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Weekly Contest #98
Mother will die tomorrow. This is guaranteed. “Mother,” I say, “You will die tomorrow.” She smiles sweetly. “Honey,” she says, “I am already dead.” “No. The real kind of dead,” I say. “The kind where your heart stops beating and your lungs stop breathing and your eyes are clear and glassy because you see nothing but the innards of the soul.” “Honey,” she says. “I have no soul with which my eyes may see. I have no heart with which to beat, no lungs with which to breathe. Honey,” she says, “I am already dead.” “Mother, your life sh...
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