Flash Photography for Writers

A weekly picture to stir your creative juices, a flash photo for flash writing

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Full

Ten cents a loaf, it used to be.  And fresh-churned butter, courtesy.  In paper wrappings, just like that!  Piping hot, and doused with fat.  It’d be us on that pavement, mouths crammed with bread.  Chewing without any thoughts in our head.  We’d sigh our contentment, lick cream from our cheeks, play with our laces and shuffle our feet.  Brush crumbs off our pant legs, flour from our palms, then settle into a rare sort of calm.  Bellies laden, perched on that curb, we’d pause a moment in our own soft world, in still satisfaction, that space between breaths where you’re not cowed by life-stuff, not fearful of death.  And for all that was happening, all going down, all swirling and pulling and shifting around – we were the center, the eye of the storm, the pulse of existence in little kid form. 

I remember.  A loaf of bread.  A curb, a companion, and our spirits fed.  

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The Yard. Pub and Dining Establishment

It is a fourteen minute walk to The Yard from the offices of the mill.  It is a 25 minute drive from the mill to the office.  Then I am home.  I am welcomed by warm faces and cold beer that Bessy puts down in front of me.

A stool saved for my by a collection of dirty and hard faced drunk friends who are truer than any made another way then this daily gathering. A collection started up for Tom’s boy who broke his arm. Dragging you to your wife and warm bed when you tried to drink a hard day away.

Tricked into meaningful communication by talk in astonishingly small doses,  A skimpy paycheck here, a cold shoulder from your women there. Sharing in small triumphs that make up the whole of your life. A smile from a pretty young girl when you were crossing the street, an extra blood sausage on your plate. Sharing the big ones that seem to come too few and far in between. Your son telling you you are going to be a grandfather, distant relation left something to you. Shared in glances and words. Replies given in buying another round.

These are my friends. No. This is my family. So it is with a heavy heart that I must leave you. What better way to tell let me know how much you will miss me than to say nothing. Empty stool and a cold beer waiting.

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The Last Drinking Song

Not crusty bread nor hearty cheese

Just a smile clear as the morning breeze

With a lilting whistle and a step like spring

When I near my end this is all I’ll bring

*

With a fond farewell to my many days

All the songs I’ve sung, all the parted ways

All the lips I’ve kissed, all the hands I’ve shaken

When I reach my end, this is all I’m taking

*

From the puzzles I’ve puzzled, to the riddles I’ve spun

Every promise I’ve broken, every heart I’ve won

Every lingering doubt will be laid to rest

When my end has come and I breathe my last

 *

With glasses raised I'll bid all adieu

My friends aplenty and enemies few

A lived-up life in a world I've owned

Will be mine to take when at last I've gone.

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My favorite time of day.

My nostril flare as I smell her coming. I start breathing heavily in excitement. For it is this time of day that I wait for, my favorite time of day.

I hear the door creak and hear her call out my name. I extend a greeting myself and even though she hasn't come to me yet I can almost feel her touching my face, hands caressing my hair. It is almost too much to bear, the thought of it going to happen. I pace around and want to burst out of my confines but I know this will not please her. I wait was seems to be calmly but that is only on the outside, everything is buzzing and crackling electric on the inside.  This is the time of day I wait for.

I hear her gathering the things from the hooks, leather things and metal things. She is coming to me.  I call out again, subtly so not to displease her with my eagerness.

I see her boot first, holding all the things in her hands, our eyes meet and she smiles that smile of hers. I know at that moment that smile is only for me. I am hers right now and she glows as she walks toward me.

I crane my neck to get as close as I can to her so we can touch as soon as she gets close. I know she feels the urge to touch me as I feel the urge to be touched.

She drops the leather things and the metal things and her hands reach automatically to either side of my face and I lean into her hands and inhale her scent deeply as her face comes close to mine and her hair brushes mine. This is my favorite time of day. 

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Night One Thousand and Two

In one incarnation of my ideal life, I write a lot.  Every single day. It’s fulfilling because the sunlight steals in to slip over my skin and my chair is singularly comfy and I can make all the hot beverages I want all day long and I get paid handsomely for all of it.

When I get bored or stuck or my mind starts to wander and distract me like an itch that can’t quite be scratched, I go onto my blog and share some loosely interwoven thoughts with the whole wide world, often including visual aids to help people understand what I’m talking about (and because it’s more aesthetically pleasing).

