Advent (Flash Fiction)

Story written by Kilmeny MacMichael

At the top of the road where the box canyon drops, there is a tall, grey chain-link fence. And an unreasonably large gate, locked against a precipice of grey rock, under a blanket of white fur from the sky. I’ve been here before.

It is a place for poor family picnics and teenage rendezvous, for dogs off leash. A place where you might spend a night without permission, and be chased away come morning. It is a place where the city, if you keep your back to it, can no longer be heard or seen. It is a place without trees, without shade. In this early winter, it is cold.

A path is muddled into the snow, along the fence. Boot and sneaker tracks, canine prints, both domestic and coyote, all confuse the evidence. The evidence of a man who walked too close, perhaps. He may have— must have— slipped beneath the fence.

I, a woman, see that boots have tread along the fence, alongside the gate. I see the impressions of absences.

I can’t read the meaning in this, this echo of stride recorded in frozen precipitation.

The sky above the fence would not stop anyone. I move my hands deeper into parka pockets, feel grit of broken, greying lint. Someone cries for a helicopter. The wife.

The question is, did the man come back from the fence, or did he dive? Did he fall or climb? Was he alone? Actually, or figuratively. Does it matter if or how he was pushed?

The frost white Honda Accord registered in his name sits in the pullout near the fence, the driver’s side door left open.

Too much traffic has come and gone for tire impressions to be of any use.

The wife still demands the helicopter, apparently unhappy without whipping wings. I look at the fence. I know the edges along the fence, this grey rock, will crumble into brown, sand, gravel, tumble down a fresh, raw colour. It takes only a little pressure. A few stray steps.

“He’s not dead,” the wife who was left behind wails, “You can’t tell from here.”

She’s right. You can’t tell from here. From here, where I stand, there is nothing but sky, cliff edge and fence. There are no broken backs.

Staying back, respecting boundary, I, detective, see distant, winter-resting achromatic mountain cliff, splashing with whirling lightbar blue and reds.

There is no proof of fight, only tracks in snow. He could have been alone. He could’ve walked away alone. He could have been confronted, and, or, gotten into a black coupe. The wife was too slow to arrive to stop him, to stop them. Or was she in time?

From here, Mexico is a traditional refuge, remains a common destination despite or because of cartels and Federales. If they drove all night, they might be there, now. Slowing for a speed bump, waving over a newspaper vendor, smiling, passing the smile on with a handful of crisp, green and marked bills.

A pay-day loan company falls victim to a larcenous scheme. An outlet manager who has been spending time with a girl – a woman – a woman younger than his wife – a vixen who owns a fast, black-sheathed engine— the manager chooses the money and flight. Waits until the fourth Friday morning of the month. What is safe?

Pinned to the seat of the Accord beneath a window scraper, on the back of a yellow form, two words, “I’m sorry.” His writing? Something for the experts to decide.

Sorry for what?

Does he get far enough, fast enough, to escape the sharks, choking on their own medicine, circling for revenge, seeking tearing mouthfuls? How much did he plan? How much of what we will see today is successful execution?

If I get closer to the edge of this precipice, I will, perhaps, see a smash-limb shape, hung between boulders. A fallen man, a murdering, blood pooling darkly, many suspects.

I stay back a moment longer. I, spirit, wearing pale skin evolved to sponge in any light, can see no reason, why, instead of falling, a man could not rise from the muted echoes of this box canyon. Why, he could not, climbing beyond the mist of cloud, weaving into hidden green and flowers – heading south – always south – why could he not find an innocence?