Sunday 24 January 2021


 by  Phyllis Souza

luke-warm water 

 — can hear the sounds of compressors from the refrigerated trailers.

   Inside the hospital, legs dangle over the side of a bed. Feet search for warmth and find not a fuzzy throw but a cold tile floor.

   Sickness seeps through skin, a foul fever, a runny nose, and choking on tasteless snot.

   Lips crack, tears burn, head swims.

   No one helps. Only the walls hear the death rattle from lungs gasping for air.

— it wasn't a hoax. 

   Too late. The party is over.

 About the author  

Phyllis Souza lives in Northern California and is retired from a long real estate career. She's taken several on-line writing classes. Her stories have been published in Café Lit, The Raven Perch, Spillwords, Scarlet Leaf Review and Friday Flash Fiction.

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