Forever
Nevermore
Flash Fiction by Joe Mynhardt
John Allen read the final line, “Shall be lifted—nevermore!” from his
favorite poem and closed the book.
With thoughts of celebrating his seventh successful hunt barely considered, a knock sounded
from the cabin door. John opened the door and stepped into the night with merely a sliver of dread, for he was certain there
couldn’t be anyone else nearby, having insisted on complete privacy when he rented the place.
Mist rolled across the tarn. John glanced at the wooden shed beside the cabin. He couldn’t
risk anyone prying around it, so he left the warm embrace of his cabin and inspected the lock on the shed’s door.
A spider, large and hairy, waited for him on the padlock. Although the door was locked,
a sudden feeling of unease curled around his torso and pushed him back to the cabin. He barely made it back without breaking
into a jog. He glanced back once more, reassuring himself that he wasn’t being watched.
John slammed the door shut and noticed the book spread open on the floor, like a wild
animal preparing to pounce. Visions of thick tomes crawling towards him on spider legs spun through his mind.
He retreated to his chair. A knock at the window sent him leaping to his feet. “It’s
only a poem,” he whispered to himself, “nothing mo–” John clasped his hands over his mouth in disbelief.
“I can’t believe I almost said that.”
The knocking continued. John stood frozen in place, until the knocking turned to a dull
scraping that lured him closer and closer to the window, his confidence wavering with every step. He leaned forward and reached
out a shaking hand to open the window.
The window burst open and shards of glass spat into his face, sending him sprawling to
the ground in screaming agony. In a bloody daze of pain and confusion, John rolled onto his back, the reverberation of wings
pounding through his head.
A crow circled him several times and landed beside him. It hopped nearer and turned its
head askew.
“You’re not real!” he shouted, blood spurting from the gash in
his lip.
“Time to die,” the crow squawked.
John shook his head. The cabin door swung open, allowing several grey specters to float
into the room. They glided in circles around him and chanted, “Time to die,” over and over again.
John tried to scream, but a piece of glass stuck in his throat only allowed red bubbles
to curl from his lips.
The ghosts stopped and turned towards him, their faces skinless and deformed. In their
hands he could now see the tools of his demise. Each one of the spirits carried an exact replica of his hunting knife and
a small axe, the very weapons he had used in his own hunts.
“For years now, you have killed,” the crow said in a high-pitched voice, “raping,
skinning, and devouring, the trophies buried in your shed.” The crow hopped towards John’s face.
John closed his eyes in an effort to protect them, but the crow’s beak pierced his
eyelid and sank into his eyeball. His attempt to scream only ended in blood gushing from his mouth and the gaps between the
glass and his throat.
The crow fluttered back and waited for John to calm down. “Seven humans consumed.
Now you suffer this death seven times over, one for each victim.”
John’s victims raised their weapons of torture and knelt down beside him.
The crow charged towards his other eyeball. “Then you will go to hell forevermore!”
The End
Joe Mynhardt, joemynhardt@gmail.com, wrote BP #58’s flash fiction, “Forever Nevermore.”
He is a South African writer and teacher. While having dozens of short story publications, Joe also tends a tome of ideas
scraping for a chance to be written. Read more about Joe and his creations at www.Joemynhardt.com or find him on Facebook at Joe Mynhardt’s Short Stories.
