The play was called Crimson Tide, and Perry kept saying the name was unfortunate timing. The beach was a mess, the air metallic, the tourists miserable. Everyone hoped it would clear soon.
Inside the theater, three actors had bandaged noses. They all described the same dream, water the shade of the curtains closing over them. No one connected it to the building. They blamed the weather and the long days. Someone muttered that the velvet smelled horrible, like metal in the sun.
Rory showed up after practice, sweaty, still in his jersey, a takeout bag in hand. He only stepped inside long enough to hand Perry her dinner. As she thanked him, he was wiping his upper lip, puzzled by the blood gathering so fast. By the time he reached the parking lot, it was running down his chin.
They struggled to stop it at the hospital.
When Perry arrived, another actor was already there, coughing and trembling.
He looked up at her, eyes rimmed with red.
“We shouldn’t have opened the curtains.”
About the Creator
Fatal Serendipity
Fatal Serendipity writes flash, micro, speculative and literary fiction, and poetry. Their work explores memory, impermanence, and the quiet fractures between grief, silence, connection and change. They linger in liminal spaces and moments.
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Clearance
Thursday came with a familiar pulse. The buses rolled through their route. Children waited at the corner with their collars raised while frost shifted under the first steps across the grass. The bakery warmed before sunrise and emptied by midday. Teenagers crossed the park and carried their noise through the cold air. Leaves broke under their feet. Main Street held its usual pace. A man worked holiday lights onto the post office. The city crew filled a pothole. Mrs. Alvarez swept her doorway and said her daughter earned her license. I told her it was good news and kept going.
By Fatal Serendipityabout a month ago in Fiction
Bruce Lee and The God of War: Kuan Ti
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