History Bygone

I believed that nothing could ever replace it. And that belief lasted for forty-eight hours.

Wednesday has come around again and I’m happy to present this week’s flash fiction.

Barely noticing the ticking, whirring, and plumes of mist surrounding me, I sat with my hands on either side of the device. No matter how I stared, the glass remained dull. This wasn’t possible.

I’d heard the rumors. Like last harvest that Clayton’s history vanished. The story circulated until Johnston broke his hip. But it had been tale, something to fill dull moment. No Clayton lived in Wolford. Right?

I had to have my history. I paced the room. Mary had looked at me sidelong this morning. How had my best friend not known me?

We’d sold our histories, and mine was two days gone.

A fist thudded heavily on my door. I jumped landing unevenly and grasped the table for balance. Shaking, I stepped toward the door.

“Don’t.” A screech snuck from me. A man stood at the back window, a finger raised to his lips, shushing me.

“Who are you?” I folded my arms frowning at the pistol at his side.

“I’m a friend.” He extended his hand as the thumping came again. I glanced between him and the door. “Your choice.” I turned back to see him gnawing on his lip. “They’ll give you a history.”

My heart thudded. A history! I could be known again. I could live.

“You won’t like what they give.” He shook his head firmly. “They’ll make a droll in their mines. You’ll never see the sun or kin again.”

“What are you offering?”

“A chance to build your own history.”

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