Is Life but a game that we have no control over?  Or do we?  What if Life was just a series of tests we go through again and again until we get it right?  What if we were but unknowing contestants and Life really was just a game…but for someone else’s folly – we, running in our little wheels in our world, part of some experiment?  Here is a little fiction for you . . .

If Only

Sweat stung his eyes and he gripped the steering wheel tightly as if afraid he would turn back after all.  Just another second to crash through the barrier.  A few more airborne seconds and the impact of hitting the water would kill him instantly. 

But it didn’t.  The airbag pressed against him and the water rushed in with such force that he was pinned.  Horrified, he realised  death wouldn’t be so instant.  Speeding seconds of memories, mistakes, joys, despair, and loves taunted his flailing attempts to keep the bag out of his face.

“If only I…”  He wished and thought of the last seconds before hitting the barrier.  He gasped in the diminishing air pocket of the slowly sinking car.

^~

Just another second to crash through the barrier before he’d hit the water.  An impulse made him jerk the wheel, spinning the car to a crashing stop on the edge of the uncompleted bridge.   The door was crushed against a support.   Useless, frantic struggles to get out rocked the already precarious position of the car.   It teetered there a moment before it carried him over the side.

~

“Wrong  if only,” they all agreed, disappointedly. Someone shouted, “Next!”

Too Late

Her 63-year-old face stared back from within the mirror.  Turning to look at her husband, random memories raced…insults endured, explosive temper, the drinking and excuses.  “Too late,” she thought without remorse.

George ran out of the bar and raced home after reading the news about the £8 million win. Overweight, breathless and coarse, he greeted her smugly.  “Well, old girl, too late for you but not for George.  It’s the good life now for me.”  Shoving her into a chair, he walked toward the bedroom. 

She didn’t jump this time when he bellowed his curses.  “Where’s my blue shirt, woman?”

“Washed.”

From the kitchen, he flung his threats at her with the wet shirt and pulp of paper he found in the pocket. 

“I’ll kill you this time!” he screamed.  Purple faced, he looked ready to explode.   Something did. He grabbed his head as he slumped onto the sofa.  A few moments later he stopped twitching.

Her lucky day, she had found the ticket, read about the win at the newsstand and George had exploded one last time.

“Too late for you, George.”  Suitcase in hand, she closed the door.   “But not for me!”

Predictables 

“No, no!  No…no.”  A cascade of negatives blurted like a verbal shield to protect the speaker from imagined intrusion, was a guaranteed response from Carla’s fiancé, Juan.

Lately his predictable reactions were getting on her nerves.  It occurred to her that perhaps she too had become predictable.  He could rely on her resigned responses.  Carla had given up long ago hoping to change his ‘no’s’ to ‘yes’s.  Set in his ways and possessing a general skepticism to sudden suggestions or offers of a ride to work when his car refused, were always met with his automatic cascade, knit brows and dismissing wave.

Little adventures, discovering new restaurants or – God forbid – turning down a side road just to see where it led became less and less with each year.

Juan was a social hermit.  Hermits don’t need anyone but themselves.  Hermits don’t need partners, they need an island.

Lately, he noticed that Carla seemed different.  Not being an inquiring kind, he came to his own conclusions.

“Carla, what about us getting married?  After all, we’ve been engaged five years.”  Juan was aglow with his sudden inspiration.

“No, no!  No…no,” smiled Carla in response and removed her engagement ring.

Little Secrets

“Ashes to Ashes, dust to dust…” words spoken over the sound of a handful of dirt sprinkling over the coffin.  There were at least 125 good upstanding citizens who came to pay their last respects to this community icon – the man who did so much for this small town.  They turned to file away, some giving cold stares or murmured comments toward the lonely figure who kept separate from the rest and well behind the gathering.

“Shame on you!” scolded some.  “Even in death she never cared about her father!”  gossiped others.

Many just passed her with angry looks of reproach.  She barely noticed them, so lost was she in her thoughts.

“No, daddy, don’t!”

“Make Daddy happy, angel!”

“Hurts…Daddy, no!”

“Daddy will kiss it and make it better.  We must guard our special little secret, my angel.  Mommy must never know!”

Funerals finalize, said her therapist.  All those years of therapy and still she felt the anger.

Supported by neighbours, her mother approached unaware of the solitary figure waiting.  A moment of recognition and she turned away.  She still could not look her daughter in the eyes.  All those years of therapy and still she felt the guilt.