Another bout of violent hacking echoed down the hall from the den-turned-sickroom. His father was getting worse with each progressing hour, yet Carl found it near impossible to scrape together even the smallest iota of sympathy for the man.
One last convulsive cough was followed by a wheeze…and then silence.
Carl rose slowly from his lounger to go check on the elder Morris.
Philip was sitting up in the hospital bed and grinned when his son appeared. He removed the lit cigarette from the stoma in his neck, plugged the hole with his forefinger, and hissed, "I ain’t dead yet."
Thank you to Madison for this exceptionally gross picture! I love it but didn't know whether to go the alien route, write about fungus and rot, or reminisce about toasted marshmallows. I finally decided it looked like something that might be growing in the lungs of a die-hard smoker. Enjoy!
Don't forget, if you want to join the Friday Fictioneers, stop by Madison's Blog and join the gang!