‘The parts you could see – what most people called a mushroom – was just a brief apparition. A cloud flower.’ –Margaret Atwood
To Whomsoever It May Concern
Dear Sir / Madam,
I do not wish to impose, but some interpretations are so outstanding by their
nature I prefer to outline clearly what has appeared before me. The findings are not
scientifically proven, yet, but I am driven to persevere for the future of science. As I
record this, the case of Subject #93 is concluded. The variances I have analyzed of finger
and mushroom is hereby complete. All mortuary guidelines have been followed as noted.
All findings have been safely archived.
Before I proceed further may I categorically re-emphasize that the pathology of
living enzymes in finger-mushrooms are indeed impossible to trace were it not for
guidance received from superiors, some may argue brilliant but unscientific. It is not for
me to judge. I leave that to the machinist departments and experts handling forensics in a
sterile environment.
At the outset to be clear, if not for the puffball clouds, a breakthrough would have
been impossible to record. I have much to learn. Mother nature is my guide. These are
my findings, as accurate an account of what occurred as is humanly possible to make
available.
On the seventeenth of August in the year nineteen hundred and fifty-four an
autopsy was conducted on Subject #93. How long the body had lain in the morgue could
not be verified. It could have been four months, it could have been four years. According
to existing paperwork it was four days old. Rigor mortis had set in which was normal.
There was some muscle and tissue decomposition. No faded blood. No evidence of
violence–except for two missing forefingers on both hands, sliced clean to the bone.
A strong smell of formaldehyde and decaying vegetable matter was in the air. As
students it is our job to find out how the subject died. About half way through a six-hour
procedure one of the junior assistants a newbie student took ill. Work came to a stop for a
breath of fresh air.
The forensic pathologist Dr. Momaller’s main adjunct to us students had always
been a call to perfection. Never to alarm. Concentrate on what is happening. Catalog all
that you see. But, with students putting in eighteen-hour shifts, looking like axe-
murderers at the end of the shift, fatigue and blackouts were all too common.
We streamed outside. I heard Dr. Momaller say to the lot of us “We are at the
balancing edge of science. To be in the medical field the most grueling of discipline is
called for. But go on, go on. Take a break. Study the clouds.” The day ended.
The tenth time this occurred a pattern had formed. Dr. Momaller’s scathing words
still ring in my ears “If you are unable to handle the demands of this profession, I have a
long list of highly qualified applicants just waiting to replace you.” Akioba the sickly
newbie fell routinely ill. She dreamt corpses. She dreamt fingers. She ran around the
mortuary in jerks and spasms yelling ‘Mushrooms! Mushrooms!’ No one made the
connection. There was none to make.
By that time the forensics examination was taking months to conclude. The rest of
us felt like a bunch of neo-Frankensteins. We were not research experimenting but it felt
like it. Dr. Momaller was turning hysterical dealing with Akioba, wrestling with
concluding that Subject #93 had been mushroom poisoned. The clue lay in the fingers. At
whatever the state of decomposition it was imperative that the two missing fingers be
found.
We were diligent in our work. But if ever the remnants of the two fingers were
found in the subject’s digestive tract contents we were not to know. It was never
recorded. Through it all I held myself together, as did most of us present towards the end.
However, that last day, this is the true account of what Akioba saw and the true state of
her affliction.
The sky was a mass of shadowed mushrooms, choking, gobbling, suppurating that
day. Then voila! One dropped like a dead fat finger being axed from the upheavals.
Akioba saw the blood flash, churn, scatter as the giant puffballs fled back-firing in unison
to make good their escape. A hopeless struggle ensued. The sky imploded. The
message was written in blood.
In her hand she held what looked like a hacked off bloodied forefinger. It felt
rubbery—mushroom-like. The finger clutched, curled, stretched, writing a series of
messages in unintelligible script. She could not recall how she had caught it. She could
not toss away the finger either. Her finger was the finger-mushroom of Subject #93’s
missing parts.
Subsequently, I left. Thereafter I lost contact with most of my colleagues. I have
heard Dr. Momaller resigned soon after Akioba’s finger covered the mortuary walls with
manic mushroom writings. I cannot accurately state whatever happened to Akioba except
to say it was rumored that she re-grew two missing forefingers. At her autopsy soon after
the entire forensics crew fled the mortuary. I do not know the outcome. It is inexcusable,
however, details were sketchy from the start and never revealed to me.
Before I conclude this missive I have one last fact to reveal—the loss of both my
forefingers. At the bone I see a re-growth.
It was a difficult case from the start.
Yours truly,
Jatmine Tulkveri
Rekha Valliappan’s flash fiction features in various journals including Bending Genres, X-R-A-Y Literary Magazine, The Ekphrastic Review, Critical Reads, Friday Flash Fiction, The Cabinet of Heed, Foliate Oak, Vestal Review and other venues. She is a writer of multi-genre short fiction and poetry.
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