2025 PARANORMAL FLASH FICTION CHALLENGE RUNNER-UP

and the runner-up place goes to…

Lisa Fox

HAROLD

Harold awoke on the third day of the third year, in the third millennium after everything disappeared. Rolling over damp, rumpled sheets, he plucked his spectacles from the nightstand. He sat up, yawned, and stretched, trying to ignore the migraine attempting to squeeze juice from his brain.

A dream remnant lingered like the tang of ripe pineapple; or the aftertaste of merlot shared over a romantic meal:  

She’d tended the garden again, bare hands disappearing into soil as dark and rich as wet coffee grinds. The aroma of dark roast wafted around Harold, tickling his nostrils, as he sat on the porch, hot mug in hand, observing her. Consuming her every movement. Her fingers caressed the roots of a small rosebush, the plant’s life tendrils intertwining with her fingers until both were indistinguishable—flora and fauna united. Harold reached for her. The roots transfigured to thin wires enlivened by electricity. Sparking wires slithered up the stems, strangling the blooms until they screamed. Necks cracked; petals burned with the reek of ozone as they fell. Her green eyes widened, unblinking. Silence stood breathless as she and her precious flowers vaporized.  

Rosa. 

Harold caressed the empty space beside him. If he thought hard enough, he could still feel her skin beneath his fingertips, see the indentation of Rosa’s body in the memory foam, the outline of her head in the pillow. He breathed deeply, scouring his memory for the vanilla scent of her. 

Nothing remained of his beloved wife but a distant haze of sensations. 

In the beginning, Harold wondered where Rosa went—where all the humans went. But as days and nights dipped and swirled in an endless dance, Harold stopped questioning. There were periods when time passed in a waltz, gliding gracefully over a lonely Earth, when Harold thought of Rosa and their partnership, of other dancers who shared the floor, united in elegant, synchronistic motion. Sometimes he felt time in a cha-cha—faster, daring, quickening his heartrate not with the joy of movement, but the blood-thrum of anxiety. Nonetheless, it hurt too much to think about those things that brought joy.

Fruit. Wine. Coffee. Flowers. Music. Dance.

Rosa.  

Harold knew he should forget her. He knew he should forget it all. Despite the pain. Despite the empty world in which he dwelled.

Rising, Harold pulled on his khaki pants and khaki polo shirt. He laced up and tied his brown boots. He made the bed and fluffed the pillows. He drifted from the bedroom to the living room and out the front door of his house onto the porch. The worn wood did not creak as he settled his feet upon it; the stale air he breathed, rife with dust motes, held as still as the grave. 

Harold glanced at the houses flanking his own. Each wore the same moldy shawl of sad yellow paint. Each presented the same sagging porch frown, the same plastic flowers strutting down the walkway next to artificial turf masquerading as a lawn. 

Each house held the same image of Harold himself—standing on the porch, watching, waiting. Glancing upward, Harold squinted into the fluorescent lights hanging from the vast tin ceiling of the warehouse that contained his house—all the houses and all the Harolds, in all his forms. He smiled; for it was morning in his world.

“Are you ready Harold?” Harold’s voice called out in an echo down the cavernous street.

Harold… Harold… Harold.

Harold (and Harold and Harold…) stepped forward, one foot in front of the other, and went about his day. 

Assigned Phenomenon: Astral Projection
This story was written as part of our recent paranormal-themed contest, in which each participant was assigned a different paranormal phenomenon.