By: C.J. Riley | Flash Fiction

The elevator only went up.

No matter which button you pressed, it rose. Basement. Lobby. Parking. Penthouse. All of them blinked in rhythm and ignored your complaints.

The first time it happened, I laughed and assumed I was late and someone pressed before me. The second time, I pressed the emergency button, which connected me to a woman who sounded like she was also in an elevator, also going up, and also pretending this was normal.

By the fifth floor that shouldn’t exist in a four-story building, the numbers stopped making sense. Thirteen slid past with scrolling light. Twenty arrived before fourteen. Somewhere around thirty-two, gravity gave up, and my stomach stayed while my body floated.

The doors opened once, briefly, on a floor filled with balloons. No strings. Just balloons hovering at shoulder height like they were waiting for something important to happen. The doors closed before I could explore.

At fifty, my phone lost signal but gained optimistic sentiments. It congratulated me on my progress.

“Progress toward what?” I asked.

The elevator dinged. Sixty.

At seventy, the lights dimmed, and a voice came over the speaker. Not an announcement. A confession.

“We didn’t mean to build it like this,” the voice said. “But nobody ever pressed the down button.”

The elevator slowed near the top, where there was no number. Just a glowing light that said STAY.

I didn’t step out; just peered out at the beautiful field of flowers and the cotton candy sky. 

Not too far away, another elevator gleamed in the distance…

“Where does that go, I wonder?” I said, stepping into the field.