When she was first diagnosed Shelley’s friends came every day to see her. But in time their visits dwindled. One by one they dropped off. Her prognosis worsened and the walls of the ward began to feel like a lifer’s cell. Only Lenny kept coming. Every second day he’d pop in on his way to work. Sit with her a while. They’d talk about what was happening at uni. Sometimes he’d bring in a new track he’d mixed and they’d share his headphones. He’d always seemed like just one of the crowd. But now he represented everything she’d imagined about leaving school and leaving home and finding her way in the world. And though she’d always been the one with attitude—the one with the weirdest hair and the weirdest taste and the knack for staying just the right side of trouble—when he said, ‘Hurry up and get better, I’m gonna marry you one day,’ she only wanted to smile and smile and smile, so much that the nurses were worried she’d taken a turn.
Richard Holt stories 1 Minute
Published by Richard Holt
A writer from Melbourne, Richard maintains a number of blogs exploring very short fiction and text-based art practices. His stories and poems have been published in both mainstream and alternative journals and collections. He is also a visual artist and was co-founder of both Platform Artists Group and zine store, Sticky. He continues to publish very short fiction and conduct microfiction workshops for practicing writers, students and others. He has created numerous text-based installations and artworks for public spaces, including at Federation Square, Melbourne and in conjunction with the 2017, Newcastle Writers Festival. View all posts by Richard Holt