By Jim Woessner
Peter was running late, and his compulsively punctual friend Leonard was waiting. So Peter walked with intention, his head down, his mind focused. Which is why he didn’t see the car. He heard a loud squeal that might have been brakes. And then nothing. Peter continued, but the absence of sound was curious. So he stopped and turned to see what had happened. Cars had stopped. People were getting out. One was on a cellphone. Another knelt next to a body lying in the crosswalk. Peter couldn’t see the victim clearly but noticed that he was wearing a jacket similar to his own. He considered turning back to offer assistance but realized there was little he could do other than add to the chaos. A fog began to envelop the scene, so Peter turned and continued walking toward the café. The thought occurred to him that if Leonard was still there, he would tell him he had been delayed by an unfortunate accident. The fog seemed to thicken. Peter looked down and realized that he could no longer see his legs or his torso. He seemed to be disappearing. The last physical sensation he remembered felt a lot like tears.
Jim Woessner works as a visual artist and writer living on the water in Sausalito, California. He has an MFA from Bennington College and his poetry and fiction have appeared in numerous online and print magazines, including Flash Frontier, Close to the Bone; FewerThan500, and Potato Soup Journal.