100-Word Fiction: ‘Cancer Party’

It was the week she discovered Bob Kaufman and read a poem of his (now forgotten) while the rain streaked across the window of her suburban flat. It was the week the cancer first looked ineluctably fatal.

The news streamed in dolefully: news of supporters and opponents, the disaffected and the quietly optimistic, as if they were some covert vigilante force, untrustworthy renegades all, double agents plenty.

The news was totemic, untouchable. The language was all wrong. The words she was hearing, the words that remained despite visits to the hospital – they were words beyond the window, beyond the rain.

100-Word Fiction: ‘Dialogue Q [Contemporary]’

Q:

I do feel unhappy, yes, although it shouldn’t be unexpected.

Q:

Maybe the darker mornings. And television, maybe.

Q:

Hell, and it’s not even over yet, there’s next week. Tis the season.

Q:

Well they’re setting us back years. The general polemic across all of them just appals me. I don’t know what’s to be done.

Q:

Don’t start me. It’s not opting out. I’m a full participating citizen. I couldn’t escape them if I wanted to. And I do want to.

Q:

I haven’t done for years. Is it any wonder? You’ve seen them. They’re all the same.