Flash Fiction: A Visit With Eva

© Zoë Stone

By Samuel Stone

I dreamt of a beach that was infinite in three directions and leveled off in a sheer drop down to an ocean whose surface was so far away that you couldn’t even see it. I walked along the edge and there was nothing but pale sky, distance, and sand.

Way up ahead, I saw a small wooden dock that extended out over the abyss. It rested on eerily long pylons that shot all the way down. I could make out a couple of blurry figures on the dock, and as I approached, I discovered one to be my mother and the other to be our dog, Eva. Mom was kneeling and petting Eva, who was on a leash and drinking water from a bowl. When I arrived at the dock I was surprised to hear myself say, “It’s time to go.”

“Yes,” Mom said, and stood up. “We should be getting her back.”

The three of us left together.

In the parking lot, I sat with Eva in the backseat of my mom’s car. She was smiling the way only a dog can smile, and licked my face, once. I put my arms around her—she felt soft and warm and strong—and I thanked her for visiting.