This flash fiction piece is one of the rare ones I came up with right on the spot. Lately, I’ve been posting stories and poems that have been previously written, then revising them before posting. I didn’t have the chance to write anything beforehand so I decided to wing it.
I also have a small announcement for you all: I’m going on vacation to Nashville from Thursday to Tuesday, so chances are I won’t be posting anything during that time period. I might schedule a couple posts tomorrow if I manage to find some time, but I wouldn’t count on it.
I really hope you enjoy this story. I’m not sure how I feel about it being told in the third person. I’ll have to revise this at some point and see how it changes if I go to the first person, which I think is more natural. You tell me.
One Minute More
Everyone thought he was dead while he laid motionless on the table. His pulse wasn’t strong enough to be felt by the doctors around him. The generators hadn’t kicked in yet, and there were many more people to get to. They had to make a decision; he had to find a way to tell them he was still alive.
But what if he was dead? What if he was on his way to heaven. He was sure he was having an out-of-body experience. The doctors were huddled in the corner, picking which one would tell his parents waiting in the lobby. There wasn’t enough time. One blurted out a name and she complied without hesitation. The normalcy of the situation was more frightening than the fact that they were about to give up on him.
Until, of course, when they pronounced him dead at 11:42pm. What would they tell his parents? How many more were there? Why are they more important than he was?
The generators finally kicked in, but the doctors had already removed him from the heart rate monitor. One more minute and they would have been able to save him. All he could hope for was death before they brought him to the morgue. The injuries from the accident were clearly significant enough to kill him. It was more just a matter of when. In a way, it helped take his mind off the fact that he was going to die.
His last thoughts would be him wondering what would happen if those generators kicked in a minute sooner. One minute would be all the difference between living for the next fifty, sixty years — if he was lucky, which he wasn’t — and death.
If you’re interested in submitting your own flash fiction as a guest post or for the Winter Issue of Come and Go Literary, see my submission guidelines for more details.