Mean as cancer when no one is looking
Smile, smile, smile otherwise
He walks the dog to feel anything
His unkindness pounds in her head as people look
Neighborhood trash receptors are emptied for the week
The dog poops twice on the walk
He carries both home; people are looking
TPA is currently living her literary dream of creating flash fiction from home in Atlanta, Georgia, where she studied writing at Oglethorpe University.
She used to wish on snowflakes for a man like him.
Glancing over, she thought, I wouldn’t mind Christmas mornings with you.
Giving her heart to him like a gift-wrapped present, she watched him open it.
Then realized that it was Halloween and he had been wearing a mask.
Lauren Layfield is a senior Multi-Platform Journalism major at Sam Houston State University. She is the former Assistant Campus Culture editor at The Houstonian, SHSU’s independent student newspaper.
Constable X was an enigma to Constables Murphy and McDonough.
The Captain said Constable X worked solo because he’d lost partners before.
Something didn’t feel right about that, so they did a bit of prying.
Turned out he slept in his office all day.
And donned a mask at night.
This story is based on a title suggested by @MisterFiendZero.
“Did you just shoot the chief of police?” asked Timothy Thicke, incredulous.
“No,” grunted Evan Edgelow. “It’s a mask.” He peeled off the imposter’s fake face.
“Wait,” said Thicke. “It’s another mask.” Underneath the second mask was the chief of police.
“Hold on… A third mask?”
Phew. No fourth one.