Numerical Perplexity

The opened book lured him with its golden glow.

He imagined himself as a student in the day. Calculations done by mind or slide rules. No electronics to verify answers. Would he have had a good friend to ask for help? Were teachers stricter?

If it was a book of literature he would have fully appreciated it. But math? None of it made sense to him. The only value of the book, he determined, was its artistic calligraphy.

“Excuse me,” someone interjected. “Are you soon finishing your observation?”

He relaunched into the present, moving onwards to the museum’s next exhibit.

From Guest Contributor Krystyna Fedosejevs

Supercut

Ray slipped at the top of his building's stoop and flew face first at the cement below. Time elongated as a supercut of his entire life played out like a scene on a museum urn.

There was Ray's first memory: being handed to a smelly, strange man, dressed in red and white with a giant beard. He'd been waiting in line with many other equally scared children. While he screamed, the scary, strange, smelly man laughed and his parents took photos and everyone laughed.

That was really the only memory that came to mind. Ray was only four years old.

Maxine and Me

Linda bought it for me at the museum gala. "So many wonderful things for a donation." she said, "You should have come, my dear! Meet new people."

She's part mother, part matchmaker. I need both.

But do I need this? A burnt, ugly, pockmarked lump of rock. The note with it read "Deaccessioned. Meteorite acquired by Dr. Harris, Labrador 1905. Once much larger, visitors took pieces for many years."

My friend must think I'm like this thing. Dark, scarred. Fragmentary since Bruce left.

I call it Maxine. Sits brooding under a lamp on my desk. We keep each other company.

From Guest Contributor Karen Walker

Mona Lisa

The murder happened right in front of me, yet not one of the detectives ever bothered to question me about it. They had to know I was a witness. I've witnessed so many things during my lifetime that it gets rather tiresome not to be able to share.

I suppose I should give you some background on the whole affair. You've probably heard about it by now. A murder in the world's most famous museum tends to make headlines. Jean was an overnight security guard in the Salle des États who was found dead on the morning of October 22, 2012. He did not die of natural causes.

I was privy to much of the early investigation. The body had no outward sign of physical trauma, but based on the extreme contortion of Jean's corpse, the Paris police suspected a homicide. More than one of the attending magistrates remarked they had never seen such a horrified expression and everyone agreed that Jean must have died in tremendous pain. I could have confirmed their suspicions, and told them things about Jean that no one else has ever known. I have a gift for drawing secrets out of a person.

After questioning Jean's wife, they learned about his marital troubles, about his mounting debt, about his failure as a student and lack of career prospects. They probably read a few of his poems and combed through his journals and emails. They would have seen my name written down, but still, no one thought to ask about my involvement. They were focused on the wife, even though she didn't care enough anymore to commit murder.

Jean's death, because of the location and the mysterious circumstances, made national news. As the investigation dragged on and no suspects panned out--even the cause of death was still a mystery--the national police fell under heavy criticism. Dismissal wasn't an option, but several investigators were moved to lesser departments and it would be years before anyone associated with the affair was promoted.

The museum directors at first pushed for a speedy resolution. They wanted the crime scene opened back up to the public immediately and were pushing for suicide or heart failure as the cause of death. But they soon realized that the sensationalism of the press coverage was driving attendance to record levels. I felt trapped inside a Dan Brown novel.

Time passed, as it always does. By this point, most people have forgotten about Jean. His wife has remarried and his mother has entered senility. He never had any children, and, more tragically, his poetry was never published. You never know which creative works will be cherished by future generations.

I still remember. What I recall most fondly about Jean was the way he looked at me. He'd stare for hours all by himself, as if I were the most beautiful woman in the world. He'd ramble and share his ideas and recite drafts he'd written, but mostly he just stared. It was as if he knew that sometimes, even when you're surrounded by people all day, it's still very easy to feel alone.

In the end, my desire to have Jean all to myself overcame my modesty. His life may have belonged to others, but his death was all mine. It wasn't enough to overcome my loneliness, but there are always small comforts to be found in other people's secrets.

This longer piece was written for the Flash Fiction Challenge at Terrible Minds.

Dinosaurs: A Play In One Act

Scene opens with two dinosaurs standing before the erect skeleton of a third dinosaur.

Dinosaur #1: It says here we used to rule the Earth.

Dinosaur #2: That's a myth. Just because our ancestors were large and numerous doesn't mean we ever commanded anything.

Dinosaur #1: You're always such a cynic.

Dinosaur #2: No, I’m a realist. If we had truly ruled the Earth, we could have prevented our own demise.

Dinosaur #1: I suppose you’re right. But what I find really curious is if we are supposed to be extinct, what are we doing in this museum?

The End.

Eternal Regrets

The shuttle pulled away and rocketed into the distance. The orbiting station would never be visited again. It had been abandoned to the cold, unforgiving emptiness of space. It was no longer an active laboratory, but the most expensive piece of space junk ever conceived.

Nadia looked up at the station with nostalgia. She had been among the last cosmonauts to leave. She wondered why they didn’t bring it back to Earth. They could turn it into a museum piece. It certainly would be worth the cost. And it was the only way she’d ever get her house keys back.