Abandoned in the easy chair once again, Norma fumed. Her children gossiped in the kitchen. They didn’t want to be overheard saying anything that might upset her.
Norma sniffed. She was ninety, not nine.
Reclining, she chuckled softly and plotted her revenge.
She’d knit them all scratchy socks for Christmas.
L.L. Madrid could use some new socks.
On the first anniversary of Momma’s death, I prepared her casserole recipe to honor her memory. Setting the dish on the table, I held back tears.
“Gross. What’s this slop?”
“Shut up and eat!” I snapped, and then laughed until I was out of breath.
I sounded exactly like Momma.
L.L. Madrid likes to keep it short.
Jaden was unimpressed. The occult museum wasn’t even scary as Gramma’s basement. He rolled his eyes at a doll slumped in a cage.
Hannah kept still. She’d waited a long time. She’d prefer a girl, but the boy would do.
Hannah blinked her doll eyes. The little boy was hers.
L.L. Madrid has always wondered about dolls.
Camping! The family hadn’t done this since Arrow was a pup.
His tail wagged wildly as he sniffed every tree.
He was digging—something smelled exciting—when he saw his family was gone.
They’d be back. He was a good boy.
Tail still, Arrow waited by the road, forever loyal.
L.L. Madrid has an overactive imagination and a short attention span. Naturally, she writes flash and microfiction.
In this new world, the colors carried their own sounds, the air tasted like gingersnaps, and birds tweeted the blues.
A gruff gnome told Philip, “You are the chosen one.”
Nancy from HR hovered above, frowning. “We know you’re on drugs. We have to let you go. Get some help.”
L.L. Madrid lives in Tucson with her four-year-old daughter, an antisocial cat, and the occasional scorpion. Her work can be found lurking in places like Flash Fiction Magazine, Dali’s Lovechild, Literary Orphans, and in shoe boxes under her bed.
Three minutes.
Elise stares at the stranger of her reflection. She doesn’t want to be married. Or divorced. Elise wants a do-over.
But locked in a bathroom, waiting on fate, there are no second chances.
Ding!
A pink plus sign, faint yet certain, appears.
“Well?” he asks.
“False alarm.”
L.L. Madrid lives and writes in Tucson. She resides with her four-year-old daughter, an antisocial cat, and the occasional scorpion. Her work can be found in places like Literary Orphans, The Furious Gazelle, Dali’s Lovechild, and shoe boxes under her bed.