The Story Garden 5.0
Flash Fiction
Bare
Backs turn and doors close and me with fists gripping the table, dripping fast, my voice falls to the floor and tired I cannot sleep. Tongues slither out of their mouths and lash my back. I cross my hands over my breasts and turn toward them. Their shoulders are in my jaw and the doors close again.
Sarcasm and denial on the couch with dirty clothes. The children follow the adults, hands raised to spin on a word, fingers pointed, teeth gnawing the air. The shards cut my palms as I pick them up one by one and listen to the doors close again.
--Tammy Kitchen
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