flash fiction

12:48 AM. Why would someone schedule an exorcism for the middle of a weeknight?

She couldn’t imagine the water she sat in, the water that enveloped her body, wanted to be here.

Alma couldn’t understand why her Yelp reviews were so dismal. She didn’t advertise herself as a magician. She was a hair stylist.

He thought I was mad, but in an artistic way; I thought he was horny all the time, but in an artistic way.

She closed in on the open pores enlarged ten times their normal size by a high magnification pocket mirror.

Fresh orange juice, milk, thick slices of ham, a block of cheese, a carton of eggs—her husband kept it this way should this moment arrive.

My parents got the idea they’d send me to stay at my grandparents’ house in Florida for a week. I think my mother needed a week to herself.

My tights are cutting me in half at the waist . . . just like a sausage in its casing.