October 3, 2015

Flash Fiction By Laurel Sparks-Sellers: "The Floating Irony"

Laurel's previous contributions to online journals include those in Senior Living, Denver Syntax, Foliate Oak Literary Magazine, and Boomer Women Speak: Our Voices. In print, pieces have been featured in The SiNK: A Literary Journal Considering All Things, Releasing Times, Cautionary Tales, and Coming Back To Life After A Spouse Dies. In addition, she has self published an illustrated anthology titled Polka Dot Promises: Taking Back Time.

The gushing river trapped Jossi Naish and her car on the hill. Stranded and scared, she knew waiting was the best option. Luckily the torrential rain had stopped, so the polluted flood waters would shortly recede.
She’d experienced this before.
All of a sudden, Jossi saw a body flailing in the fast moving current. An expert at swimming, she courageously dove in without any reluctance, rescuing a man one hundred pounds heavier than her. Jossi instructed him through safety and they landed on a dry patch of tall reeds a half mile downstream. Both out of breath, each recovered the ordeal by lying side by side, silent for a few minutes.
When Jossi finally looked over at him, she panicked. She recognized the familiar scar on the left side of his face. One that duplicated the design of a feather. It was the same one that had been inches from her own face as she endured the rape four years, sixteen days, three hours ago.
Stiffening, Jossi squeezed her eyes shut against the memory. She’d never reported the incident to the authorities. Why bother with all the legal hassles a woman would have to endure? Especially in the geographical area she resided. One in a strict Midwest conservative pocket. Since the incident, Jossi had just learned to live with the nightmare.
Now, ironically, it was inches away again.
As the man regained composure, he thanked her through a broken speech, not realizing who she was or the emotional damage he’d left behind those years ago. His words fell on deaf ears. Jossi rose, wrapped her arms around herself and never looked back as she hobbled to the refuge on the hill. Soaked to the skin, she left him to his predicament, never knowing the outcome.
Never caring.
The same way he did four years, sixteen days, three hours and thirty eight minutes ago.
~Laurel Sparks-Sellers

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