The Immigrants
(a piece of flash fiction)
Rosemary had no idea what she was doing. The thing is: How is someone supposed to know they might get burnt when they have no idea someone threw a lighter in the campfire?
It was just a simple request, more of a suggestion really, made to her writing group. “Write a 500-word story about an immigrant family from somewhere in Latin America. My best friend came from a Latin country, and I want to write something about her so…500 words…GO!” Listen closely: Youth is not the only thing wasted on the young; innocence and trust are also gambled away on those who are not savvy enough to know better.
You’ve heard the old saying, right? That it is better to be lucky than good? Rosemary, simply stated, got very lucky. She hadn’t done anything to deserve her good fortune; it is just the way of the universe.
Let’s look at the circumstances of Rosemary’s situation. How many warlocks do you know? How about witches? Know any psychic vampires? What about aliens that take human form? Don’t worry, as far as I can tell, most of these people (people?…really?) are just hanging out and trying to do their best to fit in. Poor, young, innocent Rosemary had no way of knowing that her writing group was composed solely of the most incomprehensible array of paranormal entities the Western World has ever seen.
The Warlock got the request first, followed closely by the Psychic Vampire (you guessed it, no one had to even call or text him), then the others. They all had to work in unison; multidimensional entities that create reality by simply tapping on keyboards have to keep close tabs on each other. If not, things can get messy quickly.
The guys (geez, guys?) got together and had a lengthy discussion on what to do. A couple of the beings (the ones having bad days) fought with the more moderate faction of the group. They all knew the consequences; they write it, and it happens, simple as that. Luckily for Rosemary’s friend, the rebellious spirits decided to settle, and the tone of the meeting turned to one of acceptance, love, and generosity.
The stories were written; rainbows, bunny rabbits, unicorns, glitter, and lottery winnings populated the pages. Purposeful, happy lives lived, friendships made, families created (you get the idea). The heroin-addicted zombie (a guy the others wouldn’t let near Rosemary) was told he needed to sit this one out. They gave him a topic about a conflicted Christian heavy metal singer who becomes a serial killer in his spare time. He excelled at his task.
Some years later, Rosemary brought her friend, a beautiful young girl named Desi, to a meeting of The Flash Fiction 500 Friends. Desi lit up the room when she walked in. She looked happy and healthy. The entities composing the group took little pride in their accomplishment, though; they had long since moved on to other topics. That night, Desi used a small portion of the proceeds from her latest lottery winnings to buy dinner. Had the guys known she was going to do this, they all would have ordered dessert.
