Stems: Short Stories

Happens // Flash Fiction

It's up to her.

No one else can save and revive humanity except her. In a locked cell, the middle of somewhere that she doesn't know, she cradles herself against the stone.

Footsteps.

She pushes her back into the brick as if she could break the building with her fragile spine alone.

Footsteps—heavier.

It comes to no surprise that she guesses who the footsteps are coming from.

A guard, a government official, guiding another man to make his mark on her. Perhaps he's younger, hair color still bleeding a noticeable color on his scalp.

Footsteps.

She stands from her seat, brushing her blue dress down. The window is open from the man who tried a few weeks ago, kind enough to let her get natural vitamin D after the deed was done.

If she can climb up the breaks of the brick—maybe she can escape.

But as the plastic cup and white stick falls to her feet, hope is lost back into her heart. She turns around, knowing the man forgot the weekly item of a black Sharpie pen to write the date and potential father of the last attempt.

Because they expect her, the fragile, broke, and sore woman to remember every detail of the 50 men who tried to impregnant her to save the human race.

"A marker, sir," she asks, picking up the cup.

Her guard, whom she forgets his name, hands her a sharpie in-between the bars of the cell. She takes out the binder of papers and descriptions of every man she's been with since the incident.

Years ago, a virus knocked out every woman on the planet—except her.

She flips to page 50, Kevin Sire from July 23. She writes his name on top and the date of trial then a dash, indicating today's date, August 5th.

Nothing.

Nothing but a straight line and a giant no sign at the bottom of the light pink stick.

She sought after all these years, she might be infertile—or doing the test wrong. But the group of men who visits her every once and a while refused to believe that's an option.

"Sir," she says, standing at the bars of the cell. She hands the cup and stick back to the guard, returning at her little corner.

Not long after the failed test, another man in light tan joggers, and a green shirt stands next to her. His blue eyes, like an ocean on a dark October night attracted her gaze. His eyes remind her of her husband, August. The last thing she saw of him was his eyes, gaining liquid as people dragged her away from him.

She asks every day for him—to see him—maybe as a potential father. But they decline. We don't know where Mr. August is, they say. Stop asking, they say.

The man stands there, putting his long blonde hair into a ponytail. He almost looks of a surfer. And at that, she thought of the Olympics. 'Do they still have the Olympics," she thought. 'Are they shorter? Longer?'

The guy pushes his boots off and kicks them to the side. He scratches his head then collarbone, looking at her.

"So-- do I just—like—um,"

"Not yet," she says. She reaches over for her binder and jots his appearance down. Tall, 6'2, blue eyes, blonde hair, pink skin undertone. August 5.

"Erm, your name, sir?" she asks.

"Oh, Jason Dun."

After writing the name down, she sits back in the corner, letting it happen—like always.

"I'm sorry if I hurt you or anything...I don't really know what I was doing," he says, pulling her dress back up her shoulders. Only then does he gather his own shirt over his head and buckle his pants. She smiles at his gesture. No one apologizes for it. It is like he knows the immorality of their deeds. She pulls her binger into her chest and hugs it around her arms.

"It's okay. You didn't. Thanks for your concern. Um—your age?" She opens the binder to page 51.

"26," he says.

"I am too!" A moment of shared unity brisk with their smile.

"You've been doing this for three years?" he asks, frowning while zipping up his boots.

She puts his age down and puts a smiley next to his name.

"Mhm."

"Do you enjoy it?" he sits down across from her, waiting for the guard to open the cell.

"No-- but it's what I have to do," she says. "Did you come here by will? Or did they force you to?"

"They?" he asks.

"The government."

He doesn't answer. He stares at the binger, then looks behind him. He mouths the word binder, and she passes it to him.

A few seconds later, he throws it back at her feet—just as the guard opens the cell. He waves goodbye to her—leaving her without an answer. She flips through the binger to see a note on Jason's page, 'August sent me'

August. He's still alive.