Welcome, readers, to my first (Short) Fiction Friday post!

This is something I have wanted to do for a while now but only got around to now. While I started this blog near on two years ago, I have only recent found enough freedom in my daily grind to actually sit down and get writing up blog posts.

What better way to kick off this new era of my blog than by sharing some of my own fiction?

Before we get to the nitty gritty of my own writing, I first want to explain what the purposes of these posts will be.

First and foremost, not only am I an editor extraordinaire (self-proclaimed, of course) within the world of fiction, but I am also a writer. Writing was where my own hero’s journey commenced. This biweekly post will serve to provide a platform for me to showcase my own work—both the bad and the ugly, and perhaps the occasional good—as well as to motivate me to write more regularly. I do want to emphasise the ‘bad and the ugly’ here as I won’t claim to be the next Ernest Hemingway. Much of what I will share here will be raw and unedited work. In the case that I have refined any of it, that will be mentioned with the post.

As I aim to showcase my raw writing, I also hope to provide you, the reader, with the confidence to put your own work out into the world, in whatever form and level of refinement that you deem fit and are comfortable with. In a way, if I can shamelessly post my musings and weird attempts at being literary, I hope that you can feel the same inspiration.

This is important to me as an editor. This is why I became an editor. I believe everyone who writes has a voice worth sharing, and that often you just need to find your own audience. No writing, no matter how unrefined, should ever be deemed unworthy.

So, in hopes that I can show you that even your bad writing is a cut far above my own—and without further ado—I present you with a short fiction piece I wrote in 2018.

My Foot is Killing Me

For months, I had this lump that formed in my foot, but it was always something that did not really bother me much. But with its continued growth, it eventually started hurting me, affecting my daily life.

I started limping, as I struggled to handle the sharp pain that would fly up my leg as fast as a lightning strike whenever I took a step. It was just as painful as a lightning strike too.

After a couple of weeks of this pain, I decided it was time to head to a doctor to find out exactly what this growth was, and what I could do to get rid of it.

I went to my general practitioner Dr Michael Miller — a nice old man who had been practicing for forty-odd years. I had been going to him for years, basically since I was a child, so I trusted him, and knew he could give me the best advice to get rid of the damn thing in my foot.

“Mr Belle,” the nurse called out for me. I stood from the comfortable chair I sat in in the waiting room, ready to scream as I lost balance and had to put pressure on the damn thing in my foot.

She ushered me through one of the doors in a long corridor, which led into the doctor’s office.

He sat at his desk — his hair was nearly white, compared to the auburn it was the last time I saw him — his spectacles resting on the tip of his nose.

“Hey, doc,” I said, walking to take a seat opposite him. Seriously, his hair used to match his desk, but now it matched the paper he held in his hands.

“Jonathan Belle. Been a while since I seen your face in here. You been keeping well?”

“Can’t complain,” I said a little too hastily. “Well, I couldn’t until recently.”

“You injure yourself?” He glanced down toward my foot.

“Not really. I don’t know what’s happened. This growth started building up in my foot out of nowhere, and now it’s got real big and painful. You think it could be cancer?” I really hoped it wasn’t cancer. Though I would be lying if I said that I was sure it wasn’t.

He looked thoughtful for a moment, before he raised himself from his desk chair. I started doubting whether I should have come to him for a consult, seeing as he really struggled his way out of his chair.

He also hobbled, likely having hurt his leg in his old age. “Come on then; let’s see it,” he said, pointing at my left foot.

I untied my sneaker, pulled my foot out and pulled off my sock.

“Check it out,” I said, turning my foot over so the doctor could see the lump.

He pushed his spectacles up his nose, closer to his eyes. Still squinting through the glass, Dr Miller yanked my foot to and fro, trying to get the best look he could.

I suppressed every scream I could, the agony was death-worthy.

“Hmm…,” he buzzed. “You sure you didn’t injure it in some way? Stand on a stone or something?”

“I’m positive,” I said through clenched teeth. “If I had hurt it, I woulda been here a lot sooner, Doc.”

“Alright,” he started humming his thinking noise again. “To be frank, it doesn’t seem too serious. Perhaps a cyst of some kind. Should be a pretty simple procedure, but you will have to go under fully.”

“So, you’re saying it will have to be a surgery?” I asked, hoping he would say I was wrong. I feared anaesthesia, so I really hoped to avoid a full surgery.

