Flash Frenzy Round 21

Posted: May 24, 2014 in Flash Frenzy Weekend Flash Challenge
Tags: , , , ,

Welcome to Round 21!

Shakes is back to judge another round of great flash based on one of his always great photos.

Before we get started, here’s a brief reminder of the rules.

Deadline: Sunday at 6:00pm MST. You all have 36 hours to create your best work of up to 360 words (exclusive of title) and post it into the comments below. Please include your word count (required) and Twitter handle if applicable. For complete rules, click here. 

The winning author and their story will be featured as Wednesday’s Hump-Day Quickie, receive a winner’s page, and be crowned Flash Master of the Week.

Here is your prompt.

 

photo courtesy @TheShakes72

photo courtesy @TheShakes72

 

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Comments
  1. There’s Always Next Year
    Word count 360
    @Ali_OMalley

    Every year on this day, May twenty fourth, he’d come to this place. He’d sit his weary bones onto the hard wooden bench and he’d think of her. The lush green lawns surrounding him would fade away, the shrill tweeting from the birds would fail to pierce into his memory, and he’d remember that perfect day.

    He was young, but she was younger. They caught each other’s eye from across the park and it was as if an invisible rope had entrapped him, pulling him ever closer to the doe eyed blond. She was stunning in her youth. Soft peach skin that glowed in the summer sun, her hair was made of waves of golden silk and as it floated in the breeze the smell of cherry blossoms assaulted him. Plump lips pulled into a smile as he sauntered ever closer, the cockiness of youth giving him confidence.

    They spent the day together, in that enchanted place, learning about each other. She fascinated him and she was flattered by his attention. But it wasn’t meant to be. Maybe she should have told him that her time was limited, maybe she should have explained the why she was in his realm, but the beatific look on his face stopped her every time.

    Hours later, when the sun was kissing the horizon goodnight, she cried in his arms. Baffled by the beauties sudden melancholy all he could do was hold her close and promise to love her forever. He left her at her door with a tender kiss and his pledge that he would meet her at that bench tomorrow, May twenty fourth.

    Sixty years later and he’s still waiting for her to show up. He scans the faces of the people around him. Hoping and wishing that his love would come for him. Over the years he’s spent all of his time and money trying to find her. He told her he’d love her forever and he was a man of his word.

    As the sun descended beyond the treeline the lonely old man, stiff from sitting on that bench all day, pulls himself to his feet and turns towards home.

  2. […] I never told you this before, but you will no doubt remember it well. Remember that day at the park? Yes, the spring, the rain, the wet shoes. I told you then that it was to get out of the apartment and see the azaleas. And, it was, though not entirely. […]

  3. greyzr says:

    I never told you this before, but you will no doubt remember it well. Remember that day at the park? Yes, the spring, the rain, the wet shoes. I told you then that it was to get out of the apartment and see the azaleas. And, it was, though not entirely.

    What I never told you, until now, is that I had been to the park many times before. You remember the old black bench there? Yes, that one. Well, on my strolls through the park every afternoon before you came home from the store, I used to see an old couple sitting on the bench together. Sometimes, he’d be reading the paper. Sometimes, she would be knitting. A sweater for one of her grandchildren, or great-grandchildren, I imagined.

    We came to know each other in this chance way. Myself, playing the young man, striding briskly through the park off to carry out the day. They were the audience, sharing another afternoon together, talking, holding hands, listening to the birds and frogs. I suppose they may have waited, sitting on that bench, until sunset. Waited for the skies to turn cherry red and tangerine with the pink cotton candy clouds majestically sailing past overhead.

    So, you see, my dear, it was no accident or random chance that day. I had planned it for some time. I never knew why, but the elderly couple simply disappeared one day, unexpectedly. I never did see them again. Maybe they got sick or had to move away.

    The idea didn’t come to me at once, but I knew it was perfect. So, that is why I asked you to come walk with me in the park that day. The rains of springtime tried to dampen my spirits, soaking us both. But, I still say that you never looked more beautiful than that day, when we were both dripping wet, your dark hair clinging to your smiling, laughing face. My heart raced with joy when you pointed to the rainbow, for I knew it was meant to be. So, now you know why it was that I proposed to you there. It was our turn.

    (360 words)

  4. Image Ronin says:

    The Bench

    ‘So there you are, do you mind?’

