Ascent

As if in divine mechanical intervention, the doors to the elevator opened...

Ascent

As if in divine mechanical intervention, the doors to the elevator opened as Mrs. Burns and her son Thomas approached. It was winter in the lobby, and outside, spring slept under snow banks. As required by tower rules, Mrs. Burns and Thomas wore identical coats and identical shoes. Thomas, although in footwear, had no feet to call his own. Mrs. Burns had aged since the last ascent.

On the back wall of the elevator chamber, a matrix of rows and columns of silver buttons stood ready as disciples to do bidding. Each button had a number, some soft lit awaiting touch, others dark.

Mrs. Burns pushed Thomas to the back and off to one side. His wheelchair squeaked when it turned. The elevator, spacious and clean, held no other, only a mother and her shortened son.

Shortened because he had failed the subway test, failed to see the same train on the same track as all his fellow commuters one day when the taxis had all filled and the buses had stalled. Failed because he tried to cross to the other side.

Push the button, said Thomas.

And Mrs. Burns reached up with one solo finger, wrinkled and sculpted with her ninety seven years, to the button that read sixty three, pushed it. The elevator rose, its already smooth ambience made softer and more welcoming by its smooth hydraulics set upon their journey.

No, said Thomas. Not that one. I want us to stick together. Please.

You can’t reach my floor, son.

Why not?

You’re not ready.

I’m ready.

It’s against the rules.

Rules. The tower rose higher than anyone knew, majestic, expansive in both its luxury and squalor. But its rules were strict – and considered its most valuable asset. More so than its gold studded walls, its drug dens and graffitied halls. Each person had a place, an age and floor from which they could not escape. The could only, by will of the owner, rise.

Thomas thumped a fist on his forehead. His mouth bent down.

Son, my floor has no number.

I know, Ma. I know. But…

Mrs. Burns touched her breast. Inside her coat pocket, folded in neat creases, rested a paper diagnosis more properly called judgment. All received them at some point from a doctor on the street who dressed without rules and pronounced without favor.

It’s time, she said.

No.

It’s time, son.

Thomas took a deep breath. Then let me hug you, he said. His eye watered,

Mrs. Burns bent down, hugged. The elevator chimed its arrival on the sixty third floor. She straightened. Thomas rolled to the door and the hallway beyond, pivoted, looked back.

Goodbye Ma. Thank you for the books.

You’re welcome, son, said Mrs. Burns. She closed the doors with a button and the elevator ascended. The air inside the chamber became thinner, harder to breathe, an agreeable asphyxiation. The light grew into summer sky and the hum of hydraulics became a hymn.

— — —

Thanks for reading Dynamic Creed. I’ve been off radar for a while. Been busy with reading for the flash fiction contest for Dog Throat Journal, and attempting to kick that project up a notch or two. I got a lot of submissions - and still in progress.

Anyhow, this is a piece I wrote not too long ago in response to a prompt that: takes place in an elevator. It was also supposed to contain certain words. I had fun.

Victor David