Speculative Flash Fiction - Text and Audio
One More Holidayby Coy Hall
 |
The walls were solitary white. There was one door at the front of the room with a small glass pane. A single guard stood watch outside.
John Oliver was spending his tenth Christmas in space. Oliver stood from his seat in the corner of the room, adjusting the shackles on his wrists. He’d spent many years in the cell as a prisoner of war. There was never any new information. The war could have ended years ago as far as he was concerned. Maybe he’d been forgotten. Or they were holding him out of spite. He figured he would die in this hole. Oliver knocked on the door with both hands. The guard peered through the pane with his large, single eye. It was yellow. “What is it?” he asked. “It’s Christmas, I would like to celebrate. Holidays are always honored – it’s part of the Intergalactic Prisoner Agreement,” Oliver said, his voice emotionless. “Yeah, I know what the IPA says Oliver. When do you want it?” the guard asked. His voice was gentle – he’d grown to know Oliver quite well over the years. Their people were enemies. But on this singular ship, deep in space, these two members of feuding races had a mutual understanding. Maybe a strange friendship. Oliver had to like the guard – it was the only living being he could talk to. “Now,” Oliver said tersely. “I would like to celebrate now.” “All right, Oliver. Just go sit in the corner. Any certain age you’d like to be?” “I would like to be 9, sir. I still believed in Santa Claus at that age. It was a lot more fun that way.” Oliver smiled, trying to feel excitement that had died years before. Yet he felt nothing. He couldn’t fool himself. In all his time alone, he’d nearly forgotten how to feel. Maybe the memories would help. Oliver walked to a corner and took a seat. “Okay, I’m ready,” he shouted. The guard searched the database, looking for memories of Christmas when John Oliver was 9 years old. He found it. Unfortunately it was an incomplete file. Regardless, he pushed the button to transmit the memory to Oliver’s mind. Oliver was waiting; his hands felt sweaty. There was a hint of excitement within his tired mind. Or maybe it was anticipation. Either way he liked it. The white walls faded and suddenly John Oliver was sitting before a heavily decorated Christmas tree. He was at the home of his parents. He was 9 years old. The presents were stacked all around. His brother was laughing across the room. Oliver glanced up at his mother. “Hi mama,” he said. “Hi, baby,” she laughed. “What in the world’s wrong with you?” she asked, playfully messing up his hair. Oliver felt happy. He could really feel it. “Can we open them yet?” his brother asked from across the room. “Yeah!” Oliver shouted, laughing aloud. For the first time he noticed that his dad was sitting in his usual place – the old recliner. His father spoke up. “Go for it,” he said with a smile. That was the green light. The boys went to it, tearing and shredding through layers of wrapping paper. The paper was flying. There was smiling and laughter. Oliver could hear a familiar carol playing in the background. “What’d you get?” His father asked. “Yeah?” his brother said. Oliver looked around. He wanted to speak but he couldn’t. He could see… he could see… that his mother had a big ugly eye in the center of her face. The same for his brother. The same for his father. The white walls were coming back. The memory dissolved and Oliver sat alone, disappointed. “Merry Christmas,” the guard said, as the last remnant of the images faded. John Oliver brought his shackled hands to his face. One more holiday. |
A graduate student in Medieval History, Coy Hall lives and writes in Louisville, Kentucky. |
|
|