    The gentleman sat on the park bench under the shelter of his umbrella lifted his gaze. Patting his hand he beckoned the other man to come sit beside him. For a moment the silence stretched out as the rain fell like mist. Finally the gentleman spoke, pulling the collar of his coat up to ward off the chill.

    ‘How was it for you?’

    ‘Frustrating, but you knew that didn’t you? The chap with the umbrella, causing the fuss, one of yours I assume?’

    ‘Indeed, new addition to the team, seems capable, with an umbrella anyway.’

    ‘And the cyclist.’

    ‘Correct again. Did you not love the timing? The layers of diversion wrapping in on each other. Impeccable even I do say so myself.’

    ‘The sneezer though I have the feeling …’

    ‘Non-combatant, a moment of randomness. Delightful though.’

    ‘And the actual thief who stole the item?’

    ‘Ah, well surely that would ruin the game if I told you?’

    ‘Well I wanted it to be the ballerina, yet that was too showy, too blatant. The owner himself would have had access yet the inside job lacks the creativity I have come to expect.’

    ‘Go on.’

    ‘So the balloon artist.’

    The gentleman nodded, brushing an invisible strand of fluff away from his suit trousers.

    ‘Excellent! Well that leaves only the outstanding matter at hand.’

    ‘My arrest. Really? Seems slightly crass in the circumstances.’

    ‘Being?’

    ‘Our anniversary for one, ten years since we first met.’

    ‘Ah, I had forgotten.’

    ‘As I thought you would my dear friend, but rest assured I hadn’t.’

    ‘I feel so …’

    ‘Don’t, I just hope you appreciated the present, something to mark the occasion. Oh and of course this is also for you.’

    The gentleman handed over a small box, then, knees creaking he rose. Wandering slowly away down the rain soaked path.

    The other man, hands trembling, opened the box. Revealing a ring. Smiling he called out to his oldest friend.

    ‘Until next time James.’

    The gentleman carried on walking, raising a hand in farewell, his voice carried back on the breeze as he disappeared into the rain.

    ‘Till then Sherlock.’

    Word Count 360

    @imageronin

  5. Tinman says:

    You Never Know What You’re Gonna Get
    359 words
    @TinmanDoneBadly

    He was first to arrive at the bench. He picked the end with fewest bird-droppings and sat down with his briefcase.

    Another man approached and sat at the other, literally crappier, end. The first man spoke.

    “On a clear day you can see Rathfarnham from here,” he said.

    “I doubt it,” said the second man. “That tree is in the way.”

    The first man sighed. “‘Yes, but when it’s foggy you can’t even see as far as the park gates’,” he hinted.

    “I wouldn’t be here if it was foggy,” said the second man.

    “Who cares?” said the first man. “You’re just supposed to say it.”

    “Why?”

    “It’s the password,” said the first man, “so I’ll know it’s you.”

    “But I don’t think it is me,” said the second man. “Well, it is, but I don’t think it’s me you’re looking for, excuse the Lionel Richie impression.”

    “You’re not the European Union mole?”

    “No,” said the second man. “I work in HR at McDonald’s.”

    “But P said -”

    “P?”

    “He’s the Irish Secret Intelligence Service version of M. Anyway, P said you’d be wearing a dark suit, carrying a briefcase and a newspaper turned to the puzzles page, with the Sudoku half filled-in.”

    “Isn’t that description a bit broad?” said the second man.

    “Perhaps,” conceded the first man. “Anyway, we were to leave with each other’s briefcase.”

    “What was supposed to be in mine?”

    “The EU’s plans for further austerity,” said the first man.

    “And what’s in yours?”

    “Two million Euro.”

    There was a brief silence. “That’s a million Euro each,” said the second man thoughtfully.

    “I couldn’t,” said the first man. “ISIS would track me down.”

    “They sent you to find a man in a suit at lunchtime on a weekday,” said the second man. “And to say your half of the password first. There are only two words in ‘Secret Intelligence’, yet neither seem to apply. I doubt they could find you if you arrived into P’s office delivering pizza.”

    When the mole did arrive he found just an abandoned briefcase. He shrugged, and opened it.

    It contained four biros, a calculator, and a Tesco Roast-Turkey-and-Stuffing Sandwich.

  6. Hiding Roses
    360 words
    @chinchinunicorn

    “Be quiet, Anne Marie!” I grab at her ruddy lips. She can’t seem to stop the giggles, and I don’t want to be caught. Eddie doesn’t know we’re here. He didn’t see us sneak out of the house when no one was looking or when we followed behind him on the rain bitten path. And he most certainly didn’t notice us when he clasped hands with the pretty blonde girl whose name matches her blushing lips.

