I’ll Never Know

by Shome Dasgupta

Kyle Johnson

Dear Monica,

My name is Shome Dasgupta, and I just wanted to see if you’d be up for taking a look at a flash fiction piece I recently wrote. It’s called “I’ll Never Know” (670 words), and this one is really important to me — though it’s fiction, it’s also a narrative I experienced not too long ago, and to make sense out of it all, I had to shift it into words, I guess. It doesn’t make that much sense, to be honest, so I just wrote it as fiction — I don’t know.

Just in case you’re curious what really happened, as it relates to the story — on a recent Sunday, while I was marveling a heron soaring toward the sun, I happened to be stabbed in the shoulder. After overcoming the sharp twisting pain, I looked over and saw a knife — a glorious knife, indeed. Glistening — shiny and pretty, and the handle was a strong wood, carved in décor which looked very similar to a turtle I once saw in a ditch when I was a child. My brother and I loved ditches. I remember the turtle because it had three legs and welcoming eyes. I didn’t want to miss the heron fly away, so I had to take a quick break from looking at the knife in my shoulder to become hypnotized again by these wings which — I don’t know how else to explain it, but they were like wings full of wisdom — like when I looked at this bird, barely in the bright air, I felt its feathers inside my throat and its beak in my stomach — almost.

There was blood. I was becoming dizzy, and the knife was still stuck in my shoulder. I don’t know, Monica — I wanted to keep the blade there — it was in pretty deep, and the handle was so gorgeous, one that could’ve been on display in a museum. It felt like it was supposed to be there, you know — like in my shoulder? This knife — firm and careful — this heron of the air, and then with all of that going on, I literally saw a really bright butterfly hovering just before me — it felt like a friend. I put out my palm and sure enough the butterfly rested on my fingertip. The heron was gone by now — an echo in the sun, and I was still bleeding, and the butterfly took off, fluttering around my hand for just a bit — then it landed on the handle of the knife for like a second before making its way into the rest of the sky.

This was my left shoulder so I put my right hand on the wood of the knife and grazed my skin against the carving — it took me back — it really did, and I found myself in the front yard of my childhood home, where in this photograph, my brother was trying to help me get on my bike. I miss him, Monica. As that picture flickered in and out under the haze of the sun — the blood settled in, and I had to lie down for a bit as the kayak caressed the basin — there was a whisper, and there it was — everything — it was all before me as I looked up into the sky. I don’t even know what I saw, but it was all there before me, and I no longer felt the blade’s warmth. I just saw it all.

Please note that this is a simultaneous submission, and I had previously sent a query to Eric over at Flash Frog, and he provided some really encouraging words, and he hopes that he’ll be able to read this story one day. Maybe one day — who knows? Let’s see how it goes — let’s see how it all takes place. Maybe, I guess — it’s why I’m reaching out to you.

Anyway, Monica — can I send this story your way? I understand if it isn’t a fit and all, but I just thought I’d give it a try. I really don’t know what happened, and I guess I’ll never know.

Sincerely,

shome dasgupta

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Shome Dasgupta is the author of The Seagull And The Urn (HarperCollins India) and most recently, the novels Cirrus Stratus (Spuyten Duyvil) and Tentacles Numbing (Thirty West), and a poetry collection, Iron Oxide (Assure Press). His writing has appeared in McSweeney’s Internet Tendency, New Orleans Review, Jabberwock Review, Magma Poetry, American Book Review, Arkansas Review, and elsewhere. He is the series editor of the Wigleaf Top 50. He lives in Lafayette, LA and can be found at @laughingyeti.