Jane clutched an old red Nokia 3210 mobile phone, remembering Tom's last words: "I love you." She brushed a tear away.
A hand gently touched her arm. "Come on, Mum, let's go home. It doesn't get any easier, does it?"
Gordon Lawrie |
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As she did that same day each year, Jane sat on the park bench, gazing at the gap in the skyline where Tom had once worked. Why, she asked herself? Thousands dead in the aeroplanes, in the buildings, and amongst the emergency workers; countless thousands more in the years of reprisals that followed. What God could condone such unspeakable evil?
Jane clutched an old red Nokia 3210 mobile phone, remembering Tom's last words: "I love you." She brushed a tear away. A hand gently touched her arm. "Come on, Mum, let's go home. It doesn't get any easier, does it?" Sometimes, in the afternoons, she would catch herself staring wistfully into the middle distance. Why did it have to be, she would ask herself? Then she would take a deep breath and throw herself into some analgesic housework, or perhaps she'd bake a cake. But a walk offered too much opportunity for remembering.
Her husband had struggled even more, and eventually, she'd lost him, too, unable to live in a home filled nowadays with only sadness and memories. She didn't blame him: no parent is ever prepared for the loss of a child. At least she had a clean house. |
Flash FictionFlash fiction is very, very short fiction indeed - short stories of any sort of length from a Haiku to ten minutes' reading. Good for when you're in a hurry. This series is a selection of contributions to Friday Flash Fiction, where there's a limit of 100 words. I try to make all mine exactly 100 words. Collections
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