I wrote this flash fiction for a ghost-story contest Wisconsin Public Radio once held. If you're interested in reading additional short stories I wrote, you could find four of them on Amazon Books. Click on the "Amazon Books" link below:
Uncle Oblivion, by Brian Madigan
Bob's uncle stood near the pair of youngsters engaged and lost in a vast pile of crispy leaves, tumbling back and forth, under and between. The others, tending the nearby bonfire, leaned on their rakes, heads down, squinted eyes leaking tears, momentarily enveloped by the thick smoke of smoldering senescent litter. Slanted, early evening rays painted the children's faces in a bright yellow wash, interrupted, filtered and dappled by an intermittent shower of cascading leaves. Bob's uncle had his hands deep in the side pockets of his green wool mackinaw, the one Bob remembered from so long ago.
Why are you here? Bob asked, sitting with his back against a tree.
Why am I here: I'm here for you.
Why not mom?
Addictive personality. You can relate to that.
You could see me?
Something like that. Anyhoo. I never had one, that's why I came. Could come. They let me. Was her, might not have ever gone back, hard to let go certain earthly pleasures once denied; relentless pursuit of pleasure and dumb numbing. Could never get enough. That stuff never meant nothing to me.
Bob's uncle moved closer to where Bob sat, passing the children closely. Their frolicking ceased in that instant, followed immediately by them scampering, screaming to their dad's side, upset by God knows what. A bonfire-tender said snake more or less to herself then built up steam and yelled it loud several times over, becoming frantic.
An interlude of confusion, followed by an arduous process of checking the children for the paired punctures of a serpent’s kiss ensued, as did a thorough unraking and reraking of the pile.
Bob's uncle sat calmly, busying himself taking in his environs as though for the first time, or maybe the last. He filled his lungs, savoring the scent of fresh-tilled-soil, mowed green grass, the pumpkin patch, fall asters, mums, bonfire. When the all-safe was declared and the kids regained their happy composure amongst the leaves, he went on.
Don't have much time.
Why not?
Just the way it is, I don't make the rules.
I don't want to go, I'm not ready. Fear and trepidation overwhelmed him again and he looked sideward at his uncle's familiar but long forgotten visage for comfort, and found it there. They must have known.
I ever tell you what happened to my brother when we were kids?
Run over by a tractor?
I must have told you.
Naw. Mom told, said not to talk about it.
He was a hard headed kid, bout like you--what got him killed--wouldn't listen to nobody. Dragging that stump out of the woods, upslope. I told him. I was up on the front hitch with the weights, hanging on. When the tractor climbed the chain she went over so quick I got thrown pert near straight up, come down hard, like to bust my leg but I was lucky, got clear. Not him though, whole weight a the tractor come down on his head.
Point is, he wasn't ready to go either, like you. I was old by the time my ticker give up on me, an I expected to see him again when I got there, but he wasn't there, wasn't waiting. And when I learnt of his path I said let me find him, let me bring him back. Turns out you can still sell what's left of your soul from purgatory, just to get out, anything's better, and that's what he did, and now he's gone and there's no bringing him back. I don't want that for you. That's why I'm here. That's why they let me come.
Bob's uncle stood near the pair of youngsters engaged and lost in a vast pile of crispy leaves, tumbling back and forth, under and between. The others, tending the nearby bonfire, leaned on their rakes, heads down, squinted eyes leaking tears, momentarily enveloped by the thick smoke of smoldering senescent litter. Slanted, early evening rays painted the children's faces in a bright yellow wash, interrupted, filtered and dappled by an intermittent shower of cascading leaves. Bob's uncle had his hands deep in the side pockets of his green wool mackinaw, the one Bob remembered from so long ago.
Why are you here? Bob asked, sitting with his back against a tree.
Why am I here: I'm here for you.
Why not mom?
Addictive personality. You can relate to that.
You could see me?
Something like that. Anyhoo. I never had one, that's why I came. Could come. They let me. Was her, might not have ever gone back, hard to let go certain earthly pleasures once denied; relentless pursuit of pleasure and dumb numbing. Could never get enough. That stuff never meant nothing to me.
Bob's uncle moved closer to where Bob sat, passing the children closely. Their frolicking ceased in that instant, followed immediately by them scampering, screaming to their dad's side, upset by God knows what. A bonfire-tender said snake more or less to herself then built up steam and yelled it loud several times over, becoming frantic.
An interlude of confusion, followed by an arduous process of checking the children for the paired punctures of a serpent’s kiss ensued, as did a thorough unraking and reraking of the pile.
Bob's uncle sat calmly, busying himself taking in his environs as though for the first time, or maybe the last. He filled his lungs, savoring the scent of fresh-tilled-soil, mowed green grass, the pumpkin patch, fall asters, mums, bonfire. When the all-safe was declared and the kids regained their happy composure amongst the leaves, he went on.
Don't have much time.
Why not?
Just the way it is, I don't make the rules.
I don't want to go, I'm not ready. Fear and trepidation overwhelmed him again and he looked sideward at his uncle's familiar but long forgotten visage for comfort, and found it there. They must have known.
I ever tell you what happened to my brother when we were kids?
Run over by a tractor?
I must have told you.
Naw. Mom told, said not to talk about it.
He was a hard headed kid, bout like you--what got him killed--wouldn't listen to nobody. Dragging that stump out of the woods, upslope. I told him. I was up on the front hitch with the weights, hanging on. When the tractor climbed the chain she went over so quick I got thrown pert near straight up, come down hard, like to bust my leg but I was lucky, got clear. Not him though, whole weight a the tractor come down on his head.
Point is, he wasn't ready to go either, like you. I was old by the time my ticker give up on me, an I expected to see him again when I got there, but he wasn't there, wasn't waiting. And when I learnt of his path I said let me find him, let me bring him back. Turns out you can still sell what's left of your soul from purgatory, just to get out, anything's better, and that's what he did, and now he's gone and there's no bringing him back. I don't want that for you. That's why I'm here. That's why they let me come.