The Search: A Flash Fiction Thriller

I wrote this short story about a hurricane survivor for my creative writing class in 2015. Please enjoy, and follow the blog for more flash fiction pieces!

They warned on the television that it would arrive on Monday morning, but I had not anticipated the damage it would cause. It had been weeks, and I still was unsure whether my friends had survived. My parents followed Mayor Nagin’s orders to evacuate, but my best friend Sara’s strong-willed parents were determined to stay.

“We’ve survived a hundred storms before. How’s this one gonna be any different?” they argued.

My parents believed this was not just any storm. We packed most of our belongings in a U-Haul driven by my father, and my mother and I rode in the SUV to which we had attached our camper. In the camper, we housed two small families from our neighborhood. My mother offered to bring Sara and her family as well, but they refused.

Returning home to assist in the relief programs, I witnessed the destruction of my suburban neighborhood. The “hurricane” was once used as an escape from the hustle and bustle of life, but now a hurricane had become a hopeless reality. On Mardi Gras, my parents and Sara’s parents would get together and drink hurricanes; it was always a jovial occasion. This memory contradicted the devastation that laid before me, the wreckage caused by the deadliest storm in history.

We arrived to my street where every home was a pile of broken boards and shattered glass. Roofs had caved in, and the street was littered with doors and window frames. The air reeked of sewage and rotten flesh. It was time to get to work, and I spent several hours with my parents digging through the rubble of our house. I found scraps of a tee shirt I had borrowed from Sara just a few weeks prior. I held the shirt to my heart and began to cry. My mother rushed to my side for comfort.

“We’re gonna check out the Boyd’s house,” my mother called to my father.

“We’re gonna go find Sara?” I asked, hopefully.

We made our way through the flooded streets toward the outer edge of town. Sara’s house was still standing, but had still been severely damaged. I ran to the door but stopped, hesitant to open it for fear of what I might find inside. Upon opening the door, a beam in the entry collapsed. I proceeded with caution, but I was determined to find Sara.

My mother scoped out the living room and kitchen, and I decided to take the risk of searching the basement. It was like a bog in there; dead mice floated in the four feet of water. I saw Mr. and Mrs. Boyd lying lifeless under a fallen beam. I rushed to them, falling to my knees and the hurricane of tears returned once again. I choked for breath, grasping Mrs. Boyd’s blue hand.

I suddenly recalled eating ice creams from the chest freezer in the basement with Sara earlier that summer. I called to my mother, and she helped me heave open the heavy door. There she was. Her butterscotch curls were matted against the heart-shaped frame of her face. Wide hazel eyes gazed unblinkingly at me. Her mouth was open revealing her crooked teeth.

“I’m so sorry my love,” my mother whispered. I felt her lips press gently onto the top of my head. I stood frozen until I heard my mother’s footsteps pattering up the stairs.

Sinking down into the flood, I reached into the freezer to caress Sara’s face. Sinking lower, I could no longer see her, but felt the crisp hair interlaced with my fingers. The feeling of dried up hair left my touch, and was replaced by the feeling of fingers intertwined with mine. I shot up to see Sara was holding my hand.