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or portions thereof in any form without the prior written permission of the author.
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I woke to the sound of cracking ice. A
nightmare, I
thought. My wife's hand was still in mine. She lay on her back, draped
in the white sheets of the maternity ward, exhausted. A smile slipped
across her face as our eyes met. Still smiling, she closed her eyes.
Seconds later, she was fast asleep. We were expecting the birth of our
first child. I felt elated, ecstatic, a proud father to be. I tried to stand on my feet. Cracking sounds ran through the joints of my numbed body. How long had I slept while my wife bravely endured the pains of labor? “Out!” said the demanding voice of the nurse. “Let her rest, hmm?” I needed no more excuses. I stood up, stretched my aching body, and stepped out. My steps took me to the emergency waiting room. I looked around. A well-dressed little girl, no more than four-years old, sat in a gray vinyl chair, swayed her legs, rocked her body, and moved her lips soundlessly, as if talking to herself or singing a silent song. Two women sat next to her, clinging to each other tightly, as though some invisible, malicious force hovered above, ready to separate them from their tight embrace. Their trembling hands moved perpetually to their tear-blurred eyes, while they made desperate efforts to fill their lungs, as if they had forgotten how to breathe. A door opened and a tall figure stepped out. Her bloodstained uniform brushed my arm. An icy chill run the length of my spine. The door swung shut. The two women rose on their trembling feet, clenched their hands harder, and stared at the doctor. The piled up emotions within them turned their facial features from hope to dread, from despair to horror, time and again. “Doctor?” the two women muttered in unison. The doctor shook her head. “I’m sorry,” she said in a grave tone. “We couldn't save him. He’s gone.” Suddenly, the little girl jumped on her feet, approached the doctor, grasped the green uniform tightly in her fingers, and moved her hand frantically to draw her attention. The doctor’s afflicted eyes gazed down at the little girl. “Where did Daddy go?” she cried. I tried to push my saliva down my throat. There was none. An icy silence fell in the waiting room. The doctor’s face turned from sorrow to shock. Dazed and silent, as if hypnotized, she stared at the little girl. In a single rigid movement, she brushed off the little girl’s hand from her uniform, turned on her heel, walked away slowly at first, then hurried her pace down the corridor and, as though invisible, atrocious monsters were after her, disappeared beyond a wall. REVIEWS from authors at Zoetrope.com I liked this story and the question it proposes. The narrator’s voice is consistent and informative, never really opinionated. His descriptions of the other characters give the reader a good mental picture of their appearances and emotions. The doctor’s reaction to the little girl’s question is certainly believable and adds a very dramatic quality to the scene. This sentence in particular “Their trembling hands moved perpetually to their tear-blurred eyes, while they made desperate efforts to fill their lungs, as if they had forgotten how to breathe.” struck me as being very powerful and very true-to-life as far as grieving goes. I have no criticisms. I’ve read your story and I liked “Innocence.” I liked the voice of the piece and how the narrator is distant yet unavoidably in the middle of the action. I think you do a good job creating and maintaining the tension as well as the juxtaposition between new life and death. All right! This story really moves around, mixes things up, shows us the drama and makes us ask the question, what the heck DO you say?? The cracking ice is a wonderful image you carry with good effect throughout. Thanks for a good read! Yianni, thank you for the opportunity to read Innocence, I really enjoyed it. It's a powerful subject, with an unexpected turn from the happy maternity scene to the tragedy and horror of the emergency room. I like this setup very much. It offers an opportunity to communicate so much in an otherwise brief story. There is nothing more innocent than a young child nor nothing more heartbreaking than the simplicity of their questions that have no simple answers or worse, an adult who's forgotten what emotions are all about. Your flash piece attempts to capture that and has all the elements present. You've kept the prose simple and tight--like the child's question--in a place where things are anything but simple and clear cut. |
