Quote:
A pedestrian was struck by a car in a hit-and-run accident. The ambulance is coming, but you aren't sure the person will make it. You are the only one there. What do you say?
This is also the first time I've written flash fiction (extremely short stories between 300-1000 words long) and, overall, I'm pleased with how this turned out. Depending on the reactions I get from the site where I posted this, I may send this in to journals or something for publication consideration. That said, I some pressing questions about this:
-Does the imagery stay with you in this story?
-Is it clear that the main character shows some contempt for the other people for simply standing aside and gawking?
-Do you think I should have a more concrete main character? (Like, should I state their name, gender and so forth?) I didn't think that the main character's identity was terribly important beyond the fact that he/she knew what to do in this situation but, as they say, your mileage may vary.
So, without further ado....
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Bystander
Tires screech and there’s yelling
With a heavy thud and the crunch of bone and metal, the urban racket is silenced.
The car speeds off down the street and the people freeze in place with only the occasional whisper among them.
I think when they speak. Act when they look to each other.
My hands move to begin their work, though they aren’t covered in latex. I don’t have my mask, my tools or my team with me and I nearly slip in the blood when I get close to her.
She’s barely breathing, her left leg is bent at an unnatural angle and her head is bleeding. Her ribs are tender where they should be rigid and I see bruises the size of open palms. She’s probably not even thirty yet.
The chatter in the crowd grows but, still, they stand there. I look back long enough to see several cell phones out at once…and the flash of a cell phone camera.
She’s trying to speak, but I can tell it hurts her to even do that. Her chest is heaving up and down in an odd rhythm as she wheezes but she responds to my commands to relax and not to move. Her eyes swell, the white turns red and tears mix in with the blood as it pools around her head and stains her golden hair.
A find the laceration and put pressure on it. Warm, liquid crimson pumps through my fingers and I can feel a weak pulse beneath her jaw with my thumb.
I don’t like this.
I smile. Stay with me. Everything’s okay. You’re going to be okay.
This is what I have to tell her.
Piercing green irises set against the red plead with me and I use the back of one hand to wipe tears away from pale skin before the familiar, sustained blare breaks the silence in the distance.
I look down the street, the same direction that the speeder disappeared in, and see flashing red lights growing close.
I look back down and tell her that the ambulance is coming, but her skin seems whiter now and her pulse under my thumb is weaker this time.
They continue to watch and the chatter picks back up among the cry of the ambulance.
I hear the rumble of the its engine as it slows to a crawl when it gets close enough. A police car pulls up to its side and occupies the other lane. Lights continue flashing as the police and the paramedics arrive in pairs and the crowd starts moving
again.
The police approach them.
The paramedics approach us.
The urban racket returns and the onlookers disperse, cell phones away and lives back to their regular schedules.
“Show’s over,” someone mutters.
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Thanks for reading
