The September he started first grade, my son cried every morning.
Tag: flash fiction
From the starting gun, the 400-meter dash looked all wrong.
The homework assignment was simple; make something to do with transportation.
The hexagonal plate, the needle and the rosette. Shades of yellow varying from near colorless to a turbid brown. They might be beautiful if they weren’t so damn painful when they struck.
Detective Owen Newlin stashed the stolen LaSalle in the alley behind the Colonnade apartment house and climbed the fire escape, which rose through an open air shaft.
“I dew wheat.” I never knew the power of words until my two year old asked to “do it.” Those two little words sent dread flying through my body.
Her Mum thinks it’s a bereavement group. The kids think it’s a ‘special class’ that will make mummy better and smarter. Age-appropriate lies, but both have done the trick, as she’s never had to make excuses again beyond the first couple of times.
“Ready to go?” the store manager asks me. I respond almost too excitedly: “Most definitely, I am exhausted.” To say I am exhausted is an understatement. I don’t remember the last time I got a full night’s sleep.