She Liked Avocados

It wasn't the flying that alerted her. That seemed natural.

It was the complete lack of context that confirmed to Shirlene none of this was real.

There was very little this version of herself knew with any certainty. She remembered her name. She liked avocados. And she was positive that every memory she possessed was a figment of her imagination.

As Shirlene soared above the city of clouds and unfamiliar landscapes, she reflected on her other dreams and other lives. None seemed as real as this moment right now.

The only reality that mattered was her hunger for more avocados.

Only Flying

It was not until it hit the blade of the worst rock, riddled with femurs and water skulls, that the river split open and found the leverage to jump out of its bed. It left comfortable moss, minnows’ gossip, and the sound of its own body rubbing past stones, on or around. It surrendered, leapt without choosing, a reflection in air of the path it had known before—the meadow, the factory, the wooden swing. The cottonwoods, black and white. It had become the ocean it had always wanted to meet, silent now, still on the same path. Only flying.

From Guest Contributor Brook Bhagat

Brook holds a BA from Vassar College and an MFA in Writing from Lindenwood University. She teaches college writing and is the co-owner and chief editor of BluePlanetJournal.com. Her nonfiction, poetry, and flash fiction have appeared in Creations Magazine, Little India, Outpost, Nowhere Poetry, and The Syzygy Poetry Journal.