Wednesday's Three Word Wednesday
The words over at Three Word Wednesday are deception, panic and scheme. A bit of flash fiction for your reading pleasure.
Cooking from Scratch
There are several policemen on our front porch, knocking urgently at the door.
“Don’t you dare let them in,” my mother hisses through a crack behind the cellar door. “In fact, you get down here right now.”
She opens the door and I scoot past. She locks it after me. Three deadbolts, two surface slide bolts, two flush bolts, top and bottom.
The cellar smells of dust, ink. Mother has set up an offset printing press, color. It hums with life.
My dad’s down there, wearing a green cellophane visor, his shirt sleeves held back with what looks like pink garters. He’s drawn a pencil mustache on his upper lip, in eyeliner. A fat cigar juts from his mouth, the end slick, masticated with spit. Every so often, he takes the cigar out and slides in an Oreo from a dinner plate – the good China – and chews.
He’s using the machete arm of a paper cutter to slice what’s coming off the press.
He waves.
Mom’s in a blue coverall, a Glock G23 in the waistband belt. Her strawberry-blond hair held back with a blue bandana, tied gansta-style. It really sets off her baby blues, I think.
And notice that her delicate hands are smudged with ink.
They’re printing coupons by the hundreds.
Five dollar rebates on a three-pack of light bulbs. Ten dollars off Pampers. Deep discounts on toilet paper, pasta sauce, shredded cheese.
Buy one, get three free on Oreos. Stacks of cookies have replaced mom’s canned tomatoes on the shelves.
“But, why?” I ask.
“You don’t know what the girls at bridge, the Ladies Auxiliary down at the church, will do for a good bargain,” she says. “It just spiraled from there.”
Tears begin to streak down my face. My parents, forgers. Common criminals.
“I can’t abide by the deception, the scheming,” I say. “I have to stop this.”
Halfway up the stairs, mom grabs my pants leg.
“Don’t you see?” she says, panic rising in her voice. “I just know those people at Nabisco want me dead.”
Cooking from Scratch
There are several policemen on our front porch, knocking urgently at the door.
“Don’t you dare let them in,” my mother hisses through a crack behind the cellar door. “In fact, you get down here right now.”
She opens the door and I scoot past. She locks it after me. Three deadbolts, two surface slide bolts, two flush bolts, top and bottom.
The cellar smells of dust, ink. Mother has set up an offset printing press, color. It hums with life.
My dad’s down there, wearing a green cellophane visor, his shirt sleeves held back with what looks like pink garters. He’s drawn a pencil mustache on his upper lip, in eyeliner. A fat cigar juts from his mouth, the end slick, masticated with spit. Every so often, he takes the cigar out and slides in an Oreo from a dinner plate – the good China – and chews.
He’s using the machete arm of a paper cutter to slice what’s coming off the press.
He waves.
Mom’s in a blue coverall, a Glock G23 in the waistband belt. Her strawberry-blond hair held back with a blue bandana, tied gansta-style. It really sets off her baby blues, I think.
And notice that her delicate hands are smudged with ink.
They’re printing coupons by the hundreds.
Five dollar rebates on a three-pack of light bulbs. Ten dollars off Pampers. Deep discounts on toilet paper, pasta sauce, shredded cheese.
Buy one, get three free on Oreos. Stacks of cookies have replaced mom’s canned tomatoes on the shelves.
“But, why?” I ask.
“You don’t know what the girls at bridge, the Ladies Auxiliary down at the church, will do for a good bargain,” she says. “It just spiraled from there.”
Tears begin to streak down my face. My parents, forgers. Common criminals.
“I can’t abide by the deception, the scheming,” I say. “I have to stop this.”
Halfway up the stairs, mom grabs my pants leg.
“Don’t you see?” she says, panic rising in her voice. “I just know those people at Nabisco want me dead.”
Comments
The ending is great!
somebody watching you!