Served Cold

Like a brand burned on his soul, he still remembers the moment he received his grade in biochem that flunked him out of medical school. The chill drizzle. The hum and clatter of students passing as he found his name on the grade list hanging askew on the bulletin board in the hall. The feelings were still palpable, especially the tightness and emptiness in the pit of his stomach when the D appeared, a luminous sword severing future from now.

Years later, he can look back on that day with a rueful grin, even a twinge of superiority. Thankfully, he had always been a good storyteller, and his plot about kindly doctors who kill their patients had found an audience.

Published by Dwight Furrow

Wine, food, and travel writing, philosophy, aesthetics

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