Thanksgiving on Zoom

The headline read: It took about 7 months for the US to top 6 million cases…

And she couldn’t think about this anymore — the selfishness, the pigishness passing for unfettered freedom, the sickness, the unnecessary death, and how it all seemed lined up to continue cycling in this manner.

She slapped herself hard. Harder than anyone had ever slapped her before, and it had happened on various occasions.

She drifted to…

… blancmange playing tennis… and splunge! — or was it a handful of Vikings in a diner chanting “Spam, spam, spam, spam…” No it was dead parrots, and a torrent of cheeses, and eventually the Spanish Inquisition — no one expects the Spanish Inquisition… and all this before the Knights of Ni, and “fishy fishy fishy fishy poo…”

… then she drifted back.

“I don’t know how this all ends,” she said to no one in particular. “It all makes me very sad.”

Then she wrote: Thanksgiving on Zoom? What is that?

“Flash fiction is like a pill: small and seemingly harmless, yet full of powerful substances that might heal, might kill—or might just alter your senses.”

— Grant Faulkner / “13 Ways of Looking at Flash Fiction”