Tag: flash fiction

Medical terms

“Well, the severity of chemotherapy varies from person to person. For some its a seven-course treatment, and for some, it’s just one. And who’s to say, sometimes neither survives longer than a few months. In any case, Mom, it’s difficult to generalise the effects of chemo.”

As Dr. Castro spoke, his mother cast him a look of love and distain. Candid though he was about his own disease, his impassiveness pained her.

Driving away, Dr. Castro let a single tear fall from behind the mask he’d worn all day. After all, he’d never see his daughter dress up for prom.

Deserving

The Masons never hurt a soul. With abundant wealth, the childless couple donated to countless charities every year. They were good people.

They didn’t deserve a stillborn.

The doctor held the unmoving child, as he extended trembling arms. His wife slept, peaceful and unaware. The never-existed ghost of a smile played on his daughter’s face. Time froze. What would he say when his wife asked? He’d promised her all would be well. He’d assured her. He was to blame.

As his tear dropped on its cheek, the baby stirred. Before he could comprehend, his Hope blinked and began to cry.

Unseen

The detective studied the rotting corpse laid out on the table in front of him. She had lived the high life, he could tell from her manicured finger nails and pruned eyebrows. She’d made conscious efforts on her appearance, he realised observing a sheen of foundation clinging to skin that stretched over handsome cheekbones. Young and married to a wealthy realtor who was working out of town, nothing about Keira betrayed the cause of her sinister suicide.

He scrutinised her for a sign. Why had she overdosed on sleeping pills? Alas, he couldn’t have known: loneliness left its mark within.

Triggered

Bess stared at a tattered postcard. The sun was setting behind the Empire State Building, once-brilliant brightness browned with years of neglect.

Walking away from the boxes she’d been unpacking, she sat down. She’d bought postcards in all 56 countries she’d visited, stocking boxes upon boxes with frozen memories of a lifetime of adventure.

She was no longer the same. She’d neither left the house nor invited anyone since her husband died. For fifteen years, she lived alone, minding her self, motiveless as if in a trance.

Until the postcards evoked her younger self.

Picking up her laptop, she searched: Seoul.