Worthing Flash

  On Christmas Eve, Grandma Breen woke with one cookie-sweet conviction: she would wait no longer. Slipping the robe over osteoporotic bones, she knew she wouldn’t even ask. Again. Those days—and Lord, hadn’t there  been a load of them?—were over and D.O.N.E. done. She moved stiffly down the stairs. At her writing desk, she removed the Rothko stationery and engraved fountain pen. She wrote about “Camp Oleander,” two weeks of hike and splash along the fingertip of Florida. She wrote about the “Neverwades,” the girls who wouldn’t brave the water. “That’s a good one, Granny. Right? Haw, haw!” She finished with “Love, Bree,” thinking for the umpteenth time, “What a stupid ass name,” her granddaughter a wedge of gooey cheese. But it wasn’t the girl’s fault—she hadn’t come up with that winner herself. No, that had been her daughter-in-law’s fine bit of genius, although her son—with his dumb acquiescence—was far from free of blame.      ...

Butch spied them from his window. White coats, needles, clipboards and file. When the buzzer sounded, he scrambled to the balcony. He tugged the bedsheet before climbing down, spats smack-smacking off brick. Next door, Parker yelped. He put finger to lips and ran, vest flying, bowler rolling across the lawn. Behind, they shouted his name. ­­  Butch leapt into his Mustang and took off, flashing lights in hot pursuit. He roared through reds, reared theatrically over tracks. Hard turn, slide, and CRASH! (“Sorry about that fruit stand, folks!”).   Soon, the teeming city gave way to an inconclusive horizon. Butch skidded to a stop before a cliff’s stark plunge. Behind, red lights scalpeled through clouds of dust. Damn, they were relentless! No choice but to leap. SPLASH! He swam wildly until the current did the work. Ashore, exhausted, he was surprised by a timely burro, which waddled him to town.  Where he donned a wig. Lost significant weight....

    Sleek corridors, the windows long gone. Around a corner, a cool inhuman room. To the right of the bed is the hospital’s equivalent of a dessert tray: cylindrical containers, a vial of clear liquid, a long syringe. “Relax,” the doctor says. “There will be more pressure than pain.” And there is—a positive sign, or maybe something close.  His cells are bottled, sealed, and labeled for a lab in an adjacent state. He imagines them the next day shuddering on a shelf inside a crowded fridge, the ominous thump of tires against pavement below. “Where are we going?” they cry aloud. “What could be wrong?”      At the parking kiosk, he decides to ask for help.   “You ready for the holidays?” the attendant wonders, inserting his card, plopping buttons with a fist.  “No.”  “Tell me about it.”  Tempting—but he’s surrendered enough of himself today.  “Would you like a receipt?”   “No. Thanks.”  The a...