[Flash fiction is an umbrella term used to describe any fictional work of extreme brevity, including the Six-Word Story, 140-character stories, also known as twitterature, the dribble (50 words), the drabble (100 words), and sudden fiction (750 words)]

I don’t know how long I have been writing, but something makes me stop. I have this uncanny feeling that someone is watching me. I turn around and there he is, standing by the window on the far side of the room, looking at me with big sorrowful eyes.

When had he entered the room? How had he walked past me to reach the window? I hadn’t heard any footfalls.

“Who are you?” I hear myself ask. My voice is calm, conversational.

“What does it matter?” The eyes look even sadder.

Strangely enough, I feel no fear even though I find that I am talking to a head looking lopsidedly up at me, held securely in the hand of a man with none on his neck.

Is this a dream? I debate whether I should pinch myself.

“No it is not a dream.” The lopsided head says.

I have not said anything out loud. I am quite sure about that.

“I can hear your thoughts” It’s the face on the head speaking again.

I try to clear my head of every thought.

“You very well know you cannot do that.”

The head is smarter than me. I give up. Let him read my thoughts. It means I don’t have to actually speak. This could be fun.

“I want your help.” The appeal for help in his yes is unmistakable.

I cannot read his mind like he could mine. So I wait for him to tell me what is on his mind.

“I need your help in fixing this head back on to my neck.”

I think hard. I am many things, a teacher, a writer, a cook, a cleaner. But I know next to nothing about joining heads to bodies. And yet I hear myself say,

“There’s some glue lying around, industrial grade. Would that help?”

“I am game to try anything. I have waited so long, haven’t I? What could go wrong?”

When I come back with the tin of glue, he is still standing where I left him.

“Can we get started?” he asks. “I have been waiting for centuries.”

“What’s your story?” I am genuinely curious.

“We were at war, you know and someone from the other side severed my head cleanly off my body. Or someone from my own side. Who actually knows. You never really know what happens in the battlefield with everyone trying to kill everyone else.” He sounds apologetic.

I nod. That explains the armour.

“Now wherever I go I have to carry this thing. Like a bag or something. It’s quite a hindrance.”

I’d have thought the carrying part was the least of his worries. But what do I know? I have never had my head cut off.

“Exactly! You wouldn’t know. Let’s get on with it.” He does it again, put words to my thoughts.

I apply some glue on the stump of neck still standing between his shoulders. Gingerly taking his head from his hands I gently press it down just where I had applied the glue.

“NOOOOOOOOOOOO!” He screams and that very minute I realise my faux pas.

I have fixed his head the wrong way. His face now faces backwards.

“What have you done?!!!” He wails. “Just when I thought everything was finally going to be alright!”

I am crestfallen. What have I done? Shaking myself free of the shock, I jump into action. I tug hard at his head trying to dislodge it from his body. It’s that strong kind of glue and the head won’t come off so easily. But I have to try. I pull, I tug. I pull again. He screams, “Stop! Stop! You are hurting me!”

That’s rich coming from someone who walked around with his head in his hand. So I disregard his screams and ask him to keep it down. At this rate the neighbours will wake up and behead me, I tell him. He doesn’t think its funny.

“STOP!” He commands. “What the heck is wrong with you?! Why are you trying to dislodge my head?”

In the blue light of the night lamp I see the aggrieved face of my spouse. My hands are on his neck, just where it joins his head. I quickly withdraw them and stare at him.

“Where’s your armour?” I ask stupidly.

© Shail Mohan 2023