Plum

A very, very short story

Last week, Linda Caroll posted a micro fiction prompt on her Substack. This just kind of came rolling out and, I liked it so much, I thought I would share it with you. I hope you enjoy it

from Newsweek

Plum

It smelled like fruit flies and blood in the market. Mr. Joe wrapped our sausages while ma talked to Zia Rosa about the peonies coming up late. In front of me was a woman I had never met wearing sheer panty hose and a pair of beige pumps. I did not raise my eyes to her face, but I heard her growl. She was talking between her teeth, the way ma does when we are too loud in church. She grabbed her little boy by his wrist and shook the half-eaten plum out of his hand. My eyes followed as the boy crumpled up and fell to the floor, onto the plum, thick and juicy underneath him, his wrist still bound by his mother’s hand.

She let go the boy and he fell, splat, onto the ground.

The baby in her shopping cart began to cry and she spat words at it until its cry turned to whimper, then nothing but tears.

I was crying, too. Mr. Joe was done with the sausage, but ma and Zia Rosa were still talking. I was afraid to speak but did not want to disturb them – did not want to make a fuss. The boy looked at me, imploring me. Asking for sympathy.

I looked at his naked, wet, and sticky leg, the smashed-up plum. Its juice smeared across the floor. I could taste its sweetness on my tongue, its meat filling my mouth and thought, what a stupid, stupid boy.