Flash Fiction

Silas Barnsfather was so old he could no longer remember how old. He had seen and done so many of the things that people still talked about. In his times he had been good, bad and indifferent. The memories that he treasured most were not those of the grand event or momentous rhyme. Those he held most dear were those that were quiet, personal and life changing. He often dwelt on those.

In the times before modernity he remembered travelling a long lonely road between great metropolises. The day was summered and fragrant. His motorcycle powered him smoothly along his journey, over gentle rises past fields and fields of waist high crops. It was as he crested one of these climbs that he saw off to the left a figure cavorting through one of the lesser grown fields. He gently allowed the motorcycle to come to a halt and turned off the engine. He hadn't seen another person for the last day or so, since he left civilisation behind. As he watched the figure, clearly a female, danced and pirouetted chaotically towards him. When she neared he could clearly make out the soft linen of her gown and the intertwined white honeysuckle in her hair. She came to a deliberate stop inches from him. He could now see that despite the joyousness of her dance and the enigmatic smile on her face that tears tracked down her cheeks.

Who are you? Why are you here? Where have you come from? He rushed out, the words falling into each other. The tears continued, she told him she was the shining light of the sybarites. The tears refused to cease, she had a gift for him she said. She stepped closer. He stepped back. She closed again and without pause put her arms around his neck. He opened his mouth to pose another question. She planted her lips on his. His universe exploded. Down to his fingertips his world changed. He tasted her tears. He drank her tears. This was her gift. Her tears tasted of immortality. Time was irrelevant now, he would live until forever. The tracks of her tears were dry.