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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