I do all this for most of the morning and then take a break to empty my grouchy bladder and make a toasted-bread sandwich and smell the proverbial roses which are actually gardenias because they’re easier to care for and my thumb is rather un-green, really chartreuse at best.

I take a moment on my porch to absorb some inspiration from the strange and unusually regal birds flying overhead or the sound of the waves lapping onto the gold-flecked sanded shores that hem the border of my homestead, or the outrageous dialogue coming from the TV show my unsuspiciously reclusive neighbor is immersed in next door, and then I pad-foot my way back to my chair, my next hot beverage and my story to lay down more bricks in the form of typewritten pages.

Afterward, while there are still bits of glorious late afternoon sunshine remaining, I mosey on down to the cozy neighborhood watering hole for decidedly cooler beverages shared with a motley crew of found friends who are coming off a day of creative expression in their own right. We chat and laugh and share and prod each other’s mindscapes - mostly figuratively. We inspire, empathize, criticize, satirize, and energize each other’s existence into warm hearted communal goodness and then disperse in packs or pairs or selves to the next adventure.

This would be the grab-bag moment where anything goes as long as it requires a great deal more going than staying and there are more beverages – either hot or cold in deference to the nature of the particular adventure.

And at the right stop-action moment amidst all this swirlily satisfying activity, when the day finally slips on its somnolent attire and I find myself in perfect presence with the glow of gratitude for the lusciousness of the fullness of the blessings of my life, I spend the remaining decent into restful oblivion in total onehundredpercent connection with the being that we all get to be, and fall asleep wrapped in its-and-my perfect embrace which is more all-encompassing than I will ever have words for, though an earnest and hearty endeavor will be made by me all the same when my day begins anew.

I exit my verbal reverie with a long breath and my eyes regain focus on his face – his unnervingly impassive face.  A long while stretches before us, and I can only assume he is deep in contemplation of this rather long winded response to his (admittedly) terse question: what is it you want.  

I am determined to be patient though, and equally determined to keep my gaze steady on those liquid brown eyes studying me.  If there is anything I’ve learned in this incarnation of my life it is firstly that good things are always, always worth the wait and secondly, one should never, under any circumstances, look a gift horse in the mouth.  Not if you truly want your gift.

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Trunk space

I wanted to get here earlier to relax with a drink but it isn’t doing the job. It has been a long hiatus and I am ready to get back in the saddle, so to speak. I don’t understand how these other women can be perched, legs crossed, one hand holding a clutch the other holding their beverage, wearing slinky dresses that are made of the most slipperiest material and still manage to stay on their little stools looking so graceful.   My goal is to look sexy so that I can attract the right person’s attention. However, that is difficult when battling with my skirt trying to creep higher and higher on a stool with a slippery dress on.

I just need to get back in the game. The first time in a long while is always going to be a bit rocky.  I just need to shake out the cobwebs. Pushing out any lingering thoughts about not being ready I glance around the bar to see who else is in my company.

There are mostly slightly tipsy business casuals trying to get the last of the happy hour specials in before they slosh back home, filled with drinks like the one I am nursing. I am not having more than one. I want to feel loose but not dull any senses. There doesn’t seem to be the one here tonight so far. You know the person that grabs your attention and then nothing else is of consequence. Well that person is not here… yet. Maybe when the happy hour crowd thins down someone more my type will come around. That is when they usually do come out of the woodwork -to prey on those that might have gotten past happy and maybe are in the sloppy stage.

I could wait or maybe I will just speed things along. It would be a shame to let tonight slip by without getting some work done. Maybe a little trip to powder my nose will do the trick. I think I will just stumble off the barstool, leaving my drink unattended, that might work.

I turn, grab my bag and place it up under my arm, leaving both my hands to grab the stool at the seat. I look down, hanging my head. I wait a few minutes to really get into character. I look for some men’s shoes and wait until I see a pair of dark brown leather expensive ones. They are making their way in my direction. I wait to calculate their speed and my trajectory.  Just as I begin to slide off for the clumsy dismount and to hopefully be right on time to grab onto the owner of the dark brown leather shoes, my face collides with a chest.

