Rebecca S. Morehouse

Originally Published on Short Fiction Break . At first, Jonas hadn’t noticed anything amiss even as he grew tired during the day and couldn’t seem to quench his insatiable thirst. But, when he couldn’t make the bike ride to David O’Shaughnessy’s house, he knew something was wrong. “I’m afraid you have Type 1 Diabetes,” their family doctor said, eyeing Jonas’s parents who looked sick with worry, “it’s alright, Jonas will be able to live a normal life.” A  normal  life, Jonas mused as he sat in the waiting area of Bradley Hospital’s Endocrine Clinic ten years later. It had been a normal life, perpetually obstructed by fainting spells, drowsy mood swings, irreversible nerve damage, endless hospital visits, and most recently, despair and guilt. Since his parents died in an accident the year before, their life insurance left him with a small fortune. Embittered, Jonas wasted most of it on gambling, drinking, and a water-front apartment where he brought girls. They were impressed fo...

Originally published on Short Fiction Break . As the elevator climbs towards level nine, the fear rises inside of me. L1, L2, I focus on the ascending numbers, ignoring my anxious reflection gazing back from the glossy sign;  Royal Perth Research Institute – the best in biomedical innovation. L3, L4, it’s Tuesday. Fuck, Tuesdays. I loathe the day all 32 research and development staff are stuffed into the boardroom for an hour of mundane updates. Today, however, is anything but mundane. L5, L6, my palms sweat inside my pockets as I nervously roll Dad’s cufflinks between my fingers. Mom gave him the antique, gold cufflinks when he started his residency at Brooklyn’s  St. Jude’s Hospital . That was 1987, so they were vintage then, I guess. After Dad, also known to many as Dr James Roark retired, and long after Mom died, he spent hours reading alone. Every day, I’d find him in his wingback chair, feet propped up on his plush olive-green ottoman, overlooking Borough Park. Sometimes...