“Yes, it will have to be. When can we schedule you for?” He squeezed my shoulder as he stood up straight – I think both to help him balance and to reassure me.

“Ah, damn. Well, I guess we’ll have to get it over and done with. As soon as possible works for me. I will be able to get time off work.”

“Okay, good. How about we do it next Thursday?”

I hesitated, but said, “I don’t have much choice, do I?”

We finished up the consultation and I left, hobbling my way to my car. It was pure agony trying to work the clutch on my way home, but it was more bearable knowing it wasn’t too serious and that I was going to have the cyst — or whatever it was — cut out in less than a week.

That night however — weirdly enough — the lump didn’t hurt a bit. It was as if it could understand that I was planning to get it cut out, so it was playing nice with the hope that I wouldn’t undergo this surgery. If it was alive, it would be fooling itself.

Perfectly synchronised with my thoughts, the pain flared up again, sending that shooting sting all the way up my leg and almost to my groin area. Little bastard of a lump.

I spent the rest of that night with my foot and leg propped up on the couch, controller in my hands, and enjoying some of my favourite video games. A little bonding time with the lump before it got cut out. Weird, I know, but what else was I going to do?

****

The next five or so days went by relatively smooth. The pain came and went of its own free will, sometimes so bad it left me feeling completely crippled.

Thankfully, Thursday had arrived.

I called a cab to get me to the hospital. It dropped me off near the reception, and I was sweating by the time I walked inside. Not only from the nervousness of being put to sleep under anaesthesia, but also the heat of the day was tremendous.

I was extremely grateful for the decent air-conditioning that was supplied inside the hospital, chilling the sweat on my forehead.

I checked myself in, and within half an hour, I was sitting on a hospital bed — my buttocks bare to the world as they gave me one of those silly gown things. “Is it breezy in here — or is it just my nakedness?” I asked the nurse, hoping for a laugh to help me feel better.

“Get over it! So you’re a bit naked. It’s not the end of the world.”

I wanted to be sour, but truth be told, the fact this thing would be leaving my foot today left me feeling light. I wasn’t even that afraid anymore. I would do anything to have this pain removed.

What felt like hours passed before another nurse walked in, her voice cutting through the silence I was left in. “Good day, Mr Belle. Are you ready for your procedure today?” Her voice was actually soothing.

“Yes, I can’t wait to have the little bastard out of me as soon as possible. Tell me, though, will this be painful afterward? How long will I have to keep my foot up?” I asked thinking she was a professional.

“I don’t know, sir. I can’t say without the doctor being certain of what it is he needs to do.”

“What?” Did she just imply the doctor didn’t know what he was doing?

“Sorry, I don’t mean it like that. I just mean that the doctor isn’t entirely certain of what is causing this pain, without having dug in yet.”

My mouth was agape. Dug in? Was this guy actually an archaeologist? Why should he be digging — he was a damn surgeon!

“But rest assured, Mr Belle,” she said, “you will be in and out before you know it. Now, here.” She stuck out a hand holding a small yellow pill. “Take this — it will help you sleep and keep you under when you have the anaesthesia.”

Despite not knowing where her hands may have been — which fell in a large range considering her line of work — I took the pill and threw it to the back of my throat. I grabbed my glass of water and gulped it down as quick as possible.

The nurse left as quickly as she had appeared. I still wanted to ask her a few questions; so much for that.

I spent the next couple of hours lounging on the bed, trying to keep my mind occupied with any thought other than the procedure that lay ahead.

The pill was working its magic, constantly trying to pull me into the sweet embrace of sleep, but at the same time, my mind would not allow sleep. The anticipation of the procedure was driving me mad.

My mind gave in, eventually, and I dozed off for what felt like a second. It may have actually been a second for all I knew, but I woke up to the presence of people in the room.

Two doctors came in, one being Dr Miller and the other I had never seen before. As I woke up, Dr Miller started, “Hello, Jonathan. This here is Dr Prinsloo, he will be your anaesthetist for your procedure today.”

Dr Prinsloo spoke next, “Good afternoon Mr Belle.”

I hadn’t realised it was late enough for afternoon yet.

“I’m going to be putting you out today,” he said. “Before we start taking you through for your preparation, I just need to confirm if you have any allergies to any medicines. I would hate to put you out with the wrong stuff.”

That last sent a shiver down my spine, but I said, “No, nothing that I have ever come across.”

