"Myosotis"
Astrohaus recently sponsored their second-annual "flash fiction" Freewrite 500 writing challenge. You might know their name. They're makers of various typewriter-like writing devices with a high design-y aspect. I don't need one, but I've kept my eyes on them for a while. They gave away three models to the top three entrants, in a field of over one thousand.
Alas, I didn't place (again, I don't need one) but I put an entry in. The theme this year was "Haunted" with a hard limit of 500 words. Being a novelist, I'm not used to constraining myself to that tight a limit, and it was a genuine personal challenge to pack as much story as I could into as little space as was allowed. I cut a lot of setup out, and spent a fair amount of time iterating on swapping out words, opening up space in one portion to be able to expand in another. As an exercise, I learned a lot. If they run it again next year, I'm might enter again next year, when I don't need one again.
In the meantime, I'll dig out my AlphaSmart Neo and keep practicing.
Caleb hoped he wouldn't be murdered tonight.
"Haunted?" asked the flyer in large letters, above a hand-drawn flower initialed M.S.. Caleb was compelled to call the number. It played a staticky recording about "gatherings on third Thursdays" and disconnected. The Wednesday before—yesterday—the number texted back with a location and time and no names. His confidence ebbed when the ride share stopped by a sagging chain-link fence outside town.
A blue arrow clipped by a rusted gate pointed to a lit warehouse at the address. His phone signal dropped to nothing as he approached.
He hoped the police dogs could locate his body in case he was murdered.
"Alfie" greeted him, according to the badge pinned to his frayed cardigan. He was stocky and middle-aged, and clutched a clipboard erupting in paperwork. Alfie looked more like an overworked librarian than a homicidal maniac. He led Caleb inside, past a card table with donut holes, coffee, and Styrofoam cups, to a folding chair at the end of a semicircle. Caleb sat two away from a twentysomething girl with red-rimmed eyes. The rest of the group were retirees or older, all bundled against October's chill.
Alfie called for order. "All right, let's begin. We have two new hosts! Liana, could you introduce yourself? How did you find us, and who is with you?"
She shook as she stood. "I'm Liana. Liana McNally. My gran, she just recently—" Liana sniffled into a wadded tissue. "I'm sorry. I'm not... I shouldn't..."
"It's all right." Alfie guided her aside. "Newcomers can be demanding. Caleb, if you don't mind?"
Caleb stood and picked at his coat sleeves. "Hello, I'm Caleb Peterson. I'm here with Chris, um, a friend. From camp when I was a kid." He shifted and swallowed back a sob. "Chris drowned." This is stupid. Murder would be less embarrassing.
"And you found us how?" prompted Alfie.
Liana was gone. Caleb hadn't seen her leave.
"This flyer at my bus stop at Fifth and Barbour. It kind of, I don't know—"
"Caught your eye?" Alfie made a mark on a tattered map.
"Yeah. I never noticed it before."
"A blue flower? Five petals, like this?" He tapped his badge. "And gone the next day?"
"How did you know?"
"The Myosotis Society places their invitations to get our attention." Alfie flipped through his papers. "Or that's our guess, anyway. Nobody on this side knows for sure. You noticed because you were meant to." He gestured around the room. "We're messaged every month, some for years."
Chris stood by Caleb. He was forever seventeen, grim-faced and still.
"Why invite me now?" said Caleb. "After two decades?"
"We say they're 'rooted,' woven into our—" Alfie's watch chimed. "Sorry. It's 9:10, everyone! Five minutes! Make room."
The vacant seats began to darken with figures etched from memory and shadow. Chris smiled and moved towards them, distancing from Caleb.
"I believe they're lonely," confided Alfie, "and if we can give a final gift, why not friends?"