ART FROM THE SKETCH BOOK OF PAUL BOECHER – FICTION BY KATHY BOECHER

This story is a result of sitting in front of my computer screen and trying to fill my time.

The small town was filled with a putrid smoke.  It lingered in the air for more than a week.  The sounds of death resounded from the quaint village of Murphy’s Valley. Time stood still for a while as bodies were transported in a hearse that might not endure the journey to the cemetery. Tears were not lacking.  Life was taking a vacation while this untimely virus invaded city after city.  It wasn’t long before the disease was referred to as an epidemic. People were required to quarantine. Memories of a past plague poured into the minds of each surviving citizen.  Maybe someone had committed a grave sin causing the germs to merged into the homes of the unsuspecting. This unexplainable hazard was different than the last somehow.  Each breath was met by a mask.  It had been five years since they last had to do that.  Many refused as others accpted the requirement.

The air remained stiff and unmovable into the next month.  Fifteen more had their lives taken from them.  There were some who had not even begun to live.  Seven children, two teens and six adults was the latest count in this town with a population of 536. It was dropping further each day.

John and Mary McDermott had just become husband and wife a week before this demon reared its ugly head.  Mary couldn’t endure the toxic air and fell victim to its long spindly arms as they choked the life from her.  John was beside himself.  He had waited for 35 years to find the right woman to marry and now she was gone.  It was probably the shortest marriage on record for Murphy’s Valley.

Each of the stories connected to these events were carved like chiseled scars into a tree.  Sapping the life from each and leaving behind emptiness unknown to them. The virus didn’t discriminate.  The young and old were affected.  Those they left behind would face years of grieving over a brand new form of death.

Jay Barber walked from his home to the town hall in hopes of receiving a vaccination to fight against the disease. He was told they had not discovered any kind of treatment for this horror.  Sally Harmon, drove around town trying to locate masks for her family.  Others stocked up on essentials that would get them through the next month.  The shelves were almost empty and no shipments were expected for another few weeks. It was a grave reminder of five years ago as goods were stockpiled for the COVID19 Apocalypse.

The familiar, broken down hearse from Jennings Funeral Home, made its way up the hill to everyone’s surprise.  This would add to the population adjustment.

Days turned into weeks and weeks into months.  No word of a cure.  People grew tired of staying inside. They needed face to face contact again.  They needed to see body language and hear real words spoken.  Phones and pagers were discarded.  Computer screens went black.  This wasn’t going to be a rerun of five years ago.  Determination and grit became the words of the day as people tempted their own destiny by reaching out to others.  The single church in the center of town was filling up, even though they weren’t supposed to gather.  People hugged.  They cried.  They sang hymns of praised and prayed long hard prayers.  They slept in the church that night.

The sun began to burn off the everpresent haze.  Death stopped as new life was invigorated into the people.  The virus was unworldly. No one had ever experienced this horrid disease that knew no boundaries. Maybe it wasn’t a virus at all.