Michael really likes you,
Her parents insisted
When she was 20
I find him dull, she countered
You can’t be too particular, her father said
You have to think about what you have to offer.
Was it her extra pounds he meant?
Or her personality?
She wished she had asked
Miriam Stein is a social worker, writer, and the author of Make Your Voice Matter With Lawmakers: No Experience Necessary. See more at makeyourvoicematter.com. She lives in Massachusetts.
Overweight girls don’t have many dates
My mother told me when I was 15
You might never get married
The diet doctor prescribed appetite-controlling pills
When I was still so hungry
Mother said, “Eat some lettuce”
I knew lettuce wouldn’t fill the emptiness in my stomach,
or in my heart.
Miriam Stein is a social worker, writer, and the author of Make Your Voice Matter With Lawmakers: No Experience Necessary. See more at makeyourvoicematter.com.
What do I love about my body? Not much.
They say I’m good enough, and smart. Am I?
I stare in the mirror at my unrecognizable face, then stick my tongue out, giggling, cracking a smile.
You’re important. You matter.
A face painting class is just what I needed today.
Lisa Miller is a native of Portland, Oregon. You can check out many of her stories on Friday Flash Fiction.
They say I know you,
But truly, I don’t.
We have a deep connection?
A long history together?
I can’t believe it. I won’t.
You are hideous. A monster!
There is nothing before me that I wish to embrace.
Be gone, deceitful reflection, and take your disgusting lies with you!
October seems to bring about that icy trickle of fear that maybe we are who we think we are, after all.
She looks at me with disgust, her thin eyebrows scrunched.
“What? You think you’re so special? You fat, dumb, talentless girl. You are nothing.”
I walk over to her. She walks to me. I look straight into her pale gray eyes.
“You suck,” I tell the girl in the mirror.
Jewel Gray is a stay-at-home-mom who tries to write a little.
My cat stirred from her nap, stretching herself awake. She walked over and jumped onto the couch beside me. She gazed at me, her eyes apathetic, as she sat there. Judging me.
Frowning, I glared back at her, judging her for judging me.
I quickly gave up. I’m a loser.
C.S. Johnson wrote this story.
You put yourself in danger,
when I wanted to get hit.
I feel so grateful now,
but it’s you that I miss.
Now you are lying cold and still,
I love you to bits.
If only I hadn’t been so selfish,
and thought as much of me as you did.
See more of Connell’s literary misadventures at paragraphplanet, WTD Magazine, and postcardshorts.com.