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Mashed Potatoes

The walls were white, naturally. A pale doctor entered the room. He wore a white coat, white pants, and brown shoes that reminded me of potatoes. I liked his shoes, they weren't white.

Standing at my bedside he pretended to leaf through his clipboard and tried to look at me. My mouth curled into a wry grin. He cleared his throat and fumbled with his tongue.

"Spit it out", I jabbed, finding amusement in his reddening face.

"I - I'm sorry Mr. Vern, you've got two weeks at most".

"No shit?" I coughed, choking obnoxiously on my chuckling.

"If you need anything -"

"Nah, I'm fine, but you know what? You can crack that window for me, it's a damn tomb in here and I ain't dead yet eh doc? Oh, and shut that door on your way out. Thanks a million, be seeing ya!"

He shot a wary glance over his shoulder as he shut the door with a soft thud. I hauled myself to the window dragging all the useless equipment with me. The morning breeze was refreshing as I looked out into November.

Last I checked it was May and I was at home. Emma was with me. We were on our porch watching the green spring into bloom. Then it was June. Emma's birthday.

July, August, September. In October, there was no Emma. There won't be a December.

In November I watched as autumn's melancholy colors faltered on winter's morning breath. I could smell death, it wasn't minty, but it was fresh. Snowflakes appeared in the sky.

I beat them to the ground.

By afternoon I was covered in a blanket of cool white.

Story by:

Matt Schnitzler

21 March 2014