    “I can’t help myself,” Annie whispers too loudly. “I didn’t know my brother was sweet on Rosie Dale.”

    No one did. Not his mother who tried to set him up with shy Beth Parker or his father who said his business partner’s daughter was a looker…or me. Not that I mattered in the long run. He’s Edward Jones, recently graduated, off to law school, potential future husband. I’m just poor Lizzie Day whose father ran out on her mother, barely on the edge of womanhood. Too young to consider. Too old not to know better.

    Annie giggles again, and I swear I see Eddie’s eyes flick over to our rosebush, but I can’t be sure. The bench him and Rosie are sitting on is too far away, too obscured by our leafy cover. I shake my head. “Annie, I swear! Eddie’s not going to be too happy if he catches us.”

    Her blue eyes, so similar to her brother’s, widen, and then she’s pointing. “Look!”

    I wish I hadn’t. Then I wouldn’t be plagued with the image of Eddie leaning in close to pretty Rosie, his lips on her upturned cheek. They stand, hands still twined together, whispering words that make her cheeks flush. They turn our way so suddenly that I only have seconds to push Annie down to the ground.

    “Beautiful rainbow, don’t you think, Rosie?” She nods her agreement. “I wonder if there’s treasure at the end or if there’s something even better hiding there.”

    “Like what?”

    “Like a pretty girl with lips as red as those roses.”

    “Do you like roses?”

    He pauses, smiles, and then I’m not sure if my heart should soar or plummet. “I love them.”

  7. Diana Gallardo says:

    This park has such interesting stories! Love them all. Now, I must get to work on mine.

  8. The Park

    I didn’t understand what it was to truly hunger for something besides food until I saw the Park.
    My family’s apartment was so deep in the cramped, skyless part of the city that the Park was something only talked about with vague mythical references that I believed in it about as much as I believed in God.
    My world was sharp edges and too little space. Everything varying shades of grey and brown that on rainy days transformed to duller, darker shades of grey and brown. Nothing grew in this concrete microcosm, and that almost included people as well.
    I had grown up with a rumor that there was a Park at the far west side of the City. Surrounded by alternating sections of solid grey walls and chain link fence, separating it from the city and its people, inside there was a square mile of lush green land.
    When hearing about it I had no point of reference for “lush” and had a severe failure of imagination for the varieties of “green” that existed there.
    I was ten when my mother finally took me on the long trip to stand at the fence and gaze into the Park. And then I hungered. I salivated at the idea of being about to reach out and touch a single blade of grass.
    I could see a bench, a place meant for leisurely enjoyment of this space. And that’s what it was-space, wide open.
    Supposedly this place was available as a reward from the Society to those who met their monthly quotas for ten years, who upheld every minute aspect of the law, who gained a kind of prosperity that was vague in definition.
    But every time I made a trip to stare into this corner of the Park the bench sat empty. I never saw anyone within its grounds.
    I dream of how to breech the walls and sink my bare feet into the real earth there.
    And in this I know why the Society keeps the Park. And endless tease of hope.
    I am desperate for it.

    355 Words
    @CaseyCaseRose

  9. Oh my. My apologies for not taking the time to proofread.
    “…amongst changing shapes of green.” and “every day” should have been deleted and just read “met their monthly quotas for ten years”.
    Sigh.

  10. stellakateT
    360 words

    Insight

    I’d walked this route for ten years, never noticing the bronze plaque on the park bench. It was highly polished, glinting in the midday sun.

    In loving memory of my dear wife Stella Quinney died 25/5/14. Peace at last for her and insight for those who sit here.

    I read it three times, the bile rising in my throat. It must be a co-incidence. I couldn’t be the only one with that name and the date was today. I felt a bit queasy not wanting to sit down on the bench so learnt against a tree instead, taking deep breathes to steady myself.

    Letting myself into the tiny flat I called out “hello”
    I could hear him snoring in the lounge and went to make us both a strong cup of tea. Putting the mug down beside him I nudged him awake. He looked surprised to see me.

    “Hello love, had a good day”

    I didn’t want to tell him about the bench. It sounded so irrational now. The other Stella Quinney must have died months ago and the bench only been dedicated today so that explained the date. I told him about the walk along the canal, how bright the sunshine was and the funny things the girls had said at work. He smiled; he never let his blindness get him down.

