OCTOBER FLASH

This month features flash stories by Evelyn Adams, Andrew Bailey and Eric Alder.  Their tales will question your boundaries, poke you in the ribs and tickle your quirky funny bone.

Getting Fat

By

Andrew Bailey

This happened after we moved in together. She came to me and held out her hand. It was a pretty hand, but there was a nasty paper cut. “My hand hurts,” she said.  “I think I have cancer.”

I said,  “It looks like a paper cut, Sweet Cheeks.”

“No it isn’t,” she said. “Its cancer, I know it. I’m going to die. You’re going to be alone. You are going to be miserable and alone.”

I didn’t want to be alone. I wouldn’t be miserable but I would start doing the things I wanted to do again and then I might be too pleased with myself and never really live an adult life. I took her to the hospital. We waited six hours and finally the triage told her to go home, that it was a paper cut.

This became a habit that I also got in on. My chest would hurt and I would say that I most definitely had cancer. She would say it was just gas and then the next day her brain would be throbbing and she would claim to be dead by tomorrow.

One day her stomach began to expand. “See,” She said, sipping a whiskey on ice. “I have it. I’m dying. You’re going to be all alone.”

I took out a magnifying glass and examined her belly. I poked it. “Love,” I began. I stopped and took her drink away. “Love,” I said. “I think you have cancer. Definitely cancer.”

She said, “I’m dying. I knew it. I’m sorry my love. I am going to leave you all alone. I hope you are miserable when I am gone.”

“I won’t be alone long,” I said. “I’m dying too.” I was coughing again and my knee hurt. I was positive the knee was where my cancer originated. I poked her belly again.

“It’s getting dark,” She said.

“Don’t worry,” I said. “It won’t hurt. Much. I hear it goes fast, anyway.”

She began snoring.

I fell asleep too.

When we woke the next morning we were embarrassed at our hypochondria.  “Maybe we don’t have cancer,” She said.

My knee was feeling better. I said, “Probably not.”

We had cherry pie, sixteen eggs, and black coffee for breakfast.  She also had ice cream and our left over anchovy pizza. Her belly was still much more round than usual.  I said, “Are you getting fat, sweet cakes?” She started to cry before we went ahead and got married, which was little better than cancer.