Flash Flood:

If I don’t open my eyes, she’s not dead. Her potato-shaped body pressed against my thigh is always this still. If I don’t listen, she’s not dead. The whistle of air through her scrunched-up nose has been my alarm clock for twelve years. If I don’t think, she’s not dead. The vet said the cancer was everywhere, but last night she rolled over-and-over in the soft patch of clover by the rose bush. If I don’t move, she’s not dead. This week’s been tough on me and my girl. Let’s stay asleep old friend—life can happen later.

Christy Hartman Avatar

Published by

Christy Hartman
Christy Hartman pens short fiction from her home between the ocean and mountains of Vancouver Island Canada. She writes about the chasm between love and loss and picking out the morsels of magic in life’s quiet moments. Christy has been published in Elegant Literature, Bright Flash Literary Review, Fairfield Scribes, and others. When not writing, Christy devotes her time to whichever old or injured rescue dog has wormed their way into heart, currently an anxious Red Heeler named Cyrus. Her other hobby is cooking vegan meals and trying to convince her husband they taste just like chicken.
Categories:

Leave a comment