the blanket he kept in the boot. I turned to look at the ocean; my eyes caught on the floating thing. It looked just like me.
Edith noticed the direction of my gaze. “Your Paul didn’t even try to dispose of your body. He looked ever so surprised when he saw what he had done. He ran off in a panic.”
“Did he cry?” I asked numbly.
“No, dear.” She offered me a sympathetic smile. “Neither did mine.” She dropped her knitting. “Oh, look.” Paul was stumbling up the beach towards us, his arms filled with rocks. “Seems like he’s recovered his senses.”
“Paul!” I shouted. He rushed into the ocean, to my body, and began shoving the rocks down the front of my dress.
“Interesting,” Edith said. “But your body would still be visible at low tide. Ah, he’s already thought of that.”
Paul was attempting to push my body further out to sea. “Be careful,” I screamed. I turned to Edith. “He can’t swim. He’s in danger!”
She studied me for a long moment. “Such a sweet girl. I so wish you hadn’t been murdered.”
“But I wasn’t,” I cried, unable to ignore my plaintive tone. “He wouldn’t—”
Edith reached out and patted my knee. “It’s not so bad.” She stared out to sea. “We’ll see the end of eternity, you know. All of us.” She indicated a pregnant woman who was wandering down the beach, examining sea shells. “Her husband left her tied up on the beach with the tide coming in.”
She pointed at a young girl with long black hair who was turning perfect cartwheels. “Raped and murdered, poor thing.”
She rose, hands on hips. “Looks like your young man is in trouble.” She giggled. “Shame there’s nothing we can do to help him.”
Paul was attempting to stay afloat by clinging to my dead body. He thrashed around, out of his depth, shouting—unbelievably—for someone to help him. My body began to sink, and Paul with it.
“Will he join us?” I asked. “Once he’s dead?”
Edith shook her head. “Only the women, only the murdered.”
She resumed her knitting, and I watched Paul die, listening to the wind, the waves, and the infinite sound of her clicking needles.
About the Author:
Diane Dooley is the published author of short stories and novellas in a variety of genres. You can find links to them at Writing, Stuff and Nonsense, her blog.
She lives on the side of a mountain in the middle of nowhere, Vermont. You can follow her on Twitter and Facebook and BlueSky.