Right now she is creeping past the caretaker’s darkened hut, her worn sandals scuffling the dirt of this city garden, her arms in their threadbare jacket full of stolen flowers. Right now she is jumping, still holding tight to her booty, as she hears a “hey!” from the parking lot; the caretaker hadn’t left yet. Right now she is jerking her elbow away from a loose grip, not dropping even a single petal, and glancing up into the caretaker’s surprised and not-angry-at-all eyes. Right now she is parting her lips to voice the explanation—it’s her mother’s birthday, and they have no money—thinking how attractive the caretaker is and how she’d like to steal something else, like a heart.
Soon they will laugh together and thank her mother.
🩷🩷🩷
Colleen Addison got a PhD in health information and promptly got sick herself. She now lives, heals, and writes on a small island off Vancouver, Canada. Her work has been published in Halfway Down the Stairs, Flash Fiction Friday, and 50 Word Stories
This is so well done!
Love this and would love the next installment of their story!