Dear Readers,
Today’s Weekly Dose of Fiction required a preamble. Or maybe I just wanted to write one for myself. Also, I have a bit of business: I only send one message each Wednesday. If you receive any other messages about my Substack, those do not come from me.
Thank you for the image: Pheladiii
Preamble
On October 17, 1989, I’d just parked downtown when my car started to jump sideways. My first instinct was to put on the brakes. Nonsense, of course, but I could think of no other way to stop my Honda leaping away from the curb into oncoming traffic.
I remember the silence when my car settled onto the pavement again. It was as if, after shaking itself off its axis, Earth was holding its breath. The air didn’t stir. Stunned drivers sat gripping the wheels of their stalled cars. Pedestrians froze, leaning against storefronts.
I knew no one I was surrounded by in that moment. No one I could share the fear or the relief with.
A cat, full-furred in terror, broke the collective trance when it flew over car hoods. People slowly steered cars out of their helter-skelter positions and began a sedate exit. Pedestrians picked up dropped bags and walked on. Home was on everyone’s mind. But getting there would be different that day—longer and more shocking upon arrival.
That 6.9 earthquake is still in my head, so when I sat at my computer to come up with a short piece of fiction for today, this is what appeared on my screen.
Alone
When the earth stopped shaking, Pia didn’t. She clung to the door jamb--the only way she could keep her legs from buckling. Her ears rang with silence until sirens and shrieks for help cut through.
Slowly, she peeled her fingers free and stared at the kitchen. It was hard to recognize—the refrigerator face planted on the floor, the cupboards gaping, and shards of dishes and glassware scattered across the tiles.
Her door, flying open and banging against the wall, brought her around to face a burly man in a high-visibility yellow slicker and black helmet. He reached where she stood and took her by the arm.
“Are you hurt, Miss?”
She shook her head. She didn’t think so.
“Come with me.” His voice didn’t allow for anything but compliance, so she did, but her first step was unsuccessful, and she stumbled. His arms were around her before she dropped to the floor.
When she opened her eyes, she was outside her apartment house, seated alongside 4B and 2C. She didn’t know these people’s names, only their apartment numbers. That suddenly didn’t seem right. And who was the man in the high-visibility slicker with strong arms? A stranger she’d never be able to thank.
She stared at a parade of stretchers, some with people calling out in pain, some with still forms covered by sheets. Since moving to California five years ago, she’d lived within a few feet of them, but knew nothing about their lives. Now they were injured or dead.
The gentle feel of a blanket being draped around her shoulders. A hot coffee she held but forgot to sip. The fire that lashed from the apartment windows into the sky, with her life’s possessions turning to billows of black smoke.
The tears that traced down her cheeks had nothing to do with the burned laptop or the new duvet or even her mother’s pearls. They were about something else--being
Alone.
One of these days, I’ll write a longer piece that features an earthquake. They do so much more than shake the ground underfoot. Like all things that frighten or threaten, they bring your life into sharper focus.
Nice work, but I also liked your comments on the earthquake, how your parked car seemed to be jumping sideways into the traffic. That had to be scary.
There's something so lonely yet beautiful in how disasters strip everything down to what truly matters.
Thank you for sharing this, it's the kind of story that stays with you long after reading.