Short fiction: "A Lifetime Amongst the Human Mannequins"

It was a rather gloomy, overcast day for a walk along the river. Certainly not the sort of day one would traditionally associate with that activity. You know the kind I mean–-the sky a cloudless blue like the blue on a beachball, the aroma of fresh-cut grass hanging in the air like chlorophyll perfume, kites flying above like heaven's apostrophes, and the whole earth bathed in bikini-clad sunshine.

It was not that kind of day.

Nevertheless, they walked along the river anyway, with an old umbrella purchased from St. Vincent de Paul last year, just in case. And sure enough, they eventually felt the first plaintive drops of an oncoming rain.

Just as they lifted and opened the umbrella, everything and everyone around them froze. He and she were suddenly alone somewhere outside of time if not space. Under that umbrella, they shared an entire lifetime in that one spot amongst the human mannequins, motionless like trees. They married, had children, raised each of them and sent them on their way, grew older, retired, developed various age-related illnesses, saw and felt each other's body deteriorate, became arthritic, passed kidney stones, suffered hearing loss, became gnarled and slumped, and finally, once they had too little strength to hold on, they let the umbrella go.

As the umbrella fell sideways, a breeze caught it, carrying it along the riverbank as the other pedestrians became animate once again. It was as if (for them) no time had passed at all. (And really, it hadn't.)

Our couple sat together in a powerless heap, watching as a wandering little boy picked up the wayward umbrella. They wanted to shout a warning but were too decrepit to loose anything more than wheezes from their throats. As the boy hoisted it aloft he was instantly an aged lump of withered flesh.