Flash Fiction: Eat My Truth

(Word Count: 101)

Melissa wanted us to “eat our truth” at Wednesday’s potluck supper club.

Darlene brought hand-milled oat bread, churned butter and garden-grown kumquat jam. Self taught skills acquired as a new wife because her mother was never around.

Annie brought pints of butter pecan, chain brand ice cream. Growing up poor, she walked two miles to sample the thirty-one flavors. Free birthday cone every year.

I brought soup: oil slicked dishwater combined with a crumbling granola bar found at the bottom of my bag, yesterday’s coffee grounds and tears of exhaustion sprinkled throughout. Who knew my truth tasted so much like Mom’s?

Flash Fiction: Flat Iron For Sale

(Word count: 100)

For sale: BlyssOut titanium-plated professional flat iron, slightly used. Paid $139 at high-end beauty store with odd make-believe salon in rear. Purchased for Navy Gala. Left to heat while in shower. Lost water pressure mid-shampoo, half rinsed and naked dealt with smoke alarm and burned Spaghettios…usual Mom Night Out bullshit. Rushed, threw damp hair into flat iron. Instant burning hair/plastic/scorched sugar smell. Strawberry Shortcake doll beat me to the iron, melted red hair fused to mine. Scissors and screaming. Lots of screaming. Removed all bits of Shortcake from blade, good as new. Only $80.

ISO: Used wine refrigerator, hat collection

Flash Fiction: Gordon

(Word count: 100)

He shuffled past my bumper. The shopping bag handles bloodied his swollen fingers, an entire life in plastic at the ends of his sleeves.

I first saw him under the overpass at Sanjon two weeks ago. Backpack on clearance gave me the idea.

“Excuse me? This is for you.” I held out my gift. Same bag as mine: pockets for iPhone, sunglasses. Waited for a smile.

“Why?” he stuttered.

My head swam. Who was I? Savior? No. Shithead.

“Please. For you.”

He took the bag, managed a smile that hurt him to make.

“What can I do for you?” he said.