by Lee Anne Johnston
I walked slowly beside my Dad along the 14th floor corridor to the vast windows overlooking the Creating Memory garden. I caught my breath in delight at the life-sized steel sculptures running, jumping, dancing. Their bodies were stiff in joyous motion. Flowers embraced them, blooming promiscuously in a riot of pinks, purples and crimsons.
“This is wonderful Dad!”
My gravely ill father who had scared the shit out of me all my life, stumbled on his stick thin legs. I held him tenderly, afraid to bruise his translucent, papery skin.
“This place is full of cancer. Take me back to my bed, Lee Anne.”
Lee Anne Johnston is a devoted member of the CWC and writes historical murder stories as well as varied flash fiction.