March was a bitter month for everyone involved. Jodi was born into one, like Eric Clapton, her childhood idol. In another March, thirty years ago, Clapton’s four-year-old son ran into a hole in the wall. The hole was supposed to be a window, but it had no glass on it. A scream tore through the house, and the mother understood right away that it didn’t come from the boy; the boy was busy plowing through the air, down fifty-three floors.
Like Clapton, Jodi liked to sing, but her Southern lilt often got the better of her. She liked to dance too, though not as much as studying. She committed herself to her goals, brought good results home. She never partied, never complained. Her parents were proud of her, and even prouder when they found out that she earned a scholarship from one of those fancy universities up north, where she originally was from. They just hoped the Natural Sciences would be the next big thing.
In her sophomore year, the department offered Jodi an internship. Six weeks in Madagascar, they told her, for a research trip. She would have to study a rare species of crabs native to the region. She always wanted to discover the world, broaden her horizon. It’s a great opportunity, her mother reassured her. Her other mother agreed. Jodi never once disappointed them, and she wasn’t planning to start anytime soon.
Come spring, Jodi left for East Africa. She believed in the cause, though the cause paid barely enough for the bills. She slept in a tent no larger than a coffin. She worked day and night at the nature reserve that the university had assigned her. In the first couple of months, the research did not produce the desired results. Both Jodi and the team grew discouraged. Stress levels skyrocketed. They all suffered from panic attacks. Jodi emailed her parents every day. Asked for their help, for moral support. She felt like she was failing them for the first time in her life, more so in the light of her parents advising her to come back home.
It was midsummer when Jodi boarded the light aircraft to take up on her parents’ advice. The other passenger’s name was Kelsey; the pilot’s unknown. Ten minutes in the air, and Jodi was feeling agitated already. A whole new bout of panic attack had struck her, laced with paranoia. She undid her belt and opened the aircraft’s door to let herself go in a moment of hysteria. Kelsey managed to catch her in time and held onto Jodi’s ankle as though they were some actors in a terrible action movie. She tried to lift Jodi up, but the gravity didn’t help. The pilot went deaf, not necessarily by the screams but by the biting slaps of wind. The hole that the wind drifted in through was supposed to be a door, but now it had nothing on it. Jodi plummeted into the void, just like the Clapton kid.
The authorities contacted the family the day after. In cases like this one, they said, it may not even be possible to locate the body. To have a proper burial. Jodi’s parents had their hearts broken. They drove over to the nearest funeral home, dead silent. Jodi was coming home, though not in the desired form. It was March, and it was a bitter month for everyone involved.
All so until the phone call.
Image: Light aricraft in a cloudy sky flying directly towards the viewer from Pixabay. com
literally stories 
Sarp
As you must already know, the ending raises a big question loud enough for the Beethoven let alone a pilot to hear. Excellent multi-use of the meanings of “March,” timing and the stunning stop!
Leila
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Excellent story, Great details, and stunning ending.
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The delivery of this is spot on not exactly like a police reprt but still a report of sorts. I totally go along with the idea that some Months hold negative vibes for some families. There was much to note in this, such as the choice of study and the research project – rather unlikely and yet completely believable. And the ending! Well! Great stuff – thank you – dd
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“She slept in a tent no larger than a coffin.” Chillingly apt, in view of what’s to come. Great piece.
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Sarp
Nice counterbalance from yesterday’s story, which is always good. I like to think we are not only here to be entertained, but pick up notions concerning style, method, and tone.
Simple sentences, irony, and . . . more irony. And you never break. Nice!
Gerry
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Sarp
When we feel too sorry for someone else, all of us can remind ourselves that we will all take that sudden leap into the void, or the portal, one of these days, we don’t know when and we don’t know how. Even when fully expected, death always arrives as a surprise. Your story also reminded me of the parable about the man who tried to out-ride death across the desert. He finally sees the desired oasis ahead of him, only to look down and discover that the very horse he rides is death itself. Marcus Aurelius said that the truly stoic mind will eventually fear nothing at all, except one thing: not remaining true to itself. Endlessly trying to be the so-called “perfect” person who always pleases one’s parents (and conforms to society’s expectations) can be just as deadly as a too-large dose of fentanyl or the AK-47. Your thought-provoking story, including the ambiguous ending, seem to belong with the kind of literature that asks more questions than it answers. The writing itself is clear and detailed, while the meaning of it all seems mysterious like life itself. Great work!
Dale
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Spare and punchy with not a word wasted – an excellent if sorrowful piece!
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An interesting flash fiction. Good bookending with the Clapton tragedy. The open-ended conclusion lingers in the reader’s mind … like the riff from Layla.
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“Until the phone call” I’ve used something like that. She landed safely and started a potery organization? How is this related to “Twin Sisters”? Youth wants to know what went wrong with the research?
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Hi Sarp,
I enjoy endings like this as I can read it over and over again and probably, depending in my mood, I will come to different conclusions.
Brilliant pace!
The tone was as Diane said, report like but you judged that perfectly as it worked very well within the story.
This is an interesting piece of work my fine friend.
Hugh
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I don’t understand how the phone call made March a less bitter month. I guess it’s one of those stories where the reader might imagine the ending, but it seems incomplete. I liked the bit about the tent no larger than a coffin, as that was the closest to a coffin Jodi got.
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The economy of this one is superb. So much story in so few words and this shows genuine mastery, especially as I felt invested in and cared about Jodi in such a short piece.
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