Narrators needed for Flash Fiction Readings: ROUND 4

As the newly-licenced Las Vegas Minister Conor O’Connor re-read the cue-cards handed to him by the strange Yorkshireman, he considered if this was the profession for him. The pair stood before the chapel’s alter and O’Connor gestured to what the Yorkshireman was holding. It was oval, covered by a yellowed bridal veil. Something stirred inside it. 

“Read t’cards,” said the Yorkshireman. “Start with 1.” 

O’Connor shuffled through the cards, finding (1) and paused. He was dressed in his ceremonial golden 3-piece suit, the Yorkshire man had donned a tweed cap, chequered sweater, and corduroy trousers and a pipe. “I understand this is Vegas, but there’s a limit.” 

The Yorkshireman stared O’Connor down, chewed hard on his pipe and adjusted his cap. “I’ve come ere, t’Vegas, t’renew our vows, what’s t’problem?” The Yorkshireman’s accent was thick. O’Connor struggled to follow, but that wasn’t the main issue. 

“But a bird?” 

“Aye, this ere bird”. The Yorkshireman pulled away the veil, revealing the Lyrebird in the cage: brown like a pheasant, wings curved, rufous in colour and the bill, legs and feet were black. 

“Sir, with respect…” O’Connor began, “I don’t think –” 

“Yer’ve got yer money, do this, please.” O’Connor looked at the Lyrebird with curiosity and sympathy. He shared the bird’s sense of being trapped. 

“This ere bird, copies any noise it ‘ears. Trained it t’copy wife’s voice. Spent fifty-years recording ‘er with camera, spent last three training Vanessa. Vanessa, t’real wife, died, four year ago. Promised ‘er one day, we’d renew our vows in Vegas. Cancer took ‘er before we had chance.”

 The Yorkshireman’s eyes started to well up, the pain still raw. “Respect our marriage, please. I just want t’pretend that’s she still ere with me, to renew ‘er vows with me, please.” 

There was a pause as O’Connor attempted to take in all that he had just heard. “Okay.” 

“Now, those cards I handed t’yer, it’ll answer if yer read out t’cards as I wrote them, yer understand?”. The Yorkshireman brought the Lyrebird to eye-level. “Hello Vanessa” he said with old love in his eyes. 

“HeLlO wALtEr.” Replied Vanessa.

It was a time of uncertainty. Was just another worn-down tyre thrown to the burning pile. Directionless. Heavy at the chest. Could do with some advice. Heard there was a guy hanging out by the crossroads. A good a plan as any. Too much time inside my own head. Could lend a fresh perspective. Set me on the right path.

Headed out of town. A long dirt road. Wasn’t five minutes before I saw it: the Queue. Must’ve been a 100 persons long. Teenager, blonde with train-track braces, handed out handwritten tickets. I was #291. Last in line. The man was named Shamus. Queue this long? Must’ve been good. 

Hours passed. With each step I got closer, the more of conversations I heard. Sounded smart enough. What was his motive for being out here? What’d he have to gain? 

Queued from dusk till around 2AM. Had nothing particular that needed doing. Became next in line. Expected to be told that he was tired. That he couldn’t see me. Got lucky. Passed him my ticket. Got to have my turn. Noticed he stood by the body of someone. Throat slashed. Blood’d turned black in the moonlight. No one had asked about him.

“What do you need?” he asked. Wasn’t materialistic. Assumed many had asked for something from him. 

“Nothing. Direction. Something to do” I replied. 

Saw him reach inside his coat. Expected a cigarette pack or a hip flask. Pulled out painkillers. Looked him over. Dark patches under eyes. A Slow sway. A light slur to his words. Black tipped fingers. He was tired. Turned, saw least another 100 waiting their turn. Stroked the heavy at my chest. 

“Ain’t your master, you have to take what you want.” He then swallowed a half dozen painkillers. Wasn’t a great answer. Expected better. “Are we done?” he asked. 

“Yeah, we’re done.” I took out the heavy at my chest, cocked it and emptied the full magazine into his head. Fell hard. Landed on top of slashed throat. Another burning tyre. 

Turned and faced the queue. “Next number” I called.

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She asked to be cremated. I refused. Not yet. Not until I got my answers. Not like she could object. We were both faded by the end. Took eight months. Barely spoke, never touched. Love gave in to hate. Divorce. No. Too many papers and stress. Wasn’t worth the effort. Both couldn’t wait for her to go. She passed. Instead of being “With the wind,” I had her prepared. No kids. No objections. No one left to respect her final wishes.

I wanted her as a Tome. She didn’t. I had the pulse. She lost hers. 2047. Reading made its comeback. New tech. Allowed for everything that you were to be ripped, transferred, and stored into a printed book. One person, one copy. Every thought. Every action. Every secret. 

Made the payment using our shared account. Made me chuckle. She would’ve hated that. 

The process took a month. I was patient. Knew what I was getting was worth it. 

In the end, she wasn’t scared of death. No. She was scared of being discovered. She hated that I outlasted her. Knew this was coming. Knew I’d do this to her.

It arrived. Page by page I learned who she really was. Everything she kept hidden away until her bitter end. Behind that black box in her chest.
It was heavy. Just under 1000 pages. Took another month to read. I took my time. Learned so many things. 

Every fear. Every suspicion. I was right about it all. Married a completely different person. 

Friends. Family. Tribulations. Tragedies. All that shaped her, I had to learn from her Tome. 

It hurt. Before the end I would’ve wanted her to share this with me. It shouldn’t have needed to come to this. To betray you, to pick at you like a vulture on dead flesh. I am not proud. Not one bit. But now I know. I know the real you. Only downside: we could never talk about it. 

There’s no comfort. Just an acknowledgement.

In life, we were only ever strangers. 

If it hadn’t taken you, we never would’ve lasted.

“Complete CHARMER profile questions, attach photo, click SUBMIT”.  

Tabatha Runeheart stared at the yet to be filled-in sign up form for her yet untouched dating profile - despite installing it over a week ago. She stared and sighed a remarkably impressive sigh for a woman of her size and stature: 5’2 and neat. She wasn’t ready. But three months had come and gone since she’d thrown out another one of her ‘Bewitched Boys’ and she was tired of the one-night abracadabra routine. “No more tricks or bewitchments,” she thought. The next person she’d date would find her instead and it would be for what they really saw, not what she could make them see.

She answered the ‘Name’ question, avoided ‘Age and ‘Build’ altogether, and went straight to ‘Likes’ and ‘Dislikes’. Tabatha knew next to nothing about dating apps, but she knew that whatever she brewed up would determine all future interactions, if any.

Out came another impressive sigh. Out there, she had beguiled every wizard, warlock, enchanter, and conjuror of cheap tricks within the kingdom, what else was out there beside the odd foul-smelling ghoul or potion-addicted occultist that she’d find on this app? Was this pointless?

She reflected on the reality that witches don’t tend to want relationships typically, comfortably spending centuries alone, only wanting another's affection during those final few hundred-years of their extraordinarily long lives. Tabatha wasn’t like other witches, relatively young, being only 219, and yet she had as many relationships as she had birthdays. Why was she so different?

CLICK! Profile picture done. With the help of the app’s auto-fill function, she completed her profile, leaving the results to the disobedient hands of fate.  

She put down her phone and went off to her cauldron to brew herself something nice and to feed her familiar. Summer had passed; the longest she’d been alone. Thinking optimistically, maybe in the next few months, she’d meet a nice necromancer. Someone to share a cauldron with, maybe even raise the dead with. Maybe fall could be the season, her season, to finally get what she’s wanted.