Postcard-sized flash fiction about the strangeness of life and dreams and everything in between. And it all starts with an image...

plugged in

It was a hungry month. I ate the house empty, even the salad that turned to green soup. The ‘Apocalypse Pantry’ was all but empty but for the cases of water. I haven’t left the apartment since it all started. But at some point, I opened the window. Rain came in that night, and I let it, gave a fresher smell to my unwashed stink.
I moved the kitchen table in front of our white wall, stared at the nothingness of it while loading beans and tomato sauce and mayonnaise in my mouth. That damn plug was just smiling at me the whole time. The only wall that didn’t wear a piece of your art. You said to leave it alone, that hanging something over it would look like we were hiding something. I told you that was the point. I never did like anything exposed.
The salad soup goes down without a hitch. Even my stomach knows the end is near and wants its fill. The military trucks set up a parameter two blocks away. The infected zone seems to be chasing me down, closing in on me. But I’m not going anywhere. Gotta be here if you make it home.
I drink the last of the Malbec we hated. I sip. The truck engines rumble. The plug still smiles.

  • Michelle Sampson

    NO?! WTF??? First I thought the voice was coming from a rat or a mouse but when he opened up the window and moved the table I knew I’d taken a wrong turn here.

    …so as I get the true impact of your story a question comes to mind. If “he” were there would “he” have stayed, hoping she’d come home? I don’t think so. I think men know when to give up the ghost and save themselves. Afterall, he could find her later, no?

    I’ll be thinking ’bout this story for a while. But maybe for the wrong reasons???

    December 21, 2018at4:39 pm

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