    Sitting on the bench he felt the heat of the sun and the cool breeze on his face. The colour of the grass was amazing. He hadn’t seen it for twelve years since that accident. Accelerating, to avoid the child running into the road, she managed not to hurt either the girl or herself but inflicted life changing injuries on him. He held no bitterness or malice.

    It had been easy; his brother was ruthless in his enthusiasm. Each day he changed the plague for today’s date and if it wasn’t sunny he’d shine a mirror hidden behind a tree into her eyes.

    The Devil and he had made a pact, Stella for his sight. He’d also pledged his soul and the insurance money for his brother’s silence. Stella, for her part just fell into the canal.

  11. Diana Gallardo says:

    Green Light

    @voimaoy
    345 words

    Through the spring leaves, I saw them walking in the park, the little brunette and the tall boy beside her, joking together. They looked like college students, wearing blue jeans, carrying backpacks.

    When I got home, I told him. “Our replacements have arrived.”

    He didn’t seem all that surprised. “Good timing, then. This came today.”

    He was holding a little black shipping box. The return address was completely covered by various stamps and labels.

    “I wonder what they sent this time. You know how they mess things up.” He was trying to be cool, as usual, but his hands were racing like my heart, inside.

    How many years had we been here, waiting for the replacement order to arrive? How many boxes? Once, they sent a bag of marbles. A set of crayons. An origami kit.

    Inside the box was the item we had ordered, wrapped in the assembly instructions.

    I looked around at the kitchen, the dishes drying, the box popped open on the table.

    There wasn’t much we had to do, nothing that we really had to take with us. The replacements would find the house keys in the mailbox. I left instructions on how to live, here.

    We walked together to the park. Everything was sparkling after the rain, a few people around to notice the rainbow, the shimmer in the mild spring air.

    How many times had we sat on the park bench, watching the colors change, watching the people tossing bread crumbs for the big birds, the pigeons, and the little birds, the sparrows? We weren’t so different, after all.

    “I liked this place,” I said.

    “It had its moments,” he said, looking around. “I’ll miss the trees and the rain.”

    The ship was waiting, hidden in the shadows. The Light Drive fit, clicked in the slot. The lights turned green and go. The hatchway closing. The space folds forming.

    No one sitting on the park bench saw the slanted sunlight, the green light through the leaves.

    We watched the earth receding, like a marble on the screen.

  12. Bertram
    Beth Deitchman
    @beth_deitchman
    360 words

    Bertram folded his umbrella and continued up the lane. Ahead of him a young woman and man strolled hand in hand, soaked from the downpour.

    “Oh, it’s a rainbow!” she said.

    “Pretty,” said the young man. He looked at her, grinning. “But you’re prettier.”

    She giggled. Bertram sighed. With a sad smile, he cut around the kissing couple and headed for his favorite bench. Mindful of his back, he settled himself on the weathered wood. The young couple strode by. Bertram followed their progress down the path and around the bend.

    “Do you mind if I join you?”

    A handsome woman “of a certain age,” as Edith would have said, stood smiling at Bertram, clutching a dripping umbrella.

    “Of course,” Bertram replied, sliding over. “It’s a bit wet.”

    The woman shrugged. “I don’t mind,” she said. “I’m not made of sugar.” Bertram thought she had a lovely laugh.

    “That was quite a storm, wasn’t it?” she said, shaking the umbrella before setting it down.

    “That it was,” Bertram replied. “But the sun is nice.”

    “That it is.” She sighed, a contented sound. “I expect the kids will be out again soon.”

    “Most likely.”

    Bertram found he enjoyed sharing his bench more than he would have expected.

    “I’m Miriam,” she said.

    “Bertram.” He shook her proffered hand.

    “Nice to meet you.”

    “And you.”

    A strangely comfortable silence fell. Bertram stole a glance at Miriam. Her eyes were closed, and her face was turned toward the sun. A slight smile touched her lips. He looked away, hoping she would stay for a while.

    “I love this park,” Miriam said.

    “It’s a lovely park.”

    “Do you live nearby?”

    Bertram pointed west. “Down that way.”

    “I’m over there.” She pointed east. “Just moved in. Circumstances demanded it.”

    Bertram nodded, unwilling to pry.

    They sat in companionable silence for another quarter of an hour.

