Seashells
Flash Fiction by Amanda Caza

I'm bending to pick seashells. My black dress skims
across the sand, but leaves no trace of my presence.
Seagulls whirl and squawk overhead with their beady
eyes glazed by the wind. My feet pad across unmarked
sand. My nose is takes in the air as I always remember
it; rich with the scent of warm donuts, fish and
chips, and the stinging cleanliness of the sea. My
hands are delicate, my fingers long, my skin as pale
and thin as cotton. I'm bending to pick seashells, but
they keep slipping through my grasp.

It's not such a bad way to spend my time, not when I
let my mind drift to the the alternatives. Of course
I'd rather be somewhere else, but they are so busy
with In-Between  Admin and New Admissions that it's
taking them a while to find me a place. They are not
quite sure how to classify me. My journey here was so
quick that they didn't have time to do the re-run.
They hope that if I stay here a while, I might
remember spontaneously.

I used to visit these shores a lot, from when I was a
toddler until that fateful night; I suppose it must be
about seventy years ago by now. I never imagined that
I would end up stuck here. But that is the price I
have to pay; the price he has to pay; the price all
three of us have had to pay. It was a hot and bitter
love.

I don't see my unborn baby. He was immediately taken
away from me, resides now in some other place; at
God's right hand, I expect. "He was an innocent", they
told me at the Bureau, eyes ablaze with judgement.
"You'll have to stay put until Reg comes in. That's
the only way we can ever find out if you fell, you
were pushed, or you jumped."

Reg must be around 93 now, so I won't have long to
wait. Meanwhile, I watch as he walks along the shore
and wish I could pick up the seashells and throw them
in his face.