Damn. My calculations were wrong. I feel strong hands grab my arms and steady me.  I was trying to get myself together and try not to show my anger. My display did not occur as planned but maybe I can still make it work. I try to get back into character. Moving my tongue around to get my best southern slur out to say how sorry I am and how I didn’t see him there but how glad I am he caught me. I know it is kinda cheating if I flirt first but I just want to have my first night amount to something. I begin to look up, with eyes half closed, curious to see who has impeded my hunt.

Our eyes met and my carefully molded expression vanished. Whatever I had planned to say was immediately erased. I saw a strong man who was beautiful and knew it.  He kept his grip on my arms but loosened them when he saw my face. I wonder if he was expecting an easy target but his expression changed from one of concern to delight and at this a warmth was spread deliciously inside my body.

This wasn’t exactly how I decided to spend my evening but there is nothing wrong with a little play before work. I straighten myself and say hello and at this, he takes a step back and places his hands in his pockets.

He doesn’t respond right away and that slight pause makes her think this guy might be a serial killer but then a slow salacious smile spreads across his face and then I know this guy has a space cleared out in his trunk for me.

I didn’t want to give up on this night but since I haven’t seen anyone in here that might be of use, I figured I would make the most of this encounter or at least play it out to see where it goes.

“Normal people say hello back right away” I say, my eyes locked on his.

“What is the definition of right away?” He responds with a more sedate smile still playing on his lips.

I lean back reach to lean my elbows on the bar and tap my nails on the lacquered wood. I look at him for a while.

After a long while I ask “Do you want to get out of here?”

He responds with the same smile as previously mentioned.

I grab my jacket start to put it on. I nod my head in the direction of the side exit and he starts heading that way slowly still looking at me. I start to follow but then remember my bag. I might not need the chloroform and hankie in it right away or at all but you never know when an opportunity might present itself. Dark Brown Leather might have his but I have my own trunk space cleared out.. I tuck the bag under my arm and walk out the door that is being held open for me into the blustery cold evening air.

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The Interview

“Do you recognize your freedoms when they are presented to you?”

“I recognize that freedom is always present to me and a matter of choice.  Though…not always a simple one”.

“Do you, then, choose your freedoms when you recognize them?”

 “Ah, no.  No I don’t.  Not always”. 

“But you are aware?  When you choose out of an opportunity to liberate yourself?”

“Liberate”, I repeat. “Opportunity…Freedom.  None of these words have meaning on their own. Liberate from what?  Opportunity how?  And freedom…all relative.  You've not traveled all this way just to quiz me on abstracts, I think. No, what you're here to discover is whether or not I know myself.  And the answer is yes.  Or truly, you would not have come.”

I watch the stranger lean back in his chair, half a smile playing on his lips. 

“Let’s assume,” I continue, “that I decide to take your offer.  You entrust me with a task that places my life in peril, and as that removes from your power this rather significant element of leverage, the only way you can guarantee that I will not turn tail and abandon your mission is if you can trust me.  And you can only trust me if you believe I know myself, yes?”

He gestures his assent, keeping his eyes level with my own.

“And you are this very moment asking yourself: Do I know I can commit to what you ask of me?  Do I know I believe in your cause?  Do I know what I risk by forming an alliance with you?”

He squares his shoulders, facing me fully and relaxing his guard.  I pause to sip from the cocktail he’s procured for me.  Blood-Orange Martini.  Whimsical choice.

“But a man's self-knowledge can’t be measured by an exchange of words.  And this interview is merely serving as an opportunity to…liberate you…from any doubts you have about my resolve.” 

I raise the glass again to meet my companion’s steady gaze.

“So I choose the freedom present to us both.  Freedom from the living, and sojourn into the realm of your command.  Until such time as you no longer need my services and liberate me, as we’ve agreed, to absolute eternal rest.”

With that I drain the glass.  The elixir has already begun to take effect, and my body turns an inhuman degree of cold. 

My companion grins then, unreservedly, revealing glistening fangs that I can only trust will one day free me forever.

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The Fantastic Seahorse Brigade

The Fantastic Seahorse Brigade consists of Sandy and Mila. Mailboxes, sidewalks and even some buildings are their targets.  They are like ninjas, stealthy and fast only hampered by fits of giggles. Mila holds the cardboard up while Sandy quickly sprays the cut part then they take off running.  Mila likes to watch when someone sees it. Most people scratch their heads, look around and smile. That is the best to Mila, when they smile. Sandy always wants to run off. Mila always makes them wait. They hide together somewhere where they hug each other, hold hands and wait.

