New Flash Fiction: The Fadeaway

Life might be a slow train crawling up a hill, as the old blues song goes, but what about Death? In our latest flash fiction, Sarah Hendrix suggests it may also be like a train car going click-clack along the tracks. Sarah  been published in the In Situ and Fish anthologies from Dagan Books, The Space Battles #6 anthology from Flying Penn Press, a flash piece inLakeside Circus and in October a short story in Abyss and Apex. You can find Sarah's blog at shadowflame1974

The Fadeaway
by Sarah Hendrix

There’s not much around us except the cars, the fog and the steady sound of clicking wheels against the tracks. The car sways reminding me of my heart, when I had one.  As hard as I try, I can’t hear it anymore. The mist shrouds us in silence. Even my neighbors are muffled beside me. I don’t know where we are or where we are going. Some part of me hopes it’s just an illusion and I’m safe in my bed.

Maybe, it would be easier to let go of everything if that were the case. 

You can’t tell time here. It could be weeks or months or just a few minutes. It feels like eternity, yet I’ve only just arrived. We simply go where the train takes us. Around. Up. Down. 

It’s  steady most of the time, small hills and rises. But sometimes it slows and the train begins to strain up a hill. The car rises into the air, preparing for a heart-racing decent with turns that slams me into my neighbors or the side of the cart. It’s the few times I feel alive again. Those are days that remind me of the heart I miss so much, scrambling to meet deadlines, the time I wrecked my car and sleeping with the lady from accounting that lead to the divorce.  

I’m pretty sure now that I’m dead; I can still close my eyes and see the lights of the car in my lane—I  wasn’t wearing a seat belt. There are other memories, lights, sounds but it’s all so distant. At least I can remember those last few minutes.

Others don’t know what happened. They simply find themselves here in a car next to strangers listening to the click, clack of cars as they roll around on the track.  Strangely there’s no panic, no crying.  They may look around, but there’s nothing to see except the ghostly image of the tracks and the mist. 

Other days like today, the car are slow and steady. These are the days filled with fear. 

At first the memories are strong but it isn’t long until you begin to forget. Little things at first, like the color of the dress your date wore to prom or your grandfather’s favorite song. It’s usually the things you never think about in life that disappear like soap bubbles.

The bigger memories take a while. Details, like your wife’s face as your wedding, fray at the edges until all you can remember is a blurry image. Eventually all you can remember is the dress (white?), and perhaps the outlines of the people there. 

The seat beside me is empty, for now.  Someone was there, days/weeks ago (I don’t know.) When he realized the memories were fading, he began naming things that had been important to him in life. His mantra was a steady stream of the names the people closest to him: Judy, Lilly, Matthew, Robert, Bobby, Jack, Smithy. But as time wore on, his list shortened, though on occasion after a descent, he would add a few more. He became silent. Then, he was no more.

Me? I don’t know. I’ve been here a while—probably lived more than my share of life. But there’s so little left—just a hand full of things that I can remember.  Images mostly, some bits of music, a taste of something sharp.  There’s no names for them now. Just pieces. 

I don’t want to go, disappear, be forgotten, but as I sit here, the racket becomes louder, my mind empties and all I can hear is:

Click-clack, Click-clack.