    “I better be on my way,” Miriam said. “It was a pleasure to meet you, Bertram.”

    “And you, Miriam,” Bertram replied, standing.

    Miriam smiled and turned, took a step, stopped. She turned back. “I’ll be here tomorrow.”

    “As will I,” Bertram said.

    “Good.” As she walked away, she swung her umbrella.

  13. “Reward”
    Word Count: 298
    @jaimeburchardt

    Marcus was exhausted. Stopping an evil alien army from invading the west coast can do that to your endurance. The war was done, and the air that was once invaded by the sounds of explosions and cries was now filled with one of cheers. But he didn’t even want to hear that. He just wanted two things Peace and quiet. The ‘peace’ part was accomplished. Now…the quiet.

    Breaking away from the small army he led into battle, he hopped on his horse and rode off. His men were still celebrating and they didn’t seem to notice, but that was alright. Smoke and smog still invaded the beach from the battle, so his goal was to find solace in anything past its barrier. He rode his horse for what seemed like an eternity. There was no escaping the air’s clutches, and he had completely lost his sense of direction. Before all seemed lost, he finally broke through the barrier and found a sight so colorful and masterful, he couldn’t breathe.

    He found himself in some sort of forest. There wasn’t much to it. Just a lake that seemed to go in a circle, grass, trees, and a solitary bench. And up in the sky had a rainbow so elegant that it seemed like a reward for all he had done. That’s what he felt at least, and as he hopped off his horse and walked closer to the bench, he saw a single white piece of paper, folded into such a small piece that he initially couldn’t see it from the distance.

    Sitting down, catching his breath, he opened the note. It read, “Thank you Marcus.” He folded the note back, put it in his pocket, and put his head down to cry. To cry and to breathe.

  14. Broken Pieces

    Rain poured down in thick sheets as I pulled up to the park’s entrance. I cursed and banged my fists against the steering wheel. As tears streamed down my face, I clutched the urn in the passenger’s seat and held it against my chest.

    “Don’t worry baby. We’ll wait it out. I won’t let you down this time.”

    I let Jonathan down several times before. As his mother often pointed out, I didn’t deserve such a sweet and loving man. I could never stay sober longer than two years. I couldn’t keep a job longer than six months. I lied, stole and cheated in order to get my hands on more booze and pills. Despite the pain and misery I caused him, Jonathan stayed by my side and loved me until the bitter end.

    Two hours passed and the rain showed no signs of stopping. It would be nightfall soon and I couldn’t afford to sit there all night. With a heavy heart, I grabbed Jonathan’s urn and darted outside.

    I ran down the slippery path to the lake where we spend countless hours together. I held the urn in my hands and stared at it. As much as I wanted to fulfill Jonathan’s last wishes, a part of me didn’t want to let him go. If I scattered his ashes, I’d have nothing left but memories. It hurt my soul. I chased my selfish desires away and spread his ashes across the lake. When I finished, I collapsed on the wet ground clutching his empty urn and cried.

    I don’t know how long I laid on the ground but by the time I composed myself, the rain stopped. As I made my way to the car, I couldn’t help but notice how different the world looked. The grass and tree leaves seemed a little greener and the songs the birds sung seemed sweeter. A rainbow streaked across the sky. I smiled. I knew this was Jonathan’s way of telling me he was there and he loved me. Suddenly, I didn’t feel so alone.

    344 words
    @triffic_tinika

  15. The Stalker

    It was the 7th of September.

    “That’s odd,” Andrew thought immediately. Andrew Maccaby was the judge of an online writing competition. He had posted a picture of a park bench as a writing prompt. In the grey sky you could see a rainbow. Andrew had taken that picture on the 7th of September.

    A great day to kill.

    Andrew’s stomach nearly exploded. His blood was swirling around in his veins. “Who wrote this?” he exclaimed. At the bottom of the story he discovered the name Paul Evans. He had never heard of him.

    I was sitting next to Nadia on a park bench. A few days before we had met in the supermarket. I’ll never forget the way she walked through the isle, pushing her shopping cart in front of her and
    looking so very far away from everything.

    We got talking. She had recently broken up with her boyfriend. A long relationship. But I didn’t care. It was the look in her eyes. Absent. I’ve always loved people who weren’t really there and lived in their own world.