Every day after school but before Mom and Dad come home MIla throws off her backpack, grabs the other backpack, pets Furball and runs to the kitchen.  She grabs two packs of cookies her Mom leaves for her after school snack. Mom thinks she eats too many cookies so she only leaves one pack out for her but Mila knows where the box is. Mila grabs the pack on the counter and then pull the step stool up to the cabinet above the microwave to get the other pack.

Mila has to be fast since she is the last stop on the bus and Sandy has the first bus stop. She might already be there. Wasting no time she swings the backpack on and shuts the door making sure she locks it behind her and has her key around her neck.  She always looks back because Furball has gotten on the ledge to see her go.  She waves while looking back but running ahead.

Left on Farrow Street, right on Milton Street. She can see the park. She can see Sandy. She is waiting. Sandy must have been there only a few minutes since Mila was really quick today.

Mila gets to Sandy who is on the swings and is just swaying.  Mila drops to the ground breathing a little hard. She swings her backpack in front and pulls out the packets of cookies. She hands one to Sandy.

They sit. Sandy’s day was fine and Mila says her day was fine too. Actually, Mila had a very good day but she doesn’t want to say that to Sandy since Sandy said her day was only fine.

Sandy was supposed to bring something to drink but Sandy didn’t give her anything so Mila didn’t want to ask where the drink was. They eat their cookies and Sandy just talks about what they are going to do today now that school is over.

They are ready. Mila opens her backpack again and waits for Sandy to get the cardboard and the spray paint. It was Sandy’s idea to leave it in the park. There is a spot right next to a big metal box and the wall of the bathrooms. Sandy said that if someone finds it they can’t get in trouble. Mila was worried that someone might take it but Sandy said no one would.

Mila is supposed to make sure no one is around when Sandy goes back there to get it. She looks and the coast is clear. Sandy is back with the spray paint can and the cardboard.  Sandy shoves it into the backpack. They start walking back near the houses. Sandy is quiet today so Mila doesn’t try to talk a lot either.

They get to a house that has a black metal fence in front of the small grass yard.  Sandy looks up at it. She doesn’t go in. Mila also looks up at it. Mila asks Sandy if this is the place for today. Sandy says yes but she says that they aren’t going to put the sea horse on today. She wonders why but Sandy looks serious today, maybe something happened in school so Mila will let Sandy do what she wants.

Sandy asks to Mila to give her the spray paint. Mila swings her backpack around and opens it. Looking left and right and around. Grabs the paint and hands it to Sandy. Mila is a little excited since this is something different. She wants to ask but Sandy looks so serious and mad now.

Mila asks Sandy if she is okay. Sandy tells Mila to look out for anyone. Mila says okay and starts to look out for anyone. She keeps looking up and down the street but no one is coming. There are some other kids playing at corner house but they are busy and do not see Mila and Sandy.

Sandy jumps back over the fence but making a lot of noise. Sandy yells, “run! run!” and grabs Mila’s arm to make Mila run with her but Mila falls. Her shirt is twisted in Sandy’s fist. Sandy looks mad and her eyes are red.  Mila wonders what Sandy did, she dares to look even though Sandy is mad that she fell down. She sees She looks up at the garage and she reads a word.  Mila knows its a bad word. Mila is confused. Sandy is telling Mila to get up but she can’t. Sandy is pulling her. Mila is worried now. Sandy screams at Mila to get up. Tears start welling up in Mila’s eyes. Sandy says another bad word and reaches down to untwist her fist in Mila’s shirt sleeve. Sandy undoes it and runs. Mila gets up and starts to run after Sandy but Sandy runs too fast.

Mila hears a door open. Mila turns to look and sees a boy from school sneering at Mila. Mila starts running but the boy starts running too. The boy yells at Mila saying, “I knew it!” Mila runs but is snapped back. The boy has grabbed the backpack. Mila tries to slip her arms out but then remembers the cardboard is still in there. Mila does not want to lose it so she starts to struggle. The boy grabs her by the arms and twirls her around so now Mila sees his twisted face.. He spits, “I knew it!” Mila is scared. The boy is bigger than she is and he looks mean like those evil ladies in the disney movies. His eyes flick back behind Mila, his face changes.  Sandy punches the boy in the forehead, hard. The boy lets go of Mila. Sandy tells Mila to run and Sandy doesn’t looks calm. This time Mila runs.

