George Nikolopoulos is a master of the short-short, these days known as flash fiction. This is his fourth appearance in Galaxy’s Edge with one of his trademarked shorties.
As I see the man pull a gun out of his pocket and point it at my son, I feel like my heart just stopped.
Instead, time stops.
I can see the bullet, frozen in place midair, sleek and deadly, pointed toward my son. I can see the twisted, delirious face of the gunman. Everyone else in the great hall is frozen, immobile, oblivious. My son, too. Frozen in mid-speech, he doesn’t seem to have noticed yet. Moments ago, I was proud to hear him speak of putting an end to all discrimination on grounds of gender, race or creed; but freedom always comes at a cost and this time the cost would be my son’s blood. Unless time stopped.
How can this be happening? Is it a miracle? Whose miracle? I am not religious and, frankly, I don’t care. I only want to save my son.
I jump up from my seat and rush to the hovering bullet. I mean to rush, but all I can do is wade through air that seems thicker than water, like I’m in slow motion. I finally reach the bullet and try to push it away from its path; it won’t budge. I grab it in my hand and attempt to snatch it out of the air. Nothing. I use both of my hands and pull at it with all my strength. Still nothing.
There must be something I can do. I leave the bullet and move toward my son. I struggle to push him away, out of death’s path.
As I dreaded, I can’t move him at all. It seems that everything—but me—is frozen in place.
I frantically wade around the hall, making an effort to move anything. If I can pick up something solid I can place it in front of the bullet and deflect it. Nothing moves, not even the chair I was sitting on.
I search my clothes, my pockets. Not a thing that can be of any use.
There must be an explanation, or at least a hint to help me; an idea will come. I can’t think of anything; or in fact I think of many things, but none of them is useful and most are nonsense. I even try some, to no avail.
I wait for a supreme being, a supreme being’s messenger, an angel, an alien, an AI, anyone. Someone to come and explain to me why they did this and what I must do to save my son. Nobody comes.
There’s nothing I can do, but I can’t accept that.
Could I just stay here forever? Keep time in a standstill?
I go to my son again. I caress his cheek. It doesn’t yield; it feels like marble. My son has become a statue. A frozen statue.
Should I stay here forever—forever watching my son as he is about to die? What good would that do? To me, or to him?
I begin to wonder if it’s all pointless, a mindless prank by the powers-that-be. I feel so useless. I feel like I’m killing him myself.
I linger a little longer in that neverland, thinking about my son. Trying to fill my mind with him, to sate myself with him—as if that could be possible. Thinking of his childhood, of the first time he said dad, of the way he used to make his voice sound childish when he kissed me goodnight, of how he used to cry when he was old enough to know that people die and someday I would die too and he would have to go on without me.
And then I know. There is one thing I can do. Everything in the world is frozen in place; except me.
I go and stand between the bullet and my son.
Blink.
Time starts again.
Copyright © 2018 by George Nikolopoulos