No.50

This is a snippet flash fiction from my book SUCK. I work best with short snappy fiction. I can't decide between prose and poetry half the time so I just write what comes spilling over.

no.50


I never could deal with death very well.
I can't deal with my own grey face in the mirror every morning reminding me that i live in an unhospitable body.
I slam the bathroom cabinet and pop the green and yellow pills prescribed for the disappearing womb trick.

I sit at the table, checkered plastic and cracked bowls of cornflakes, spooning rhythmically, reading the broadsheets for some news worse than my own.
I never find anything.

If I let myself go completely, I'd bake cookies and smash them into the faces of plastic dolls.
Sitting black eyed, soulless staring into children's T.V.
Instead I spoon each mouthful of cornflakes in at a steady pace, milk spilling to my chin. One after one after one after one.
There is no god.

Author's Note

Please be gentle! Constructive criticism greatly appreciated.