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Hanna

Dusk came and went. Again there was no sign on the horizon. Nothing to spark even a bit of hope was seen or or even imagined. Leaning back with a heavy heart she looked at the cracked ceiling. It has been three full days since she last saw a sign from her lover, three full days since the beacon was lit by him.

He said he would come for me.

Horrible thoughts of something happening to him began to flood her. She closed her eyes tight and clenched her jaw, swallowing them down. She cannot worry, she cannot unravel, not now.

Just as she was beginning to feel composed, the wooden window slid open and a tray containing her dinner was slid in. She quickly scrambled up to try to see who was on duty today but as soon as she neared the window was slammed closed. She slapped the door. This is her own doing. She was too friendly with the first guard, the one with kind eyes. She hoped he would take pity on her and he did. He is probably dismembered already lying in the pile of bodies on the square.  This is if he was lucky.  If he was was unlucky he is in the dungeons “awaiting” trial for treason. Something has happened to him since the next guard that was given the position to be her keeper had neither kind eyes nor any other kind parts.

Not knowing what happened to kind eyes made her feel sick, and she tried to squeeze those thoughts back down, she couldn’t eat. She paced instead.

She can’t take anymore chances. They would never hurt her but everytime she tried something someone else would suffer for it and they would suffer twice as much. Once for their transgression and once for hers. They wanted her well and able so that they can marry her to the new King that the counsel had chosen, one that they could control.

Well, that would be the plan for maybe a few more months, until the true prince growing inside her could not be concealed any longer. Once he showed himself, there would be no question she would be killed.

She peered out the window once again just incase the beacon had been lit, there was nothing. She must get the message to him. It was her last hope. He must know that they are fighting not only for them to be together but now with a prince, the people will rise for us, for Him. Kind eyes had vanished before she could ask him if he had done this favor for her. She knew who was still loyal and if the message was passed to them it will get to her beloved. If they stopped him and knew what news he was carrying she surely would be dead by now. But it has been three dusks since she last saw the beacon lit.

She was about to unravel again, the short breaths coming back slowly suffocating her. She stumbled backwards hands reaching for the solid wall, she slid down and hugged her knees close, the cool stone on her back calming her.

She was breathing normally now. Minutes passed. Calm enough now to eat and keep down her supper she pulled the tray onto her lap. Just as she dipped the stale bread in the cooled and congealed broth the light that crept through the crack on the bottom of the door was obscured for a second, just enough for her to freeze.  

No one ever came at this time. Her heart quickened and all her nerve endings were tingling. This is it she thought. They know. They killed him. They got the message before it got to the ones it was meant for. They cannot let her live, they cannot let an heir live.

She gripped the tray, it was the only weapon available to her, and it was a poor one at that but she would not go easily. She thought of her strong, proud mother. She would put up a fight too.  She was slowly rising to move to the blind side of the door. She waited, tray raised.

Ready to attack she waited but the door did not open. A note was pushed through under the slim opening under the door.

Hanna stood there mouth agape. In an instant she dropped the tray, grabbed the note and unfolded it in the only light in the room strong enough to allow her to read. She unfolded the note smoothed it on the stone floor right under the crack in the door.  There were only a few words scribbled on the paper.

Do not eat, poisoned. Jump out window now!

She closed her fist around the note. Confused she looked at the food, had she taken a bite? No. Thank goodness. She made her way to the window. She couldn't make out anything except the blackness. She stood on the windows edge, her skirt lapping in the wind. It was a long way down. She knew how to swim but wasn’t a strong swimmer. Her and her sister Beth would play in the lake near the summer cottage as children.

She knew the words were written by her beloved. She trusted. She knew she didn’t have much time. She knew they would be coming to collect her body and if they found her alive and well, they would have force fed the poisoned broth. She lept as far from the ledge as she could to avoid any rocks that must be close to the tower just as she heard hurried footsteps.

All she could hear was her skirt flapping in the wind, she knew which way was down but couldn’t see anything. The icy water caught her and pulled her in. All was quiet, she flailed her limbs until she felt she was headed toward the surface. She emerged gasping for a breath just to be slapped this way and that, she tried to breath when she could. She saw a light and swam as best she could towards it. She knew, it had to be him.

