For three weeks, I have participated in a writing challenge over at Frankie’s Wining Room with a focus on points of view. This week’s challenge takes a turn in a slightly different direction and is hosted by Katie Rene Johnson. Each piece is intended to stand alone, but if you (like me) enjoy seeing the chronological progression of things in writing, I recommend you read excerpts in order. This is the first piece of flash fiction in the What’s In A Name writing challenge. The entire series begins in Illness, Achievements, and Challenges. Enjoy!

The morning was chilly and grey, its rain-heavy clouds riding low enough in the sky to caress the upper branches in Caesar’s orchard. He never tired of this view. Black Walnut, with its silvery grey trunk, wide-splayed branches, and verdant pods bursting open to reveal tree-ripened fruit within. His sun-loving Wild Plum—Prunus americana—standing a little distant, its small stature a silent echo of the walnut’s wide stance, aubergine-colored fruit clinging in tight rows to each branch. He noted the black, broken-bark-covered trunk of the Prunus serotina, its branches heavy with cherries. His small feathered friends had been busy over the years, as evidenced by scattered saplings throughout the yard, their smooth green trunks highlighted with distinctive white markings.

There, immediately below the granddaddy walnut on the corner, were bushes he had planted in the autumn of 1911; only months before blackcurrants were banned from being imported, cultivated, or sold commercially in the United States of America. They had flourished, completely obscuring the fence that supported them, their deep green leaves and dark fruit a stunning contrast to the adjoining fence, which was covered in brighter green vines with colorful orange berries. Celastrus scandens—bittersweet. He thought it appropriate this vine, growing wild on location, had increased and multiplied over the years to cover an entire fence.

His gaze shifted to skim across the property, overlooking the stones set out in patterned rows beneath and between his trees. He searched as he did every morning about this time, looking for any new development that had occurred overnight. There, in a less-wooded area with a pile of fresh earth at its feet, stood a vaguely familiar figure near a green-trunked sapling. Caesar adjusted his cuffs, straightened his tie, and turned toward the visitor, his wing-tips moving silently over the well-manicured lawn.

“Might I be of assistance?” he asked as he approached, tipping his hat with the ease of habit.

The man startled, jumping about three feet into the air. “What the–?”

“Be not afraid,” Caesar said, in as soothing a tone as he could manage. “Caesar Frayne, at your service.”

“But you—me—I—“ the man sputtered, “What is this place? Where are we?

“Look around you,” Caesar said, “can’t you see?”

He looked up and across at the bushes, the trees, the stones, and back down to the smoothly shaped granite before him with its simple inscription: Charles Hall. He glanced back up at Caesar. “Am I dreaming?”

Caesar fingered the chain on his pocket watch. “And as it is appointed unto men once to die…”

“But after this, the judgement.” The newcomer pinched the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger. “I’m familiar with the passage. But I don’t understand—how did I end up here, in the cemetery, looking at a headstone with my name on it? The last thing I remember was opening the envelope and seeing the divorce papers. After that, everything else is a blur.”

Divorce papers. In Caesar’s lifetime, divorce was rare and hard to obtain. Those who gained one also received the accompanying stigma, often becoming a pariah in his social circles. But this Charles was still speaking.

“My son passed away just over a year ago. It was an accident, but I was driving, and my wife blamed me for his death. I’ve been on a sabbatical ever since, working construction.”

“A sabbatical?” Caesar felt a rise of emotion. When he had been human, his heart would be pounding and the sound of blood rushing in his ears. Now, his experience was less visceral, but no less intense. “You are a minister?”

“I was.” Charles’s demeanor visibly deflated. Even incorporeal, his spirit still exhibited bodily habit in this dimension. “Seeing those divorce papers was the death of a dream, the end of my calling. In no way would the congregation have stood for…” his voice trailed off, as his gaze traveled to the brick-faced wall on the adjoining property. His eyes snapped back to Caesar, suddenly alert and questioning. “What did you say your name was?”

Again, Caesar tipped his hat. “Caesar Frayne, at your service.”

“You mean, Reverend Caesar Frayne, founder of North Hill Presbyterian Church?” Fisting his hand, the man indicated over his shoulder, thumb pointing toward the brick building behind them.

“Guilty as charged, Son.” Caesar settled his hat back onto his head and spread out both arms, hands open wide. “Welcome to my orchard.”

Now it’s your turn. Leave a comment or send me a message to give feedback. Check out the writing challenge for yourself if you are curious to see how different individuals have approached the same material, or if you would also like to participate.

Until the next time…