Fetched

winning story for its February 2023 Flash Fiction Contest

I watched them bury me. My body, that is. Strange to see it from the outside, lying flat with the eyes shut. I was taller than I thought. 

People often talked about wanting to witness their own funeral. I couldn’t see the appeal, myself. Sure, everyone said grand things about me. But their pain hurt my soul. My poor family, trembling with sobs, shoulders bowed under the weight of grief. My poor friends, eyes red and swollen, hands shaking on the ropes as they lowered my body into the grave. How I yearned to say something, or to give them a comforting touch. But my voice made no impact on the air, and my hands passed right through them. 

Everyone who had loved me placed a token in the grave and said a few words of farewell. The minister gave a short and emotional speech; he had been a friend of mine, too. They all sang a lament, with trembling and breaking voices. Then a few of them stepped up to fill in the grave, and the rest trickled away by twos and threes. 

The sun sank toward the horizon. Everyone had gone. But I could not. I had nowhere to go, no place in the world any longer, except that mounded patch of dirt that covered half of what I had once called myself. I looked up hopefully, but there were only clouds. I looked down doubtfully; only grass and dirt. No portal or chasm opened to receive me. Was I not wanted anywhere? 

I sat down on my grave and stared at the setting sun. Perhaps things would become clearer in the dark. Night, after all, was the spirit time. 

The twilight brought a distant memory back to mind: creeping about this place with my childhood friends, telling stories to frighten each other. Many times we had heard and told the old legend that the first person buried in a graveyard would be trapped there forever, tasked with delivering the souls of all later burials into the great beyond. Was it true after all? Did I only have to wait, like a lost little child, until someone came to fetch me? 

But this graveyard was old. Even my grandparents had not been born when it was first delved. I had no idea who had been the first one buried here. Perhaps someone old, who would regale me with tales of their long life. Perhaps someone tragically young, like me, with whom I could sympathize. Perhaps a distant ancestor, who would express pride in me – or disappointment. Would they resent me for being able to pass on, while they were trapped forever? Would they give me a well-practiced speech about letting go or being content with my lot? Would they be bored, serene, cantankerous? 

Who would come to fetch me? 

“WOOF!” 

I jumped and hovered two feet above the ground. Down at the edge of the graveyard, a shepherd dog, dim and floating like a fragile wisp of black cloud, cocked its head at me. Then it bounded up to me, sniffed my hand, and capered around me in a circle before sitting at my feet and holding out its front paw, tongue out, tail wagging. 

I laughed and took the proffered paw, which felt surprisingly solid and warm. “Well, hello! I was not expecting you!” 

The dog whined and licked my hand several times. 

“Oh, I am glad to see you,” I explained, ruffling the dog’s ears. “And I should have realized that an animal would be easier to bury first. No one wants to put their loved one in such a spot.” 

At that word, the dog jumped up and put its paws on my chest. Its tail wagged so fast I could hardly see it. 

“Spot? Was that your name?” 

“Woof! Woof, woof!” Spot dropped to the ground and rolled over, showing his belly for a rub. 

I obliged, kneeling down on my grave. “Poor fellow. I bet you get lonely between burials.” 

He panted up at me. All the stars glittered in his eyes. 

“Can you take a break?” I asked, burying both my hands in his soft fur. “We could play for just a minute, couldn’t we?” I looked around for a stick to throw – and then remembered that it would fall through my fingers. “Silly me.” I sighed. “I don’t belong here anymore. But I wish I could take you with me!” 

Spot sat up and licked my face. I hugged him and petted his neck. “You’re really all right with this task, boy?” 

“Woof!” All he did was pant-grin at me, with his tail still flickering back and forth like a hummingbird’s wings. 

A piercing whistle echoed through the air. Spot jumped up and started nudging at my legs. 

“All right, all right! I’m not a sheep!” I chuckled and stood up. 

Spot dashed around me again, but this time in a rising spiral. He crouched down to lick my face – and then gripped my collar in his teeth and pulled, flinging me straight upward. I flailed my arms, slowed down, and got my bearings. The ground was twenty feet down, at least. 

“Woof!” Spot dashed past me, up toward the clouds. He paused and looked back. The invitation was clear, and I was glad to accept. I followed him up, up, up to heights that would have made me dizzy if I still had a body. He darted ahead, ran back to bound at my knees, and led the way again, always rising through the sky. Then he vanished into a thick cloud, and my momentum carried me after him before I could even think – 

There was light. Pure, warm, golden light, as though I had entered the sun. And a great voice, ringing like a bell, welcoming, joyous: 

“GOOD BOY.”