She was getting closer. She would try to wave, scream out but she sank below the water each time she raised her arms to wave for their attention, her mouth filling with salty ice water when she attempted to yell to those on the boat.

She would just have to try to make her way towards the light. It was getting closer but the effort seemed tremendous for such little gain. They must have seen her splash into the sea but the darkness was not helpful to anyone. She was grateful that the guards on the tower could not see her but they could see the light. Just as she thought that, the light was put out. Her limbs tiring from the effort and the cold seeping into her bones was slowing her, she was getting heavier and was sure that she could not sustain the effort longer, but she did and tried to use her voice so the boat could find her.  Just as she was trying to get her head above the water to yell, strong arms grabbed her forearms and pulled. Pulled her wet sopping tired body onto the boat.

A gruff voice said, “Get her warm. He will have our heads if we bring her back alive but only just so.”

Heavy rugs and padded blankets were thrown on top of her. A few minutes passed. He was not on the ship but they were taking her to him. That thought alone calmed her, the warmth coming back to her and the sound of men methodically rowing lulled her into sleep.   

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Special Delivery: This Week's Flash Photo!

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Stuck

When I get back I’m gonna live in the desert.  I’m gonna build a house into the side of a mountain, and the only water I will ever see will be from the single well I sink far, far from my home.

I’m gonna paint my house the colors of dirt, of sand and soil, rich and ready for growing things.  The colors of stillness.

I’m gonna plant flowering cactus all around my home, and watch them rise up thick and strong, with their roots pushing deep, deep into the terrain so that they can be grounded in even the meanest winds.

I’m gonna grow lots of things – corn, and tomatoes, and peppers.  Potatoes that taste and feel of the earth in your mouth.  And herbs too.  If you know the right herbs to use, you don’t even miss the salt.  I won’t ever miss the salt.

I’m gonna build myself a long log chaise in my yard, so I can lounge in the afternoon sun, and play my guitar and sing songs I write myself.  Songs about beautiful things, and happy people and easy times.  And freedom.

I’m gonna get a big, fur covered, floppy eared dog who will never leave my side.  Who will always hear me when I call and lay by my feet at night.  I will take him out to chase things, and explore new places and will never chastise him when he wants to bark his head off at all hours of the night for no good reason.

I’m gonna find myself somebody to love, somebody who loves me and loves the desert and simplicity too. We’ll raise chickens and pigs, and children.  We’ll teach them how to be kind, and useful in the world, and how to tie their shoelaces.  And one day when they’re good and ready, I'm gonna teach them how important it is to learn to swim…even if you think you will never, ever need to.

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Waiting

The worst thing about hospitals was the waiting. It didn’t matter where you were, whether it was a busy urban center or a small rural hospital like this one, the only one within a hundred miles of Shea’s home in northern Idaho; they were all the same.

Mostly the same. Some misguided soul had thought to make the waiting area more interesting by installing a full-sized taxidermy exhibit in the corner, complete with bear, elk, even a boar. Care had clearly gone into the thing—rocks and pebbles and fake foliage were artfully placed—but it was lit by the same sickly flourescent lights as the rest of the waiting room, giving the scene a creepy horror-movie feeling.

Shea tore his eyes away from it and repositioned the bloody towel on his forearm. He’d sustained a long, shallow cut in his latest altercation with his mother; he needed stitches, but since it wasn’t bleeding heavily, he’d been instructed to wait while the staff attended to the stomach flu-stricken brownie troop from two towns over.

She was a mean drunk, his mother, but until tonight, not a violent one. He’d learned long ago to tune out her tirades, to pretend himself somewhere quiet and peaceful until she wore herself out yelling. Tonight, she’d evidently gotten frustrated with his unresponsiveness and come at him with a knife. He hadn’t even realized what happened at first, staring stupidly at the blood welling on his arm, his mind still in the silence of the forest.

She’d surprised herself too, dropping the knife and following its descent onto the kitchen floor before bursting into tearful, incoherent apologies. Those, too, he tuned out, grabbing a clean dishtowel and her car keys, sidestepping her bleary attempts to touch him. She’d probably still be there when he returned, blacked out until he poured her into bed.

It had been years since he’d thought of her as anything but a burden, to be endured until her body failed to stand up to her constant abuse. He’d stopped wishing she’d just go away somewhere, that things could somehow be different. He was just waiting.

The triage nurse called his name and he stood up.