    In the park we talked some more. It started raining. A scene from a movie. We kissed. I opened my eyes and there wasn’t anyone around. I shoved my hunting knife in her left kidney, severing the renal artery. My mouth on hers muffled any attempt of her making a sound. Blood spewed out of her aorta. She went in shock immediately. It was only a matter of minutes before she died. The rain washed away the blood.

    I waited for the sun. Then I took her body and layed it at the pond, her now truly absent stare in the direction of my favourite natural phenomenon: a rainbow. I wanted her to see the ultimate symbol of hope. There is always hope.

    I took a picture of the location of the kill and the rainbow. Just like with the others.

    The only thing, Andrew, is you forgot the ex boyfriend. A police detective who was stalking her. I connected a few dots. By the time you’ve finished reading this sentence, we’ll be at your door.

    The bell rang.

    358 words
    @bartvangoethem

  16. The Waiting Place

    I sat there all afternoon, smoking one cigarette after another, watching the procession of joggers who passed my bench at irregular intervals, like a row of broken notes. I assigned them values, tried to whistle the tune they made as they slogged past, but it was too weird, discordant and disjointed like a free jazz solo for fat girls in stretch velour.

    More than once, I thought I saw her, off in the distance, but she never came close enough to be sure.

    I checked my watch, the bushes, the park’s closing times, but she still didn’t come.

    I wondered if I could have misunderstood, if the whole thing was some massive wind up, orchestrated with her husband to make me look stupid. Maybe I’d read the signals wrong? It was never my strong suit, and really, what would a woman like that want with someone like me?

    I stood up, paced around the little island of bushes, watching the sun begin to dip behind the trees on the far side of the playing fields.

    Smoked some more.

    A couple of girls I half recognized from college came past, and I half waved to them. They half ignored me.

    The batteries began to run down on my Walkman and I switched it off.

    Smoked some more.

    The joggers began to thin out, the gaps between them longer and longer.

    It was a joke.

    It had to be a joke.

    We didn’t even know each other that well. I’d worked in the shop for six months, two nights a week, three hours a night. That was around a hundred and forty four hours, give or take cigarette breaks and nights off, like when she went to a party and she called in to say hello as they passed, wearing that short red dress with her hair all clipped up…

    But maybe time didn’t matter any more than age did. I’d told her how I’d felt, and she hadn’t gotten upset. She’d said she’d be here. Tonight. No definite time, but as soon as she could.

    So eked out the power in my Walkman batteries.

    Smoked some more.

    And waited.

    And then…

    360 words
    @Karl_A_Russell

  17. Jacki Donnellan says:

    Cynthia

    I wonder, Cynthia, if you thought that coming here would frighten me more than ever before. I wonder if I thought so myself.

    But, do you know, it hasn’t. There’s something astonishingly soothing about being here and just sitting, still and quiet, for a moment.

    Because now I come to think of it, I haven’t done that for a long time, have I, Cynthia? Not since you first came into my life, that is, when you and I would spend rather too much time alone together, and I would sit and touch you, in stunned disbelief.

    Recently, though, it’s been a different story, hasn’t it? I’ve kept myself busy; kept the white noise turned up high. I find that bustling and dashing almost drown you out, because you just never shut up, do you Cynthia? Always reminding me that you’re there; constantly telling me my own life story, convincing me you know how it ends.

    So I admit that I thought you’d be louder here. And perhaps, Cynthia, you thought so too. Perhaps you were poised to point out the solitude, the hush, the twilight; sucking it all in, to illustrate your stories.

    But sitting here, Cynthia, I can’t hear you at all. It’s sweetly silent, save for the birdsong and the happy sighing of the breeze.

    And don’t you think that even all those gravestones over there look somehow beautiful, in this lovely evening sun?

    What’s the matter? Has coming here made you nervous? Are you finally feeling anxious about the death that you know is coming? I wonder how you’re going to die, Cynthia? Sliced, burned, or poisoned? Perhaps all three?

    Well, no wonder you’re feeling scared. Because you know, don’t you Cynthia, that I’m going to do whatever it takes to end your life. I’m going to fight. And you’ve realized that far from making me scared, coming here to visit my mum has given me the courage to say that to you for the very first time.

    The big C.

    My big C.

    My “Cynthia.”

    Maybe you’ll find your voice again tomorrow, Cynthia.

    But inside these fleeting, peaceful moments, I shall pretend you don’t even exist.

    360 words
    @donnellanjacki

  18. Got brought to my attention that my story contains some errors. Had to write and submit it quickly so apologies for that.

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