Flash Fiction Link: The Mallards by Mark Tulin

My son rarely listened to me. My in-laws thought he needed to see a psychologist, but he does well in school, and the teachers haven’t complained yet.

An excerpt from The Mallards on Flash Fiction Friday.

The Procedure, by Mark Tulin

 
The doctor didn't mince words. He told me the procedure lasted about 20 minutes and that I would feel some discomfort.

It won't be easy, I thought.

They injected a sedative into my veins. In a few minutes, the doctor turned me over and passed a tube into my rear end.

"We are now putting air into your colon before we insert the camera."

The doctor pointed to the monitor and did a play-by-play description of the movement of the tube. Nurse Linda rubbed my hand to ease the discomfort.

I watched the serpent-like tube traversing my fatty insides like kids watch video games.

Then the doctor found something.

“Hmm,” he said, “this one seems to have something written on it.
Let me zoom in. Yes, indeed. There’s a story on one of your polyps.”

A story?” I asked in my drowsy state. I wondered if it was fiction or nonfiction.

“You must be a writer.”

“Yes, an aspiring writer. Planning to take a writer’s conference right after this procedure.”

“That makes sense,” the doctor said through his mask. “I’m sure the conference will help.”

He was quiet for a few moments. His fingers manipulated the hose inside my colon while his eyes frantically searched the monitor.

"We need to take these boys out,” he said abruptly. “I hope you have a copy of whatever’s written on the polyp?"

“Yes, all my writing is on the cloud,” I said proudly.

“Ah, yes, the cloud.”

The doctor adjusted his goggles. “This won’t hurt a bit.”
I could feel the pressure of him clamping down.

Snip.

He found another polyp with another story and one more that looked like a poem. Snip, snip. He placed each excised polyp into a separate glass jar filled with a liquid substance.

“The polyps will be sent off to the lab, and I will let you know the results in a week.”

My heart pounded as Nurse Linda took me to recovery. Laying under the fluorescent light, I couldn’t help but fear the worse. I worried that whoever read my polyps would think that they were trite or lacked substance.

Less than a week later, I received a phone call from Doctor Larry. His voice was subdued but professional. “Although your polyps were benign, your stories were rejected.”

“Rejected.” I sighed. “How awful.”

“They didn’t work for the lab technician who said in his report that your stories were too predictable and that there was not enough character development.”

“There must be some mistake,” I said. “Are you sure the polyps are mine?”

“Yes, I double checked. But don’t worry, your stories are treatable. I strongly recommend taking a creative writing class as soon as possible.”

There was an awkward pause. I could feel my stomach cramping.