Short Fiction
So last night, in a caffeinated frenzy, I challenged illudiumphosdex to a short story writing contest, with a catch. Here's mine:
Once
Cross took off his hat and stared at the wreck.
Sixty miles an hour, he mused, from sheer force of habit. One man in the car, dry road, no one around for miles. He closed his eyes. He could almost see the ‘92 Chevy zoom across the plains. He could watch the airbag deploy, hear the glass crash, feel the impact echo across the lonely Texan desert that autumn night.
It wasn’t the crash that got him. In his thirty years on the force, Chief Horace Cross had seen more bloody crime scenes than anyone else in the county. He had a hell of a job-he had closed enough grisly cases to drive a lesser man insane-but his steely nerves kept him cool in the worst of times.
He walked slowly around the truck. It was all there-the grille had broken in two, the hood was folded, and the lights were mere shards of glass on the rough ground. A thin, neat line of rusted metal marked the impact. He had seen a line like that once before, when some drunk idiot drove into a brick wall on Main Street.
But there was no wall here. There wasn’t a solid thing at all, as far as he could see, and not one piece of debris on the far side of the line.
Cross put his hat back on and swore under his breath. For the first time, he didn’t know what to do.
-
“Aliens. It’s gotta be aliens.”
“Really, Mike?” Cross didn’t smile. “A goddam’ thing like this, and you think it’s little green men.”
“Shit, Cross, I dunno.” Cross’s deputy leaned back on the patrol car and bit into a greasy BLT. “Do ya think anyone wanted this guy dead?”
Cross paused. “Naw.”
“No skid marks. You think he was trying to crash?”
Cross wiped his brow. “Maybe. But how?”
“Well,” Mike said, “you know you better get this thing solved. Thirty years and you-”
Cross shot him a deadly glare.
Mike froze. A piece of bacon fell into the dirt.
Cross walked back to the scene, silent. Thirty years, and he hadn’t ever left a case open.
He bent down next to the engine, just barely warm. He inched his hand toward the front of the car, as if at any moment he would bump into some hard object. His hand slowly passed the line. He shook his head.
Get a grip, Cross. Don’t lose it over one damn case.
He stood up and walked to the front of the truck. He looked for dents, chips-some little clue to tell him why, or how, this crash could happen. A half hour later, he hadn’t found a thing, except for a tiny scrape here and there on the front bumper. It looked a bit like a scuff, as if the truck had hit rough cement.
The sky was a rich orange; the tow truck would be there any minute. Cross turned his back to the car.
-
“You ever figure out that crash?”
“Shut up, Mike,” Cross said, drawn. Christ. I hoped he’d forgot about it. It had been months, and Cross was still losing sleep over that night.
“Listen to me, Cross. That was some weird shit. I saw it, you saw it.”
Cross stared with tired eyes. A truck. A crash in midair. God, that line... He eyed the open file on his desk. He wasn’t about to let this drive him crazy.
“Even if there was some piece you missed. Think about it. Thirty years, Cross. Any damned thing with a record that long is bound to screw up once. Let it go.”
Cross broke his gaze. Mike was right. After all, in all those years, it was only once.
He closed the folder on his desk and sighed.
-
It took thirty more years for them to build that far into the desert, but they did.
Cross was long dead. He never got to see the new suburb they built, or the new houses. He never got to see them tear up that old road, or see them pour the rough cement under the new home, or see that cement crack one day for no good reason. Even if he had, he could never know how one little hiccup could make a bridge in time, for just one single moment.
Time crept on, steady, like it always has.
And any damned thing with a record that long is bound to screw up once.
It's the first thing I've written in a very long time. What do you think? And can you spot the "catch"?
Once
Cross took off his hat and stared at the wreck.
Sixty miles an hour, he mused, from sheer force of habit. One man in the car, dry road, no one around for miles. He closed his eyes. He could almost see the ‘92 Chevy zoom across the plains. He could watch the airbag deploy, hear the glass crash, feel the impact echo across the lonely Texan desert that autumn night.
It wasn’t the crash that got him. In his thirty years on the force, Chief Horace Cross had seen more bloody crime scenes than anyone else in the county. He had a hell of a job-he had closed enough grisly cases to drive a lesser man insane-but his steely nerves kept him cool in the worst of times.
He walked slowly around the truck. It was all there-the grille had broken in two, the hood was folded, and the lights were mere shards of glass on the rough ground. A thin, neat line of rusted metal marked the impact. He had seen a line like that once before, when some drunk idiot drove into a brick wall on Main Street.
But there was no wall here. There wasn’t a solid thing at all, as far as he could see, and not one piece of debris on the far side of the line.
Cross put his hat back on and swore under his breath. For the first time, he didn’t know what to do.
-
“Aliens. It’s gotta be aliens.”
“Really, Mike?” Cross didn’t smile. “A goddam’ thing like this, and you think it’s little green men.”
“Shit, Cross, I dunno.” Cross’s deputy leaned back on the patrol car and bit into a greasy BLT. “Do ya think anyone wanted this guy dead?”
Cross paused. “Naw.”
“No skid marks. You think he was trying to crash?”
Cross wiped his brow. “Maybe. But how?”
“Well,” Mike said, “you know you better get this thing solved. Thirty years and you-”
Cross shot him a deadly glare.
Mike froze. A piece of bacon fell into the dirt.
Cross walked back to the scene, silent. Thirty years, and he hadn’t ever left a case open.
He bent down next to the engine, just barely warm. He inched his hand toward the front of the car, as if at any moment he would bump into some hard object. His hand slowly passed the line. He shook his head.
Get a grip, Cross. Don’t lose it over one damn case.
He stood up and walked to the front of the truck. He looked for dents, chips-some little clue to tell him why, or how, this crash could happen. A half hour later, he hadn’t found a thing, except for a tiny scrape here and there on the front bumper. It looked a bit like a scuff, as if the truck had hit rough cement.
The sky was a rich orange; the tow truck would be there any minute. Cross turned his back to the car.
-
“You ever figure out that crash?”
“Shut up, Mike,” Cross said, drawn. Christ. I hoped he’d forgot about it. It had been months, and Cross was still losing sleep over that night.
“Listen to me, Cross. That was some weird shit. I saw it, you saw it.”
Cross stared with tired eyes. A truck. A crash in midair. God, that line... He eyed the open file on his desk. He wasn’t about to let this drive him crazy.
“Even if there was some piece you missed. Think about it. Thirty years, Cross. Any damned thing with a record that long is bound to screw up once. Let it go.”
Cross broke his gaze. Mike was right. After all, in all those years, it was only once.
He closed the folder on his desk and sighed.
-
It took thirty more years for them to build that far into the desert, but they did.
Cross was long dead. He never got to see the new suburb they built, or the new houses. He never got to see them tear up that old road, or see them pour the rough cement under the new home, or see that cement crack one day for no good reason. Even if he had, he could never know how one little hiccup could make a bridge in time, for just one single moment.
Time crept on, steady, like it always has.
And any damned thing with a record that long is bound to screw up once.
It's the first thing I've written in a very long time. What do you think? And can you spot the "catch"?