A Message Bottled Long Ago
Once upon a time Before Covid...
I was sitting before a crackling fire in a chic little weatherproof shack on Nantucket—listening to a howling gale outside, doing its best to carve away the narrow spit of sand separating the Atlantic from Madaket Harbor.
Smoky scotch singing gruff carols of contentment in the neighborhood between my mouth and stomach. Feet up on the coffeetable absorbing the hearth’s heat. The coziest sweater in my drawer (pronounced “draww” in these nor’easterly parts) wrapping me in a warm and weightless merino hug.
And then for some reason I felt compelled to check my email—nothing surprising about that; such is the nature of digital addiction—but instead of the usual wastescape of dreck and drivel, something there jolted me to the very core.
It was a note from the editor of Flash Fiction Magazine, regarding my submission from months before. Probably a boilerplate rejection, but I opened it to make sure.
To say my heart started pounding would be a narrative cliché—but of course every cliché is rooted in deep truth. So there it was. My heart was pounding. Adrenaline blurred my eyes as I read past the first line, still unsure what the note was about. I shook my head to clear it and took a deep breath before reading on:
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Dear Paul,
Thank you for submitting "At The Crossroads." I enjoyed the opportunity to read this piece and would like to consider it for publication with some edits. Below you will find a link to your story with proposed edits.
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I read it again and savored the thrill that ran the length of my vagus nerve. Read it again to make sure. Felt a grin spread across my face—soured a little by that ever-present ancestral voice screeching its warning about anything that seems good before it’s sure.
Then I stared at the long blue URL of the googledoc for a stretched surreal moment, teetering at the edge of shrödinger’s unclicked link…
Why this ancient memory?
Well I’m in the process of submitting some new work, which also means finally creating my new author website—which houses some of my short fiction.
When I scrounged up this sub-1000 word piece published by Flash Fiction Magazine to embed on my site, I was treated to a flashback of opening up that acceptance note many years ago. So I thought I’d share it with you.
Oh yeah, here’s the actual story:
At The Crossroads – Flash Fiction Magazine, 2019
There’s an old legend about ghosts—it says if you want to keep restless spirits from haunting the living, you bury the body at a crossroads, face down. Whether this confuses the ghosts, leaving them wondering which way to go for eternity, or whether the constant traffic is meant to keep them from crawling out of the ground, is anybody’s guess—but one thing’s for damn sure: I need all the help I can get, and if superstition saves the day…hell with it.
I don’t know who this dead man was—that is to say, I know his name from the ID in his wallet, crammed in among the cash—but beyond that, no clue. All I know is he’s in the back of my truck, and he’s starting to stink. And here’s a crossroads good as any other, I guess. The legend