• Samantha Moir

Flash Fiction - The French doors.

The Topic/prompt/brief.

Go inside the mind of a patient whose heart stops for 10 minutes, which gives the patient the chance to make a shocking discovery that reframes their life. Include supernatural elements, but do not dare use the phrase “the light flashed before their eyes,” or any other near-death experience tropes.

The French Doors.

Silence is deafening, or so the saying goes.

You never truly understand how loud silence can be, until all you can hear is a quiet inverted gasp, or a single tear rolling down the cheek of a loved one.

The sound of this new reality sinking into the minds of people left behind.

The clock ticked by loudly, every second etched into our memory.

The silence is unbearable.

It's an odd feeling, stepping out your body, watching the people closest to you, collectively joining hands, embracing each other, a sight I didn’t believe I would witness again after that fateful night.

The night that led me to this day, my final day.

I was truly alone, my deepest fear of crushing loneliness had actualised, the truth of what I had been running from had finally caught up with me.

Loneliness and isolation for eternity, this can’t be how I step into the afterlife, can it?

The readjustment to my surroundings felt violent, unlike any of the spiritual trope that I had heard before,

Cold, sterile and empty.

It felt the high pitched ringing in my ears, making every conversation fragmented and disjointed, just hearing but not enough to connect.

My body was shaking, but I couldn’t feel it,

the ground was cold but somehow I wasn’t standing on it,

The sadness wasn’t an emotion, it was intertwined into my being.

No separation from the moment, I had become the moment, the moment that changed everything.

We never really know where the first step on the wrong path begins, there never seems to be a serendipitous moment that we can locate in our memory that identifies exactly when our choices and fate collide.

What I do I know now, I have eternity to find it, what will it change?

Does it matter?

Do I deserve it?

Is the fate of that night my destiny or am I destined to relive it, in my memory, in my future, my past and present, a moment in time that never passes nor changes.

Living in a perpetual moment begins with a texture, grass on your feet, pollen in the air, rain falling in a gentle stream.

Once you feel the memory,

the emotions take over, the heaviness in the pit of your stomach waiting to share news that will change the course of your life and people around you, the instinctive need to run from a moral confrontation, the shame the begins as a voice in your head yet it feels hot as it pumps through veins, enveloping your entire body gripping your ego into submission.

Experiencing a memory for all eternity feels like a cosmic conundrum, it no longer means anything and yet it means everything.

My existence, has been reduced to this memory, this experience, I see the irony, the situation that I ran from became the all encompassing torture I relive.

I try to step into my memory, naively, thinking I could change the situation somehow, seeing it again.

Seeing it again, only strengthens the original need to run, but where am I? Right now, when or wherever this is, there is nowhere to run to. I’m here and nowhere.

But I didn’t go back to my horror, my pain, the night that changed my soul, the night that led me so far away from myself, instead I was led here, to my sister's garden.

Watching the scene unfold like a movie, I had watched a thousand times, the wood and glass encased French doors open out onto the manicured and nurtured garden, I hadn’t seen the fine detailing of tulips above the gold handles before, a subtle but unique feature that quietly displayed the attention to detail.

Elegant, intentional and humble, this door was the epitome of my sister.

A woman so devoted, loving and subtle, you would overlook her if it wasn’t for her beautiful blue eyes and slight frame.

I stepped through the doors as I always had, watching the memory play out like clock work, my sister shocked and excited to see me, her little sister, the one with all the attention, creating tension and demanding the limelight.

How could I have been so selfish?

This day was her day, she had worked so hard, she had sacrificed so much, she was humble even in her success.

She didn’t brag, she didn’t overpower, she never once tried to glorify her achievements, like the French doors, she was subtle, unique and understated.

“ As for you, sister……”

I cowered my head, here it comes, the one line that started my fateful journey to this moment and the first time I experienced a deafening silence.

“You can try to start a new life, change your hair, get a degree, but what you did, you will never be able to hide from.”

I watch myself, take the next gulp of warm white wine, staggering, belligerent. I was angry, spiteful in the plight for attention.

“ I am going to make sure everyone knows what you are capable of.”

My sister, the one person who had always been there, helped me, did the unthinkable, for me.

How did I repay her? How did I return her love?





I see myself, drunk, rude, flaying my body around, uncontrollably. I turn to reach for my bag, hanging over the door.

I slip, hitting my head on the golden French door handles. Blood sprayed across the tulip detailing.

I watch my body fall to the ground, shaking violently, writhing in uncontrollable contortions,

Then nothing, no movement, no sound.


My sister, leapt to my aid, tears rolling down her cheek, clutching the hands of our loved ones, the fear in her gasp,

The clock, ticking….

I open my eyes, the silence, quickly turns to ringing in my ears.

Samantha Moir


Author, Samantha Moir.

Samantha is a freelance copy writer, but blogging is her one true love.

Obsessed with nuance and complexity while trying to find a simple way to describe it, is the gift that keeps on giving for Samantha and her writing.

Inspired to write a book, flash fiction and short stories is where Samantha feels most at home.

On a creative level, writing is the way for me to express, share and tell stories.

A tale as old as time, indeed, I hope so.”

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