One Last Time Before We Die
Mark was last out. When he slipped on the stairs, he landed on his back. After the sickening crack, nothing. Snowflakes starred his hair and melted on his lashes. The phone in his pocket lay leagues too far. He blinked, clearing hot, hot tears.
Memories rushed back. His daughter cupped in one palm. She had his eyes, her mother’s mouth. Tears then, too.
Hours later, his tears had frozen; his throat, tattered from screaming. If Mark wanted to say it aloud one last time, he’d have to say it alone in the dark. “Lora, I love you. Never forget that.”
Friday Fictioneers: 100-word stories