“Okay, good. Well then, I wish you the best of luck for your procedure a bit later, and I will see you when you come in to the O.R.”

With that, they both made a hasty exit. I was left to go back to my incessant day dreaming of what might happen in the operation.

I wasn’t left for long, though. In a short while, a couple of nurses came into the room, moving objects around to make space for them to wheel me out on my bed.

The next half an hour was a blur of activity. I was wheeled out of the room to a preparation area, where I was fussed over by a variety of nurses and what seemed to be medical interns. Before I knew it, I was wheeled into the operating room where I met the anaesthetist again. He assured me that the procedure would be smooth, and that it was time to put me out.

The last thing I remembered was the burning sensation of the anaesthetic moving up my arm to my heart.

****

Darkness consumed me for what felt like moments, but when I awoke, it had clearly been much longer. There was no light flooding in through the high windows of the operating room — it was well past dusk. This was rather frightening as my procedure was only supposed to take an hour, bringing me out long before the sun would set. The lack of light wasn’t the only frightening thing — I was still on the operating bed with my own blood covering much of my legs.

I tried to sit up, but a massive headache made it a struggle. I was eventually able to prop myself into a seated position, where I could then see what actually surrounded my bed.

Bodies lay strewn across the floor, all drowned in enough blood to make a psychotic murderer bring up his breakfast. Most of the bodies lay face down, but one lay facing up. It was then I could clearly make out Dr Miller’s face.

His neck had been slashed, as if a giant cat had ripped out his aorta. The blood that pooled around him was thick from clotting — he had been dead for a while. He still held a scalpel in his hand, likely the one he had used to cut my foot open.

With that, I noticed the pain that radiated from my foot. I tried to move it, but even more pain shot up my leg with each slight movement. I bore through the pain and turned my foot so I could see what was going on underneath.

A firm slice marked where the incision had occurred; blood was crusted between the skin flaps. In a moment of panic, I climbed off the bed, being careful not to put my injured foot on the floor. I hobbled past the bodies, looking toward the door and away from the mangled corpses — lest my stomach tried to empty itself.

This had to be a dream. A weird dream brought on by the anaesthesia.

I opened the door to leave. There were more bodies outside, all strewn across the corridors. Everyone was dead.

I heard a scream come from down one of the side corridors, so I went that way to see what it was.

Passing several bodies, all drowned in their own blood, I eventually came to a lit-up area that looked to be some form of canteen. More bodies littered the room. I heard the scream again — it was much closer this time, likely just beyond the door on the other end of the canteen.

I hobbled that way and opened the door. The bodies here seemed fresher — one was still gurgling from their throat being ripped open! Streaks of blood smeared on the floor seemed to move away from the body — as if something had dragged a tail through the blood as it moved. I ran up to the gurgling person, hoping to help them and perhaps find out what was going on.

“Hey!” the shout stopped me before I could get close to the body on the floor. Another man snuck down the dark corridor towards me.

“We have to get out of here! Now!” he shouted.

I looked up at him and said, “What happened here? Why is everyone dead?”

The man stepped out into the light, and I was suddenly struck with recognition. It was Dr Prinsloo!

“Shit, you’re alive?” he didn’t seem to wait for an answer to that. “Something came from your foot, and started killing everyone in the O.R.! I got out quickly enough and ran away, but that thing just followed me out and started killing everyone in sight! We have to go… now!”

He grabbed my arm, turned, and started yanking me down the corridor. Within a moment, he was dead — blood spraying from his chest. He collapsed and nearly pulled me to the floor with him.

I stared at him, watching the life leave his eyes. Suddenly, something that looked like a worm crossed with a snake slid out from underneath him. The thing looked up at me — at least I thought it was looking at me. It seemed to give me a brief nod, and then slithered down the corridor.

I ran as fast as my foot would allow me.

The end of the world seemed to have arrived, and somehow, it arrived inside my foot!

Final notes

This was part of a submission for an anthology that unfortunately did not come to fruition.

For this, we were provided a few prompts to use to incorporate into and to develop the story, with a limit of 2,000 words. While I won’t go into details of the prompts, they did give me the inspiration to create this (hopefully) comedic horror piece, based on an injury I had in my foot years before.

I wanted to share this first as having read it again recently, I can tell how much I still had to learn about writing back then. I believe I have come a long way since, and perhaps I will edit and rewrite this story for a future post—it would be a great way to show my editing process as well as to demonstrate how years of practice and learning can change how one writes.