Henry Didn't Have A Chance: Flash Fiction by Renee Coloman

This story first appeared in the literary magazine, 10 x 10 Flash Fiction. I hope you enjoy the read.

The Poet Laureate from 2017-2020, Zvi A. Sesling, is also current editor of Muddy River Poetry Review, and 10 by 10 Flash Fiction Stories.

Zvi published my flash fiction piece, Henry Didn't Have A Chance.

A news report on CBS weighed heavily on my heart. From the unfortunate true story, I wrote these words in honor of Henry.

Henry didn’t have a chance.

His two-year-old body didn’t prepare for this.

Burns. Bruises. Across multiple areas. Arms and legs, limp. Unresponsive when medics arrived beneath a bright blue sky. Beside Alpine trees that grew tall, here and there. Trees that swayed, breathed, waved hello to passersby. To children like Henry. Unlike Henry. Filled with years of life. Decades of sunlight that Henry would never see. Ever again.

His mother had a history. The kind of past that destroys a boy like Henry. Maybe he shouldn’t have played too much. Smiled too much. Asked too many questions that a curious child often mumbled when poking a finger at the grass

&seeing a cluster of ants

&watching a Monarch butterfly glide away, up and up into the promising sky.

Maybe Henry should have been the kind of boy his mother could box and shelve and tuck inside the closet when she didn’t want to play. When stress and frustration overwhelmed her, forcing her to close the curtains and lie down on the bed and shut, shut her eyes. At night, the woods can be a very lonely place.

Maybe Henry’s mother was a child herself, needing a crib. A woman naive about love and companionship and all the ways to be kind and nurturing. Maybe somebody left her here. Alone. Abandoned in these woods. Someone who didn’t bother to return.

The medics wrapped Henry in a death bag. Zipped. Top to bottom. Doing their job. They bit down hard. Sealed their mouths. Stifled their hearts. They have children, too. Older than Henry. A few in elementary school. A few already in high school. Like the Alpine trees. Children alive, reaching for the sky.  

At ground zero, Henry didn’t have that same chance. Henry fell cold. Beneath the sun. Beside all the Alpine trees that swayed in sorrow. Beside the medics who knew from the start, from seeing his mother, distraught and disoriented, that two-year old Henry didn’t have a chance.

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