This story I am going to share was one that was written with a specific prompt in mind for a flash fiction website called Doorknobs & Bodypaint. This story never made the cut, but I enjoyed writing it.
Love is Never Black and White
Barnabus stands there with his hands covered in moist soil. He can feel it gather beneath his fingernails; feel the mass of it building pressure there. The smell of it is musty and cloying having been fertilized by the flesh of his dead cat, Iago, for nearly a decade. Barnabus has stood here at Iago’s grave every morning with his black coffee thinking of their time together. Sometimes he would tell Iago the contents of the upcoming day, not today. He isn’t quite sure why he has risen so early this morning nor why his fingers are gripping the sod and dirt in apprehension.
The dorsum of his right hand is littered with lines of red. Tiny beads of blood form like a row of men along the wall at the Inquisition. They lay there oozing from the bite of thorns on the old Abraham Lincoln rose bush. Barnabus looks down into the earth where he had dug a hole years ago that was once covered and now reopened. The terra is devastated by deep scars ravaged from the different plates of his life colliding at high rates of speed with great force. A certain perplexity swirls about his face like the smoke from the cigarettes he quit smoking several years ago.
He kneels down, jeans soaking up the morning dew from the grass, and pries at the golden blanket containing the remains of Iago—his once true friend. He pauses. The bones feel disconnected in his hands; they feel limp like a sleeping infant and he is unsure now of what he has done. Barnabus is afraid to peel back the silken edges frayed with time and filled with insect holes; he’s afraid of what he might find. He questions his needs. He questions his motives for being in this particular time-space continuum.
The bones gleam against the blanket like burning stars. He has to squint his eyes against their beauty lying delicate in his hands. The succulent soil in mounds at his feet dives into the hole, a progressively angry time warp. Iago’s body is curled like a bass clef in his hands. A simple song constructed of bones. They are Barnabus’ remnants of a friend and a sad reminder of a love he lost the ability to feel. His fingers touch the skull gently. He will do unmentionable things.
Aleathia Drehmer
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