Microfiction by: Jada Dean


She shoves the metal spoon into the ripe pumpkin, scraping the sides to get the mushy guts out. Out comes the spoon, overflowing with orange slop as she dumps it into a bowl. “I’m glad you’re using the spoon this time, honey” her mother coos, “much easier to clean you when you’re not using your hands.” The young girl smiles up at her mom who goes back into the living room. Once she’s alone, she puts the spoon aside and digs her hands into the pumpkin. “Much easier to clean the pumpkin this way” the girl thinks to herself.

What She Felt

My father starts to thank everyone for coming and for what they’ve given us as my future husband puts an arm around me. My skin crawls as I suddenly have an urge to shower. “This party is nice, but I’m excited for what comes after,” he chuckles as his old, wrinkly hand caresses my arm. The smell of alcohol tainted him. I hope my mother is watching, knowing she could’ve tried talking my dad out of marrying me off for money. “I paid much for you,” he touches my chin and makes me look at him, “I expect gratitude.”


“You shouldn’t move,” I say to the wounded knight whose head rests on my lap. My, once white, now bloody, red wings encircled us, being beaten and slashed by his enemies who surrounded us. He moved my hand to look at his wound. It’s healed? Did I do that? He gets in a crouching position and stares at my shaking form. My wings… they hurt so bad. He picks up his helmet. “What are you doing?” my voice breaks. “You saved me. It’s my turn to do the same for you,” he says as he readies his sword, “my angel.”

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