Flash Fiction

PUSHING THE ENVELOPE

by

Terry Dartnall
 

We were pushing the envelope up Westbury Hill. It was a big envelope and we were sweating.

"What are you guys doing?" somebody asked.

People are such idiots.

"Pushing the envelope," I said. "What does it look like?"

"Oh," he said. That was all he said. He didn't say "right" or "fine," or "Can I help?" He just said "Oh." What do they teach people in school these days?

It was a difficult shape, too. The flap kept knocking my head. It wasn't stuck down properly.

A cop on a cop bike was watching us.

"Do you have a license for that?" he said.

"For what?"

"For that envelope."

"Are you telling me we need envelope licenses?" I said. "What's the world coming to?"

"I'm only a cop," he said. "I've got a wife and two kids. I can't answer questions like that."

"Why don't you help us?" I said.

"OK," he said. He put his bike on its stand and took off his jacket. Now me and Jake and the cop, whose name was Jeremy, were pushing the envelope. Up Westbury Hill.

"There's a pub at the top," I said.

"I'm on duty," said Jeremy.

"Oh," I said.

"I suppose I could have a quick one," he said.

We propped the envelope against a tree and went into the pub.

"We've been pushing the envelope," I said. "Three beers."

"Make it two and a half," said Jeremy.

"Two and a half," I said.

"What's in the envelope?" said the barman.

"We don't know," said Jeremy. I was pleased that he was getting into the spirit of it.

"Who's it for?" said the barman.

"We don't know," said Jeremy.

I thought that showed a lack of initiative, so I went out and looked.

"It's for Jeremy Cornelius," I said.

"That's me," said Jeremy.

"Hey," said Jake. "You've been pushing your own envelope. How about that?"

"Who's it from?" said Jeremy. It was a sunny day and we were sitting outside the pub under some trees. I looked at the birds pecking at the ground.

"You don't want to know," I said.

"Oh," said Jeremy, but he knew all right. Just now he had been an OK cop pushing the envelope--his envelope--up Westbury Hill, and we had made a friend. Now he looked like a kid whose ice-cream has been taken away.

"You don't want to know," said Jake.

We left that place immediately--left Jeremy and the barman in the pub, and the sky tore apart like paper, and there was a smell of smoke and cordite in the air. I looked back--you should never look back--and saw the cop's face frozen on the burning photograph, which was bent and bubbling.

"That was a sad one," I said.

"That was a sad one," said Jake.

§ § §


Terry Dartnall teaches Artificial Intelligence at Griffith University, Brisbane, Australia. He is married with four children and likes rock climbing and red wine. He has published books and papers about human and machine creativity. This is his first published fiction. He can be reached at: terrydartnall@hotmail.com or through http://www.cit.gu.edu.au/~terryd.

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