Post-Op Hypnopomp

Written for Flash! Friday vol. 2-44. This week’s prompt was surgery, along with the photo prompt shown.

Clowns are the worst.

Been in just about every hospital on the East Coast. Had more surgeries than birthdays; seen lots of recovery rooms.

Garish painted faces caper.

Oblivious to my bemusement.

Paintings. They’re just paintings.

I close my eyes, wishing for an abstract instead. Vibrant tones swirling off the canvas and around my head. Oh how a Jackson Pollock dances!

Clowns are the worst.

“It’s not the fentanyl,” I mumble. Nurse wipes the puke from my face. “Clowns are nauseating.”

She didn’t hear me.

Maybe I didn’t speak.

Maybe I don’t exist.

Maybe I’m a cricket.


Been reading too much. But it passes the time in the hospital. Medical texts are interesting. Do normal kids know acetylsalicylic acid from zinc carbonate? Art history is a nice diversion, too.

When I grow up…

When I get out of these hospitals…

Maybe I’ll be an art cricket.

Or a surgeon.

But not a clown.

Clowns are the worst.


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