Last Request - Flash Fiction

This was written as an assignment for my creative writing class (Shoutout to my instructor Denise! Thank you for the inspiration!) We were challenged to write a piece of flash fiction, a complete story between 10-1000 words. I took it a step further and used a prompt generator on Seventh Sanctum, the random "Writing Challenge" generator. The original prompt read "The story must involve a quilt in it. A character is thirsty throughout most of the story."

I hope I've managed to catch the gist of flash fiction writing and fulfilled the additional challenge I set for myself. I also hope I've managed to paint a picture in your mind and inspire YOU just a little bit as well, reader.

And without further gilding the lily, I present...

"Last Request"

The penultimate wheeze of death rattled through the sun-melted room, shaking the dust from the peeling wallpaper and disturbing the mice who sought to take refuge within the aging walnut armoire in the corner. Curtains the color of moldy teabags seemed to sigh in resignation as Margie McClellan committed to one last act.

“I am going to die.” Her spittle-thronged words spoke to no one, save the old gray tabby in the corner. That old gray tabby – she, too, wanted to be left in peace. “But first I would like a glass of water.” There was no one around to hear Margie McClellan's words, no one nearby to stroke the beads of sweat that formed on her withered forehead in the scorching summer heat.

Stale air carried the scent of death as she exhaled again. Her wizened fingers touched the quilt that shielded her from the world, despite the stifling heat that blanketed the room. Rheumy eyes could no longer discern the colors and shapes of the quilt, but her fingers knew each square, each stitch. Each block told a story. And why should she not know? Margie McClellan made that quilt herself.

The feel of worn green cotton told Margie the story of the time her boy fell out of a tree, his body twisting to match the branches. They'd had to cut the shirt from his body and he spent the better part of six months in a full-torso cast. Margie smiled at the memory.

Soft grooves of blue corduroy whispered words of Mr. McClellan, passed away some years ago while working in the train yard, killed by a drunk conductor pulling the trolleys in for repair. The plush fabric comforted her, soothed her as she entered her last hours.

The wail of a child rose to old Margie's deaf ears. Coarse, moth-eaten lace over a square of satin recounted the birth of her first grand-child. Her daughter Susie spent three days in labor. Sandra was born with a full head of hair and her grandmother's hazel eyes.

Caressing her death shroud, Margie McClellan wondered if it would one day be part of a quilt. Would anyone care enough about her life to see that her last moments were remembered? No one had shown up for days. And where was that glass of water? She was thirsty. So thirsty. No one would come to cut the muslin shift from her body and make it into something new, something useful. Her body would fertilize the flowers, but her clothing would be left for the rats in the walls. With one last dispirited rale, Margie McClellan gave up and died.

The door to the musty bedroom creaked open. “Mom?” the lilting female voice inquired permission to enter. Permission that would be neither granted nor denied, save for the agitated meowl of the old gray tabby in the corner.